Iron Fist and Loyal Heart

A Corner of the World in Chapter 6

The notepad was bought at the Beihe Secondhand Market.

After get off work, Su Xinpei detoured there, intending to finish quickly. The secondhand market was quiet in the evening; vendors were packing up, their plastic sheets rolled up on shelves, the air thick with the smells of old books, mothballs, and fried stinky tofu. He bought a spiral-bound notebook with a kraft paper cover for three yuan at a stationery stall. The stall owner, a middle-aged woman wearing arm sleeves, didn't even look up when giving him change.

He stuffed the notebook into his coat pocket and turned to walk back.

As he walked to the east corner of the market, he heard those words.

"That thing, tonight at 10 PM, same place."

Su Xinpei paused. He was standing in the aisle between a cluster of used bookstores and hardware stalls, with a stack of yellowed old magazines on his right and a box of rusty pipe fittings on his left. The person speaking was on the other side of the corner, their shadows stretched long by the overhead light bulb, one squatting and the other standing.

"Did you bring it?" the one who was squatting asked.

The one standing patted the canvas bag at his waist: "I brought it. Are you ready on your end?"

"Ready? Don't look here."

Su Xinpei took a step back, his back pressed against a stack of old magazines. It wasn't that he wanted to eavesdrop; it was just that there was only one way out of this passageway, and he was already halfway there. If he went back now, the sound of his shoes scraping against the concrete would only draw more attention. He simply stood still and slowed his breathing. One thing that three weeks of standing meditation had taught him was that his own heartbeat was loudest when he was quiet.

The squatting man took something out of his robes, wrapped in a black cloth, and handed it to the standing man. The standing man took it and peeked through the cloth. The instant the cloth was lifted, a sliver of dark green light shone through the gap, illuminating his face. The light was thin and cold, like a glow stick submerged in seawater, lasting for about two seconds before he covered it again.

Su Xinpei saw clearly what was under the cloth. It wasn't a weapon. It was a seal about the size of a palm, made of unknown material, with dense patterns engraved on its surface, exactly the same as the talisman he had seen on the altar at the old lady's house in apartment 401.

Talismans. Talismans used in religious practices.

He had found similar descriptions in the subdistrict office's files—not official terminology, but words written by complainants in their statements. One complainant wrote, "They were selling a kind of glowing stamp that gives you a headache when you hold it," and another wrote, "The person stamped my passport, saying it would bring me good luck, but afterwards I had nightmares all night." These files were never reported to higher authorities; they just sat gathering dust in the blue file box at the Beihe Subdistrict Office, and he had only looked through them two days ago.

"Price Marker," Su Xinpei murmured to himself. Someone in the files had mentioned this term, but never explained its meaning.

The two men didn't exchange many words, and the transaction was quickly completed. The squatting man stood up—shorter than Su Xinpei had expected, wearing dark work clothes, and his hat pulled low. The standing man zipped up his canvas bag, looked around, and the two men walked out of the side alley on the east side of the market, one after the other.

Su Xinpei waited until the footsteps completely disappeared before emerging from the passageway. He stood at the market entrance for a moment, then turned right after exiting the market and walked into a narrow alley leading to the main road. Passing a grocery store that was still open, he borrowed the phone on the counter and dialed the 24-hour duty number for the neighborhood committee. The phone was answered after two rings; it was Old Li on night shift. Old Li asked him what was wrong, and he only said that about a dozen children were gathered near the Beihe Secondhand Market, gave the time and location, and then hung up. Old Li recognized Su Xinpei's voice; this man never made false reports and would report directly to the district branch after giving his statement. About seven or eight minutes later, the muffled sound of police sirens echoed in the night.

He didn't stay at the scene. He simply stopped under the streetlight at the corner of the alley and wrote a few lines—an address and a time. The person squatting there had mentioned the "old place," and he'd heard that only two dead-end alleys at the corner of the alley were deserted late at night. He'd seen a map of the area in the records system. He wrote the address and time on the last page of his notebook, tore it off, folded it, and stuffed it into the innermost part of his pocket. He decided to report it anonymously.

It wasn't a police report. It was a report to another department—the first thing he'll do at work tomorrow is check the public reporting channels of the Ironthorn City Special Meteorological Bureau.

Back home, Su Xinpei took out his notepad, spread it on the table, and wrote down all the details he had just witnessed. The size of the seal, its texture and style, the dark green fluorescence, the physical characteristics of both parties in the transaction, the content of the conversation, the location and time. He wrote meticulously, even drawing a diagram of the location of the rust stains on the canvas bag of the standing man. After writing the last word, he tore off the notepad and rewrote it on a blank sheet of paper—leaving no handwriting. This was a technique he learned from Aunt He when handling sensitive materials at the neighborhood office: if it can be printed, never handwritten; if it must be handwritten, use printed text; and destroy the record afterward.

He burned the manuscript. The lighter was a cheap one he'd bought for a dollar at a flea market; the flame flickered twice above the sink before going out. The charred ash from the paper curled into blackish-gray fragments, which he flushed down the drain without leaving a trace. The smell of burnt paper lingered in the bathroom for a moment before being carried away by the exhaust fan.

The anonymous tip was mailed the next day to the Ironthorn City branch of the Special Affairs Bureau. The envelope had no return address, the letter was on plain white paper bought from a hardware store, and the entire contents were in standard font format—he had scanned the handwritten note into the computer at the street office's printing room, reorganized it using the usual administrative template wording, and then printed it on unnumbered general-purpose paper. This letter wouldn't lead back to Su Xinpei. Having worked in grassroots administration for three years, he knew what level of information tracking could be covered up by explanations in routine office records, and what level would cross the line—this letter just happened to be on the latter side.

Three days after the letter was mailed, Su Xinpei detoured through the alleyway leading to the trading point on his way to work. A notice printed on white paper and sealed with waterproof plastic film appeared on an iron gate at the alley entrance, bearing the joint seal of the Tieji City Municipal Administration Office and the Special Affairs Bureau. The notice vaguely stated that "illegal storage of hazardous chemicals" existed in the area and that it had been temporarily closed, warning residents not to enter. The corner inside the gate, which had previously been filled with broken furniture, was now empty, and there were several drag marks on the ground where heavy objects had been dragged.

He stood at the alley entrance for a while, said nothing, and then turned and walked towards the neighborhood office.

On this day, Su Xinpei saw the uniform of the Special Meteorological Bureau for the first time.

He didn't come from afar. Ye Xinghe went directly to the neighborhood office.

At 2 PM, Su Xinpei was organizing the materials for renewing his minimum living allowance at his workstation when two people entered through the door. The one in front was dressed in military uniform civilian clothes, followed by a female clerk wearing glasses. The one in front scanned the office, finally fixing his gaze on Su Xinpei.

"Coordinator Su?"

Su Xinpei looked up. The man was about twenty-six years old, about the same height as him, with broad shoulders, short stubble clinging to his scalp, and tanned skin that made the exposed wrist bones and half of the metal watch strap on his sleeves appear even more hard and unyielding. He wore a dark blue stand-up collar jacket, not a military uniform, but his posture was clearly that of a soldier, his hips slightly tucked forward, his weight on the balls of his feet. Above his left breast pocket was an armband—a closed eye, with "Southern Alliance Special Elephant Bureau" printed below.

"Yes, that's me. And you are?"

"Ye Xinghe, field captain of the Iron Thorn Branch of the Special Elephant Bureau." He handed over his ID, which Su Xinpei glanced at. The ID photo made him look younger than he actually was; the Ye Xinghe in the photo didn't yet have the tan he had now and the dry lines around his eyes. A holographic security label was pressed onto the right side of the ID, while the left side showed his serial number and rank. He returned the ID, his mind filled with only one thought: So fast. The person had come to his door just three days after the tip-off letter was sent.

"What's up?" Su Xinpei picked up the enamel mug beside him, his tone remaining on the business reception channel.

Ye Xinghe didn't sit down, but stood beside his workstation and said in a moderate voice, "We raided an illegal trading point on the east side of the Beihe Secondhand Market three days ago. We seized a batch of unregistered and unusual items at the scene, the source of which pointed to the old Beihe district. One of these items closely matches the pattern of a talisman described in a complaint filed by a resident in your jurisdiction last year. We are currently conducting preliminary investigations and need the street office to provide several files."

Su Xinpei put down his cup and nodded: "The relevant files can be retrieved, but we need to go through the formal application process. Did you bring an application form?"

Ye Xinghe glanced at him sideways, seemingly surprised by his immediate switch to an administrative tone. The female clerk behind him pulled a form from a file folder and placed it on the table. Su Xinpei picked up the form—a standard Category A file access application form, which required the signature of the street office director, the stamp of the Special Affairs Bureau, and filing with the archives department. He read the application, checked the file number, took the pen from Ye Xinghe, and wrote in the remarks column, "Only electronic scanned copies are allowed; originals must not be taken." He then pushed the form back to Ye Xinghe: "Aunt He is on fieldwork today; I'll give you a receipt after she signs it tomorrow morning."

Ye Xinghe handed the form to the clerk, glanced at Su Xinpei, and said in a casual tone, "I heard you've been going through old files lately."

Su Xinpei's fingers paused on the keyboard for a moment. "It's for work. It was arranged by my superiors."

Ye Xinghe didn't press further, only nodding slightly. As he turned to leave with the clerk at the door, he suddenly stopped, glancing sideways at the clivia plant under the window next to Aunt He. He didn't ask Su Xinpei. The clerk beside him whispered, "Nice variety," and then the two went out. Su Xinpei watched them leave, then lowered his head to continue typing, his fingers moving slower than usual.

They knew he was going through old files. Not just suspected, they knew. Every box he took from the archives was recorded, the time he swiped his key card, even the duration of his browsing of electronic files on the computer could be tracked in milliseconds. If the Special Affairs Bureau wanted to investigate, these records required no approval. He hadn't done anything illegal, but he realized he was on one side of a very thin line—on the other side was the Special Affairs Bureau.

In the evening, Su Xinpei went to Tiegutang as usual.

He was quieter than usual while practicing Zhan Zhuang (standing meditation). Old Tie Tou sat in a rattan chair with the radio on, playing a storytelling program about ancient knights-errant. After Su Xinpei finished his half-hour Zhan Zhuang practice, he picked up dumbbells and did three sets of dumbbell presses, then stood in Zhan Zhuang for another half-hour to conclude his practice.

After finishing his work, he didn't leave immediately. He sat on an old bench in the yard and wiped his sweat. Old Tie Tou turned off the radio, and the yard suddenly became quiet, with only the leaves of the old elm tree in the corner rustling gently in the wind.

"What's up?" Old Iron Head asked.

Su Xinpei was silent for a few seconds, then recounted what he had seen at the flea market. From overhearing the conversation to seeing the talisman, to sending the anonymous tip, and then to the Special Bureau's visit today—he told them everything. After he finished, he waited for the old man's evaluation.

After listening, Old Tie Tou picked up the wine jug, took a sip, and put it down. Leaning back in his wicker chair, gazing at the old elm tree overhead, he suddenly said something completely unrelated to the matter.

"When I was in the army, I was stationed at the Glacier Fortress for eleven years. The North Alliance's positions were right across from us."

Su Xinpei paused for a moment, then remained silent.

"Back then, we didn't have your biochemistry courses. Soldiers trained in the old martial arts. Our company had forty-seven men, all of whom were trained in the old martial arts. They were trained through stance training and boxing." Old Tie Tou flicked his flask with his finger. "One winter, the Northern Alliance sent a squad to infiltrate across the border. They weren't regular troops; they were sorcerers. Sorcerers from the Fa Cult."

"The sorcerer of the Law School."

"Hmm. Those people don't need to practice; they can perform magic just by signing a contract. It's incredibly fast; they can achieve in a month what it takes three years of training." Old Iron Head's lips twitched, a look that was both a sneer and disdain. "But the price is real too. Every time they use magic, they lose something—not just a piece of flesh from their arm, but their life. It shortens their lifespan, their luck, and the safety of their loved ones. Debts must be repaid sooner or later."

Su Xinpei recalled the term from the file: cost marker.

"The light you saw from that thing was green?" Old Ironhead asked.

"Dark green."

"That's a military tally. It's used by sorcerers of the Law Cult to mobilize troops. That thing isn't energy; it's a signed IOU." Old Tie Tou put the enamel mug on the ground, stood up, walked to the wooden dummy, and punched it. The dummy's arm wobbled twice, and another shallow mark appeared on its surface. "My master—that old madman of yours—hated the Law Cult when he was alive. He said they were using their ancestors' money to play tricks. One day, he fell out with the Law Cult and almost demolished half a street. He himself refused to sign any contracts his entire life, not even the honorary certificate the military region asked him to sign."

Upon hearing the words "old madman," Su Xinpei unconsciously reached into his coat pocket—the ring was right next to his work ID, its cool, tinged texture even through the plastic casing. He didn't take it out; his fingers merely lingered on the edge of the pocket. The streetlights shone through the courtyard wall, making the subtle texture of the ring's surface even clearer than during the day.

"Master, did you encounter the person in the mirror at the Glacier Fortress?"

Old Ironhead was silent for a moment, then said, "That wasn't the first time. Nor will it be the last. The Northern Alliance has been researching the weaponization of the subspace since then, and the Cult of Law was just one channel they used to infiltrate the lower levels of the Southern Alliance. What you saw this time was a small fish, a talisman trade, the lowest level. Even if that warlock is caught, they won't be able to get much out of him—he probably doesn't even fully know what he's selling. But the people behind him do."

He turned around, looking at Su Xinpei with the moonlight behind him: "Xiao Su, your anonymous report today was the right thing to do. Three years ago, when we encountered this kind of thing, we would basically fight head-on first. You gave the intelligence to the Special Affairs Bureau and let them take action to shut it down. It was effective and didn't expose yourself. But there's one thing you need to think about clearly."

"What is it?"

"You've already seen that world." Old Ironhead's eyes flashed in the dim light, then returned to their usual murky state. "The rift in the subspace won't close, the Northern Alliance won't stop, and the conglomerates won't back down. Today, you can choose to continue being your neighborhood committee member, Xiao Su, reviewing welfare applications every day, earning 2,300 a month, staying out of the limelight, and not causing trouble. No one will blame you."

He paused for a moment, then added, "But if you're planning to go any further, you'll have to toughen yourself up."

Su Xinpei didn't speak. He picked up his coat from the bench and put it on his arm. He zipped it up halfway, then stopped at the gate and glanced back. Old Tietou sat back down in his wicker chair, turned on the old radio, and his hoarse storytelling voice filled the courtyard again.

Back home, Su Xinpei took a shower and sat down at the table to open his newly bought notepad.

The first page.

I met with people from the Special Affairs Bureau today. The secret filing agency is a real entity, not just a name on an official document. Their field team leader stood upright and spoke with impeccable discretion. Their informants cover the Beihe Secondhand Market, the complaint files, and even that potted clivia. They've been aware of my presence for at least several weeks.

The trading point was sealed off. The seals were removed. The traces were taken away. They acted faster than the police.

I reported a sorcerer. I chose to remain anonymous. I have no regrets.

But what if one day I can no longer remain anonymous? What if the person standing on the other side of the transaction isn't a warlock, but someone I know—Aunt He, Old Iron Head, or someone who signed the file—can I still stand behind that red line and hand over the forms?

He closed the notepad and turned off the light. In the darkness, the progress bar for the Hunyuan Stance remained quietly at the beginner stage, while the progress bar for basic physical fitness was already more than halfway through. The progress bar for the Iron Bone Body Forging Technique was still zero, but the ring left by his master lay quietly next to his work ID, its surface cool to the touch, waiting patiently.

He didn't touch it. He didn't want to touch it tonight. But he knew he wasn't far from that world.