Morning in the Dregs didn't bring light; it brought a lighter shade of gray smog.
Yang Yi woke to the sound of coughing. Not the polite clearing of a throat, but the wet, rattling hack of lungs slowly filling with fluid. It came from the hut next door.
He sat up. Dust coated his tongue. His shoulder stiff, the muscle knitting together around the memory of the ice shard. The beast blood had settled, leaving a hollow hunger in his gut.
Lin sat by the door. She had pushed the heavy wood aside just enough to let a sliver of smoggy air in. She held a small, cracked mirror, inspecting the dark circles under her eyes.
"We need food. And water that doesn't smell like corpse runoff."
Yang Yi stood up and stretched. His joints popped like dry twigs. "Then we hunt."
"There's no game here, Yang. Just rats and people."
"Exactly."
He stepped out into the alley.
Block 9 woke up angry. Disciples shuffled out of their shacks, eyes downcast, clutching tools or weapons. They moved with the sluggish rhythm of the defeated.
Yang Yi watched them. He didn't see people; he saw batteries.
He focused on the ground. Beneath the layer of filth and cobblestone, he sensed it again—the faint, rhythmic thrum he had felt at the registration stone. The mountain was pulling qi down, away from the surface. The disciples weren't just living here; they were being slowly drained to feed the core.
"Keep your aura tight," he muttered. "Don't leak energy."
Lin stepped out, pulling her hood up. "Where to?"
"The trough."
They followed the flow of bodies toward the sector's center. The architecture grew denser, the stone buildings looming overhead like tombstones.
They reached the Distribution Plaza. A massive iron bulletin board dominated the center, surrounded by a mob of shouting disciples. To the left, a long line snaked toward a gruel kitchen.
Yang Yi bypassed the food line. He pushed through the crowd to the board.
The missions were scrawled on parchment, pinned with iron nails:
Mine duty. Shaft 4. 12 hours. Reward: 2 Contribution Points.
Herb gathering. Whispering Woods. High mortality risk. Reward: 5 Contribution Points.
Beast culling. Sewer levels. Reward: 10 Contribution Points + salvage.
"Prices are high," Lin noted, reading over his shoulder. "A basic spirit stone costs fifty points at the exchange."
"Slave labor." Yang Yi tore a parchment off the board. "Sewer duty."
A hand slammed onto the board, pinning the parchment back down.
Yang Yi looked at the hand. Thick fingers, scarred knuckles, wearing three iron rings. He followed the arm up to a face that looked like it had been carved from granite and dropped repeatedly.
The man wore a gray robe, but the sleeves were torn off to show massive biceps. He smiled, revealing gaps where teeth used to be.
"New blood." The man leaned in. He smelled of garlic and stale wine. "You don't just take jobs in Block 9. You pay the tax first."
The crowd around them went silent. A perimeter formed instantly. This was the morning entertainment.
"I don't see a tax collector's badge," Yang Yi said.
The man tapped his own chest. "I'm Zhang. Iron Hand Zhang. I am the badge. Ten points to work. Or you leave a finger."
Lin stepped forward, her hand drifting toward her empty hip. She had lost her rapier in the arena.
Yang Yi put a hand on her shoulder. He stepped closer to Zhang. He didn't look up at the giant; he looked through him.
"I have zero points."
Zhang chuckled. The thugs behind him laughed on cue. "No points? Then we take payment in trade. The girl looks—"
Yang Yi moved.
He didn't punch. He didn't kick. He grabbed Zhang's index finger—the one pointing at him—and bent it backward.
Snap.
Zhang's eyes widened. The scream started in his lungs, but Yang Yi didn't let it out.
He stepped in, driving his elbow into Zhang's throat.
The scream turned into a wet gurgle. Zhang stumbled back, clutching his broken finger and his crushed windpipe.
Yang Yi didn't stop. He grabbed Zhang's hair and slammed his face into the iron mission board.
CLANG.
Teeth hit the pavement.
Zhang slid down the board, leaving a smear of blood over the mining assignment. He twitched once and went still.
Yang Yi stood over him. He looked at the thugs.
"Tax is paid."
The thugs scrambled back, disappearing into the crowd.
Yang Yi grabbed the parchment for the sewer duty again. He checked Zhang's pockets. He found a small pouch containing three low-grade spirit stones and a half-eaten stick of dried meat.
He tossed the meat to Lin.
"Breakfast."
He pocketed the stones. The crowd parted for them as they turned to leave. Fear was a better currency than gold in the Outer Sect.
"You're making a habit of this," Lin said, tearing off a piece of the tough meat.
"Dominance is the only language they speak." Yang Yi walked toward the service tunnels. "We need points. We need resources. And the sewers hide things the sect wants forgotten."
"Like what?"
Yang Yi touched the token in his pocket. It was vibrating again, pulling him toward the underground.
"Like the source of the veins."