Chapter Fifty-Six: Dual Fire Takes Root, Bright Fire Must Rise
Section One: "When Fierce Fire Descends, Silence Breaks, Blades Unsheathe"
Night fell, the wind in Smelt-Tail Ten Alleys colder than day. The first stronghold bore no sign, but cables were strung, rooftop beacons newly rigged.
The derelict building glowed faintly, a silhouette of light.
In ramshackle tin shacks, a child nestled in her mother's arms, staring at a lit window nearby. There, a freshly set "community recycling station" hung a white cloth banner. Lisa's scrawl read: "Night Supplies · Free Water & Food."
The banner swayed lightly in the breeze, like a proclamation.
"Starting tonight, this place… feels different," Maria said, gazing out from the second floor.
Zhao Mingxuan said nothing, tapping the ARGUS frontend. A meme activity fluctuation map unfolded:
Nearby district activity index up 5%, but "doubt" memes rose 12%. "Who built it?" "How long will it last?" became alley chatter. Yet "stability," "lights," "vigil" appeared as positive emotion tags for the first time.
"The crowd likes it here," he said. "But they won't say it, and no one will protect this place."
"And those claiming to 'follow rules' won't let it endure."
—
The water vendor didn't come.
Instead, a middle-aged man arrived, clothes neat, hair slicked back, holding a cigarette pack, claiming to represent the "district coordination group."
"Hey, youngsters," he stood at the first-floor door, glancing around. "I'm a straight talker, no beating around."
"This land—had trouble before. You stirring things up isn't impossible." He flipped open the pack, offering a cigarette. "Just… everyone follows rules, knows the game, we all live easy."
Jason didn't take it, only met his eyes.
The man grinned: "Newcomers, tough gig. No secrets—this street isn't won with 'we're doing real work.'"
"You're doing good, I won't stop you," he stepped closer, eyes calm as if storytelling. "But if someone says you're squatting unreported, hiring unchecked, moving uninspected goods—we can't speak for you upstairs, right?"
Zhao Mingxuan: "What do you want?"
"Nothing," the man raised a hand, smiling. "Just dropping a word—do things, let the street know you're doing them."
"That's it." He turned to leave, then paused, grinning back: "Heard you're Fire's friends? These days, can't say that."
Jason replied evenly: "Fire doesn't talk. Fire acts."
The man neither laughed nor flared: "Pity, sometimes acting can burn lives."
—
He left, and the building fell silent for ten seconds.
ARGUS updated with a prompt:
[Identity Trace Failed · Voice Heatmap Captured "Groundline Rhetoric" Keywords]
[Suspected Semi-Underground Autonomous Faction Member · Non-Imperial Direct]
[Status: Non-Hostile · Observational Stance]
[Projection: Without Response, Further Probes Within 3 Days]
—
Jason didn't turn, saying only:
"Not the Empire's men."
"Local snakes, their envoy."
"The Empire would send a kill squad. These—they just want us to 'know the rules.'"
"We've landed."
He descended the stairs, each step echoing on iron.
"Now—we do something."
"Not just landing, but standing."
—
The Fuxi System flashed red:
[Prompt · Bright Fire Manifestation Phase Initiated: Reject Ambiguity, Choose Battle]
"To stay, someone in the world will always rise to stop you."
Section Two: Not Charity, But Conquest
The men left, and the building's lights burned brighter.
Jason didn't call a meeting, waiting at the corridor's end until all arrived. Outside, wind carried the rust of the scrap iron district.
"I ask you," he faced Zhao Mingxuan, Maria, Lisa, and several team leaders, each word deliberate, "what are we here for?"
"Renting a building? Doing good? Reasoning? No."
"We're here to seize land, people, weapons, resources."
—
No one spoke, but the words landed like a hammer in their chests.
"Faith shows why we fight."
"But next, we show where we fight."
"Iron Valley wasn't our choice—it's already a battlefield. Think those guys came to snap photos and watch us right after we landed for nothing?"
He looked at Lisa: "The Empire hasn't moved, but that doesn't mean no one's watching."
"It's snakes, gangs, gray factions. They don't care if you're Fire—they care if you're touching their cake."
—
Maria said gravely: "Our people are spread across three building levels, outer sentries not fully set."
Zhao Mingxuan added: "Nine reserves can handle scouting, but they're unfamiliar with the terrain."
Jason turned: "Then start with them—tonight, build our first 'counter-control path.'"
"Zhao Mingxuan, Fred, Sike, each lead a three-person team. Starting now, without alerting them, investigate:"
He drew four red lines on the ARGUS panel:
Where's their base? Shops, basements, night market stalls, parking garages—typical haunts. Who's their front? Anyone collecting rent, protection fees, controlling goods. Where's their muscle? Daily manpower, weapon channels, signal frequencies. Where's their weak link? Crowd resentment points, financial gaps, supply vulnerabilities.
"ARGUS supports your map projections. Take two, no guns—use eyes, brains, hands to record."
—
Sike, sharpest street observer among the thirty escorts, wore a cap, face perpetually half-asleep. Jason picked him for his record running streets in three cities, fluent in corner deals and gang slang.
"Head to 'Gray Gutter Alley' south tonight," Jason said. "There's a 24-hour barber shop. See who's talking."
"They're not drinking booze—they're trading whispers."
—
Jason turned to Lisa: "Have ARGUS lock this district's crowd fund flows. Sudden large transfers or proxies might be their outer cash points."
"Maria, pull all 'fire incidents' coordinates in this street over five years."
"I want to know—who's been starting fires, who's been putting them out."
—
The lights flickered, ARGUS updating:
[First Action Squad · Scout Team A · Status: Deploying]
[Action Tags: Gray Zone Infiltration · Behavioral Penetration · Non-Conflict Response]
[Path Plan: V-Net Observation → Multi-Point Meme Sampling → Trace Residue Mapping]
—
"We're not doing charity."
Jason returned to the outpost's front, his tone chilling:
"What are we doing?"
He turned, facing all.
"We're conquering."
"They don't move because they don't see."
"We move because we do."
—
The Fuxi interface prompted:
"The enemy hasn't drawn a blade because they think you're begging scraps."
"Speak, and they'll know—you're here for blood."
Section Three: They Speak in Circles Because Truth Kills
"We take the 'open road.'"
Zhao Mingxuan handed over a worn folder, three pages, white with blue grids: "Refinery Commune · Community Affairs Contact Form."
"It's filed as a 'resident cooperation pilot,' under 'urban safety mutual aid protocol,' flexible for advance or retreat."
Jason eyed the papers, silent, then glanced up: "You know whose toes you're stepping on?"
Zhao Mingxuan's lips twitched: "Don't know who—but step down, and someone's bound to flinch."
—
They set out before full dark, equipped with a compact listening pen, ARGUS data chip, lightweight electromagnetic locator, and disposable ID credentials.
Two accompanied: Erin, a pragmatic girl with commerce admin experience; Stone, a burly, taciturn ex-engineer turned "coordinator."
Their route led to East Third District's "Collection Office"—nominally for handling district rebuild applications, but a handover hub for gray factions.
—
"What's the plan?" Stone whispered at the annex door.
Zhao Mingxuan: "Crashing turf unannounced is provocation; knocking directly is submission."
"We do a third way—handle business, leave no favors. See who probes first."
—
The front desk was a stout woman, hair in a high bun, a "Civic Union ID" badge on her forehead.
She eyed the trio, voice not gruff but deliberately impatient:
"Filing? New tenant?"
Zhao Mingxuan: "Yes. Initial entry, with resident structure change forms."
She glanced, eyes unmoving, slapping the desk: "Second Assessment Zone."
—
The corridor was dim, lamps low, peeling walls, rat squeaks in tile cracks.
In a glass room, a middle-aged man waited, stubble unshaved, in a "Refinery Disaster Volunteer" uniform, watch on one wrist, no ring, tapping the watch face.
"Newcomers?"
Zhao Mingxuan handed the papers.
The man skimmed, looking up: "Not just trash processing—you're setting a basic flow hub, right?"
"We call it a 'civil mutual aid node.'"
He chuckled: "Doesn't matter what you call it—how long you planning to stay?"
Zhao Mingxuan met his gaze: "As long as we can hold."
"Hm," the man nodded. "Heard some places are starting 'self-built order,' like what you're doing."
"Also heard some stopped paying patrol fees, reporting hires, or hiring coordinators."
"Not saying you, of course."
—
The air stilled for two seconds.
Zhao Mingxuan spoke slowly: "We're within compliance."
"Anyone watching us?"
The man's eyes flickered, then he smiled, shaking his head: "I just approve, don't watch."
"Your papers—I can pass. Passed, this 'layer' leaves you alone."
"But below?" he asked softly. "Shouldn't you visit the 'old neighbors'?"
"Which street you from?"
Zhao Mingxuan: "Smelt-Tail Ten Alleys."
The man's fingers paused, a faint laugh: "Better hurry."
"Because there, it's not first come, first served—it's who holds out who gets to speak."
—
Leaving the office, Erin whispered: "What's he scared of? Not fear—he's warning."
Zhao Mingxuan: "No, he's pushing."
"He wants us to find the 'real rule-makers.'"
"Go, we're nodding. Don't go—they'll come ask: whose side are you on?"
—
Night deepened, distant lights shrinking into concrete seams.
Zhao Mingxuan eyed the empty street ahead, paper scraps swirling in the wind.
He said quietly:
"They speak in circles because truth kills."
—
ARGUS flashed:
[Info Chain Index Matched · Keywords Extracted: "Unfiled Must Visit Old Neighbors"]
[Potential Decode: "East Port Six Households" · Local Snake Faction Branch?]
[Suggestion: Fred's Team Probes "Street Stall Outpost" for Slang-to-Intent Mapping]
Section Four: To Know the Enemy, Learn Their Tongue
"Don't say Fire, don't say revolt."
"It's not that you can't speak here—it's that you don't know which word means tomorrow someone's gone."
Fred didn't respond, only adjusted his collar, hand resting on the grayed plastic tarp edge of a stall, like a hired hand killing time with the vendor.
This was Iron Valley's gray market west stretch, a strip called "Tongue-Fold Street." By day, an open-air bazaar; by night, lights out, an underground info frontline.
Few people, many words, no trust, every phrase a probe.
"What you selling?" the vendor asked, feigning curiosity.
Fred: "Not selling, renting work slots. Fix your own, sell your own."
"What trade?"
"No talk, no questions."
—
Beside him, two: Rena, a former frontline comms monitor, female tech; Moss, street-born, versed in underground slang.
Roles clear: Fred bridged, Rena tracked tone, Moss decoded and memorized on-site.
Their task—not to extract answers, but to hear "the phrase no one wants to say."
—
"That building…" the vendor lowered his voice, "someone's eyeing it."
"Eyeing's fine—can they hold it?" Fred's tone was even.
The vendor snorted: "Newbies, never heard of 'seven-fold talk,' huh?"
"This street doesn't run on straight words—runs on seven-fold."
"Straight says buy, seven-fold's rent; straight says dinner invite, seven-fold's warning; straight says you're good, seven-fold's got you marked."
"Get seven-fold?"
Moss cut in: "You said 'eyeing'—what fold's that?"
The vendor's eye twitched: "How'd I know? I sell shoes."
—
They turned into a side alley.
ARGUS earpiece prompted: [Keywords Locked: "Seven-Fold Talk" × "Eyeing" × "Test Path" × "Three Days Unanswered"]
Rena murmured: "They've got a timeline."
Fred: "Three days, no answer, they move."
Moss, low: "Like the 'Gray Tone Three Rings' we heard last time."
"First warning, second probe, third cut."
—
As they moved to leave, a seeming drifter approached, carrying a fruit bag.
"Where you staying?"
"Heard a building's lit up nights."
"No one knows whose, but everyone knows—those lights are a nuisance."
—
Moss opened his mouth, but Fred stopped him.
He smiled: "Where you from?"
The man licked his lips: "I'm wind's man."
"Wind comes, doesn't care who you are—cares where you stand."
—
The three didn't speak, leaving directly.
At the third alley turn, Rena uploaded the dialogue.
ARGUS parsed:
[Term "Wind's Man": Temporary Infiltrator × Likely External Muscle × Non-Iron Valley Native]
[Suggestion: Suspected Local Snake Faction with External Influence, Warning Level +1]
—
On the way back, Moss looked up: "Big haul tonight?"
Fred didn't turn: "No answers."
"But we got their tongue."
—
Fuxi Prompt:
"Fire isn't a name—it's the power behind the tongue deciding action."
Section Five: To Near Truth, First Hit Walls in the Dark
"Here."
Sike stood at Gray Gutter Alley's end, pointing at a barber shop lit by one yellow bulb.
The door was old iron, paint flaked, a red paper on the frame scrawled: "No Talk."
The neon cast no shadows on the ground.
—
Sike didn't rush in. He leaned against the opposite wall, slouched, as if dodging night wind.
With him, two: Tang, adept with mechanical tools, carrying a repair bag with listening gear; Mia, ex-underground logistics in the old city, quick to read people, steady hands, soft voice.
"We're not here for haircuts."
"We're seeing—who's getting clipped."
—
ARGUS intel marked the shop as a "fixed night hub": surface service, but a buffer for small gangs to trade whispers, probe winds.
"Places like this don't turn you away," Mia said softly. "But getting in doesn't mean getting out clean."
Sike nodded: "We don't find people or ask questions. We sit, see who comes."
—
Entering, the wind seemed to pause.
The shop was tiny: one wooden chair, one hanging bulb, one wall mirror, one old man.
In deep blue worn cloth, he honed a blade, silent.
No "What cut?" or "Who's first?"
He glanced at the three, then resumed honing.
—
Sike sat, faking a yawn: "Trim the sides, keep some top."
The old man nodded, began.
The blade glided over scalp, its sound truer than words.
Tang, feigning tool sorting, slipped a listening device into a corner; Mia sat aside, flipping an old book—her peripheral vision catching shadows in the mirror's reflection.
Minutes later, footsteps.
A lean man pushed in, jacket unzipped, steps light but firm.
He locked eyes with the old man.
The elder, wordless, tapped his blade handle.
The man nodded, sat—facing Mia.
He stared, gaze neither lewd nor hostile, more confirming.
"You with the east line?"
Mia looked up, composed: "You tell me."
His mouth twitched: "I know the east line's three female runners—one fled, one's done, the third's hair isn't your short cut."
The air chilled two degrees.
—
Sike didn't move, only said:
"She's not a runner—she's here for the wind."
"And what wind brought you?"
The man's eyes narrowed, silent.
The barber spoke, voice raspy: "No wind questions here."
"Wind comes, let it pass—don't block."
The man stood: "Who's blocking?"
"Just sitting."
He moved to the door, turning back: "Newcomers? Smelt-Tail?"
No answer.
He chuckled: "Don't worry, not your trouble."
"But if others come, I won't stop them."
The door shut.
—
The blade retracted, the elder eyeing Sike in the mirror: "Thin scalp, don't stir winds."
Sike stood, passing coins: "Wind-catchers can be deadlier than wind-blowers."
—
Night wind rose, the three left the shop.
Mia glanced back, whispering: "He's not from here."
Sike: "The old man?"
Mia shook her head: "That guy. South District accent, but this shop's East Line. He came to bump us."
Tang, low: "Fishing."
—
ARGUS reported:
[Unknown Person: Facial Recognition Failed · Match Unsuccessful]
[Behavioral Path: Entry → Eye Contact → Opening → Provocation → Test → Exit]
[Projection: Mid-Tier Infiltrator × Non-Leader × Inducement Level]
Fuxi Prompt:
"They test not by striking, but by seeing if you'll dodge."
"True danger isn't the blade—it's the one making you feel safe."