บท 4: Chapter 4

The noise of the dump was a constant cacophony: the crunch of crushed objects beneath his feet, the clank of materials colliding with each other, and the distant murmur of other diggers, all engaged in the same desperate quest. The air was thick with the acrid stench of decay and rusting metal, a scent so pervasive that it seemed to seep into his lungs with every breath.

Fang Yuan stood in the dump, his sharp eyes scanning the mounds of trash for valuables he could sell. He picked his way through the piles of trash, his slender, nimble fingers rummaging through the debris. He could feel the rough texture of the materials beneath his fingers, the coldness of the metal contrasting with the warmth of his skin. The unstable ground beneath his feet added an additional challenge, each step kicking up a cloud of fine dust that clung to his worn clothes.

His thoughts wandered as he worked, focusing on the need to find something of value. He knew the church paid well for certain items—metal parts, electronics that still worked, even books in good condition. Fang Yuan would occasionally pause, hunched over a promising find, examining it from every angle with almost clinical precision.

Suddenly, his fingers encountered something different: a smooth, cool surface, contrasting with the roughness of the other objects. He carefully removed a piece of scrap metal to reveal a small, seemingly intact metal case. The object had a reassuring weight, a promise of value in this world of trash. Fang Yuan wiped the dust off it, revealing a series of buttons and switches.

"This could be worth something," he muttered to himself.

He carefully placed the case back in his satchel, continuing his search with renewed energy. Each potential discovery strengthened his resolve, a glimmer of survival in his dark eyes.

As he straightened up, his muscles aching from the prolonged crouch, he let his gaze roam the horizon of the dump. The mountains of trash seemed to stretch on forever, a desolate but familiar landscape. The sky above was a uniform, oppressive gray, reflecting the bleak atmosphere of this place.

As he moved forward, he spotted a small, familiar figure not far away. It was Ming. Fang Yuan silently slipped behind a pile of twisted scrap metal, hiding himself so as not to be spotted by Ming. He watched with increased attention, noticing that Ming frequently stopped to glance around nervously. His eyes quickly moved from one corner of the dump to the other, as if searching for something... or someone.

Then Fang Yuan saw them. Men in white protective suits, moving through the dump with the cold confidence of predators stalking their prey. Their presence imposed a palpable menace in the air, a menace that Fang Yuan could almost feel on his skin like an icy chill. These men were no ordinary scavengers. They were dangerous, violent, willing to do anything to get what they wanted.

He then noticed Ming shout something, a call muffled by the distance but clear enough for Fang Yuan to understand its urgency. His senses on alert, Fang Yuan then watched as Tom and Lila appeared next to Ming. The trio exchanged a few quick words, their faces tense, then they set off, heading quickly towards a specific point. Fang Yuan, hidden in the shadows of the rubbish, followed them from a distance, careful to stay out of sight.

The acrid smell of the dump invaded his nostrils as he moved forward, his steps as light as shadows. Every sound, every clatter of materials under his feet was like an alarm in the oppressive silence. He watched the men in the suits with one eye and Ming's group with the other, his mind calculating every move, every possibility.

He saw them slipping into a dilapidated house, squeezing through a barely visible crack, like mice squeezing through a hole to escape a predator. Fang Yuan approached cautiously, his breathing quieting, his movements measured. He didn't follow them inside, but instead began to circle the house, searching for another entrance. His fingers brushed the rough surface of the crumbling walls, feeling the texture of the wet, cracked bricks beneath his palm.

As he explored the surroundings, searching for an opening, a sharp, piercing sound suddenly rang out. A gunshot. The echo of the shot rang through the air like an explosion, piercing the silence with brutal violence. Fang Yuan's heart instantly tightened, a cold sensation running up his spine.

He froze, his senses on high alert, his breath hitching. His ears buzzed, amplifying the silence after the shot, as his mind tried to comprehend what had just happened. Someone had fired… and it wasn't a good sign. His instincts were screaming that the situation had changed, that the danger was more imminent than ever.

As he approached the crack through which Ming, Lila, and Tom had disappeared, another noise caught his attention. Voices, muffled but urgent, were coming from inside the house. Fang Yuan slowed down, his mind racing. He had to be careful, not walk into a trap.

He moved closer to the wall, pressing his ear to the cold, rough surface, hoping to catch snatches of conversation that would tell him what was going on inside. His heart was pounding, each beat resonating in his chest like a war drum.

"Tom, hold on!" he heard faintly. It was Ming's voice, tense, almost desperate.

"You think you can take us all down, kid?" one of the men shouted, his voice thick with contempt, echoing in the heavy, stale air of the dilapidated house. The words, sharp as blades, cut through the oppressive silence.

Fang Yuan, hidden in the shadows, slid his gaze discreetly through the crack, his heart pounding in his chest. What he saw on the other side made an icy wave of anger rise within him.

Tom lay on the ground, motionless, his frail body lying in a pool of blood. The red liquid slowly spread around him, absorbing the dust and debris that littered the ground, creating a frightening contrast to the paleness of his skin. His face, usually so expressive, was frozen in an expression of pain and surprise. Judging by the amount of blood, he was either in critical condition or already dead.

Ming, on the other side of the room, held a gun tightly, his hands shaking with rage and fear. The gleam in his eyes was that of a boy pushed to his limits. The acrid smell of blood and sweat saturated the air, penetrating Fang Yuan's nostrils, filling his lungs with an unpleasant intensity.

Two of the men in white suits stood in front of Ming, their faces hidden by protective masks, but the arrogance in their postures was obvious. They seemed to believe that this kid with his makeshift pistol could do nothing against them. The third man was on the ground, writhing in pain, his white suit stained a deep red across his stomach, the fabric soaked and sticky under the blood that was leaking from his wound. His groan muffled by the pain mixed with the sound of blood slowly dripping onto the ground, a sinister rhythm.

Ming, despite his palpable terror, did not waver. "Back off," he growled, his voice broken but filled with determination. The gun he was pointing at was shaking slightly, but his gaze did not waver. It was the only thing he had left: the desperate courage of a boy who knew he had nothing left to lose.

"Do you really think you're going to make it?" one of the men continued, his voice vibrating with mockery. "You're already dead, kid."

Fang Yuan analyzed the situation in a split second, his mind calculating probabilities and possibilities. He felt the rough texture of the wall against his palm, his fingers clenched, ready to react. Each second that passed was another drop of anxiety in the ocean of tension that threatened to swallow them all.

The other man made a move, taking a threatening step toward Ming. The tension reached its peak. Fang Yuan felt his muscles tense like bowstrings, ready to strike. The air seemed to thicken, as if the entire world was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

Then, suddenly, Ming's gaze changed. A steely glint flashed across his eyes. He took a deep breath, his fingers tightening on the trigger. Fang Yuan, from his vantage point, could almost feel the electricity in the air, every atom vibrating with pent-up energy ready to unleash itself.

A dull thud echoed through the room, Ming's short breaths becoming audible in the deathly silence that followed. The pistol cracked again, a flash of light tearing through the darkness. The bullet flew, tracing a deadly line through the air, before thudding into the advancing man's leg.

The assailant's cry of pain mingled with a furious curse as he collapsed to the ground, dropping his weapon in a reflex action. The other man in the suit froze, surprised by the turn of events, but only for a moment. His face twisted into a grimace of rage behind his mask, and he lunged at Ming, ready to put an end to this unexpected resistance.

That was when Fang Yuan made up his mind. The time for observation was over. The cold rage that had been inside him lying in his own blood transformed into a fearsome force. He left his shelter in one fluid movement, his gaze fixed on his target. He concentrated, directing his energy into his legs, a holdover from his time walking the world of Gu. He felt a familiar heat ignite in his veins, a heat that was not natural, but came from his absolute mastery of his own body.

He clenched his blood vessels, forcing the flow of blood to thicken, to pool, to pulse with increased force. Each beat of his heart sent a wave of power through his muscles, strengthening their vigor, making his legs as hard as steel. He felt his blood boil beneath his skin, his veins widening like flooded rivers, fueling his body with raw, almost bestial energy. The dusty ground beneath his feet suddenly felt lighter, each movement more precise, faster, each muscle perfectly coordinated for the hunt.

His feet slid silently across the ground, skimming the surface with feline grace. The dust barely rose under his feet, leaving behind only an imperceptible trace, like a shadow crossing the twilight.

Fang Yuan approached, each step calculated, ready to strike at the most opportune moment all of Fang Yuan's senses alert, strained towards a single goal: to kill his enemies.