The small Fire Pot shop in the Ninth District was bustling with activity.
Outside, dozens of men equipped with various mechanical limbs stood guard, divided into three groups.
They chatted with each other, laughing cheerfully as if they were quite familiar.
Inside, three people sat around a table with a fire pot in front of them. The water was boiling, making a bubbling sound.
A short middle-aged man brought out two plates of sliced meat, his face shiny with oil, as he emerged from the back kitchen. He wore two white sleeve covers, stained with grease: "Take your time, gentlemen. I'll keep slicing in the kitchen. There's more than enough."
One of the three at the table asked coldly, "You're not giving us some nasty white meat, are you?"
"How could I do that! You three are the bosses of the nearby groups. I wouldn't dare mess with you," the fire pot shop owner quickly said. "The cuts I gave you are real lamb. I brought them in from the Fourth District."
