Futile Devices Scans

The man looked half-dead.

His frame was withered, hair thinning at the crown, eye sockets sunken deep—an all-too-familiar face among the addicts of the walled city, those who lived off white powder.

Now he was running for his life.

Through a narrow, suffocating alley between crumbling buildings, he stumbled forward in blind panic. His footsteps slapped wetly against the ground, crushing who knew how many greasy alley rats beneath his soles.

Behind him, several burly men with hardened faces gave chase, cleavers in hand, their shouts as crude and unchanging as ever:

“Hey! Don’t fucking run! Stop right there, you little shit! You’re dead, you hear me?! Stop!”

A turn ahead—

The alley split.

Beyond it sprawled a cluster of noisy dog-meat stalls, packed with diners. Dozens of small hotpots bubbled across the open yard, filthy tables littered with empty bottles and gnawed bones.

The man gritted his teeth and charged straight through.

With a burst of desperate strength, he overturned table after table—crash, crash, crash!

In an instant, chaos erupted.

Curses filled the air, voices rising in outrage as people shoved and collided, turning the entire place into a writhing mess of bodies and spilled broth.

The pursuing thugs plunged in like dumplings tossed into boiling soup—immediately swallowed by the surging crowd.

By the time they fought their way free, battered and disheveled—

The man was gone.

“Fuck!” snarled one of them, a scar-faced brute with slicked-back hair shining under the dim lights.

“Boss Ma, what now?” the others asked.

“What now?! What the fuck do you think? Split up! Find that piece of shit!”

The fugitive ran until his lungs burned.

The alley ahead stretched into endless darkness—but he knew that if he could just make it out of Xiaolong Walled City, he’d be safe… at least for now.

Then—

Whoosh.

A tiny sound broke the silence.

A spark flared in the dark.

He froze.

His eyes widened, cold sweat flooding down his spine.

There—

A long blade was embedded in the wall before him.

Its edge gleamed coldly, less than a step from his throat. Had he taken even half a second longer, he would have run straight into it—split open from neck to spine.

His legs trembled violently.

The man who struck the match leaned casually against the wall.

Tilting his head, he lit a cigarette, then drew in a slow, satisfied breath.

The faint glow revealed a sharply defined profile—cool, composed… almost languid.

With a thud, the fugitive dropped to his knees.

“Bo… Boss Liuyi…”

Xia Liuyi lowered his gaze.

He tapped ash lightly against the hilt of another blade still sheathed at his waist, his tone idle, almost amused.

“Still planning to run?”

“N-no! No, no, no—I won’t run! I was wrong! I know I was wrong, Boss Liuyi—!”

“Good that you know,” Xia Liuyi replied lazily, lifting his chin toward the blade in the wall.

“Pull it out.”

The man scrambled to his feet, hands shaking uncontrollably. It took several tries before he managed to wrench the deeply embedded blade free with a harsh shunk. Holding it with both hands, he offered it back with trembling reverence.

“Carry it,” Xia Liuyi said, cigarette still between his lips as he straightened.

Then, with a faint curl of his mouth, he added lightly:

“Be good. Get your ass back—I’ll treat you to Children’s Day.”

The man’s legs gave out instantly.

He collapsed with a thud, bursting into loud, broken sobs.

“Boss Liuyi! I know I was wrong! Spare me—please spare me! I’m begging you—!”

Xia Liuyi had already walked ahead, unhurried.

He didn’t bother replying.

He merely lifted a hand and gave a casual wave—like calling a dog to heel.

Crying and stumbling, the man scrambled after him—

Still clutching that cold, gleaming blade.

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