Boquin sat on the bottom step of the staircase, elbows on his knees, his poetry journal open across his lap. The book wasn’t meant to be a simple collection of verses. He had set himself a higher task: to compose an epic, a cycle of poems that detailed the experiences of a single rodent who represented Kowloon’s everyman. At times, this rodent begged for scraps or even crawled through walls. Sometimes it rose against its rulers, only to forget its own suffering when power fell into its paws and it crushed lesser rodents beneath it.

  Yet the page before him remained blank, marred only by a single raven-coloured blot of ink where Boquin had pressed the pen down too long. He had tried again and again, but no words came.

  It shouldn’t have been this way. He had always followed a strict rule for his poems: never write unless emotion burned hot enough to pour out on its own. His poems sounded better that way – honest, even beautiful. Right now, emotion surged unchecked through his mind, but the ink stayed mute.

  Around him, the Yang headquarters pulsed with energy, but Boquin felt isolated. Recruits and volunteers hauled crates of new supplies back and forth around him. Most of it was food, but some were boxes of grenades and low-grade pistols as well. Even the older Yangs seemed to have a spring in their step. Hope and optimism were in the air, renewed because of Gan’s recent dealings with the Yang clusters from Central and South. Words like unity and alliance floated through the corridors, as if that meant something. ‘I was secretly waiting for the day things got back to normal,’ he caught a fellow Yang whisper to another. ‘We were suffering alone in our meaningless boycott.’

  Meaningless. It had meaning.

  It hadn’t even been a whole annui-cycle since Gan had “reluctantly” reopened ties with the Yangs of South and Central Kowloon. But hearing his comrades now, it all added up to nothing.

  The architects of the Yau bombings, the Yangs of South and Central Kowloon had the blood of tens of thousands on their hands. Yet everyone around him moved with smiles, ready to clasp wrists with those who had slaughtered their motherland’s innocents and defiled their holy cause. He had no smile left to give those who betrayed his prophet, Songzu Dong. Boquin’s pen pressed harder against the empty page as he wondered how the rodent would express such a whirlwind of emotions.

  At first, famine relief had been the excuse. But now the talks had slid back to planning assignments together, as though the bombings had never happened.

  As the ink blot seeped across the page, Boquin imagined writing about a rodent whose memory was short, forever fooled by the same trap, forever springing it and dying in it over and over under its yoke, never warning his brothers and sisters about what was going to happen.

  He flexed his hand, willing himself to write. But nothing came.

  A door creaked open at the top of the stairwell, behind Boquin.

  Gan’s finally out. About damn time.

  Boquin rose to his feet and turned as Gan descended the steps. His dark hooded robe draped over his broad, middle-aged shoulders, the hood pushed back to reveal short-cropped, grey-peppered hair, a lean face marked by high cheekbones and a firm jaw, and smudged black paint circling his eyes.

  They briefly shook hands and Boquin was met with a tired but genuine smile.

  ‘How’d the meeting go?’ he asked.

  Gan sighed, rubbing at his brow. ‘A shitshow. As usual. But we’re doing better than before.’

  Boquin’s lips curled. ‘Still can’t share anything with me?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Bo. I know how much you hate this,’ Gan said quietly. ‘But I promise we’re working on something important. Something that’ll bring us our biggest victory yet.’

  The familiar excuse. Boquin clenched his jaw, forcing the words back. Once, Gan had trusted him above all others, confiding in him after every meeting. Since joining the Yang chapter at fifteen, Boquin had felt more like Gan’s son than a recruit. Now, he was left waiting outside meetings like everyone else.

  ‘I just hope you haven’t forgotten what they’ve done,’ Boquin muttered. ‘That you won’t let them trick us into another senseless attack.’

  Gan’s shoulders tensed. ‘You know I’ll never forgive them for the Yau bombings. I cut ties for almost a whole annui-cycle. But the famine has grown unbearable since then. We can’t afford to distance ourselves from the only neighbours who can send aid.’

  ‘But you’re in meetings with them now, making plans!’ Boquin snapped. ‘We can’t be fooled twice!’

  ‘And we won’t, my boy. But a movement as large as ours must be united. Remember… we can’t keep holding grudges if we want to succeed.’

  ‘I’d rather forsake the Yang entirely than be caught up in another mass murder!’

  Gan gave a heavy sigh. ‘Boquin, this isn’t up for debate. We can’t fulfil Dong’s prophecy if we only work with people we like and condemn the rest. Right now, there are bigger concerns. Like Lord Mingchi.’

  Boquin’s stomach tightened. ‘Hasn’t he replied to our letter?’

  A memory surfaced – the sewage pipe vibrating under his feet, Gajan pulling him through the crack, Mingchi’s startled expression as Boquin pressed the letter into his hand. The bodies that rained down afterward.

  ‘Not a word,’ Gan said grimly. ‘I’ve had our people check every day. Nothing. Mingchi's gone ghost. And there’s been a potential development.’

  Boquin frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Gajan. The Kuishi you met inside the estate, our inside man. He hasn’t checked in once since the coronation. It’s been more than 20 work-cycles. Something’s very wrong.’

  Boquin swallowed hard. ‘Since the coronation? He’s been silent this entire time?! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!’

  ‘I don’t have time to explain things. We need eyes on Mingchi’s estate. I want you, Liqui and Zifuan on a full cycle of surveillance. If he’s still acting as a Kuishi, you’ll see him. If you don’t…’ Gan hesitated. ‘If you don’t, we need to assume the worst. Then plans will change.’

  Light… I hope that’s not the case. ‘Where can I find Liqui and Zifuan?’

  ‘Liqui is in the relief tents in the Kambaland precinct, tending to the injured from the coronation. There are some new ones from that big march that went to shit. Zifuan’s helping her.’

  Boquin remembered hearing those marchers chanting two nights ago. And the gunfire that followed. He had no idea how Mingchi would come back from these disasters.

  ‘Thanks, Gan,’ Boquin said as he nodded stiffly and stepped away. ‘I’ll head there now.’

  As he walked out of the base – a dim, cramped hovel in the back of an abandoned travel agency – resentment burned in his chest.

  Gan trusts me to crawl through walls and over pipes to do his assignments but tell me the truth of his dealings with the gwy-lo Yangs.

  The streets of Pik stretched before him, eerily silent. With the Kuishi pulled back to guard Mingchi’s estate and Red Eyebrow bandits prowling unchecked, the city looked like a carcass, stripped bare and lifeless.

  Boquin pulled his black mask over his mouth, letting it settle snugly over the bridge of his nose. As he navigated the deserted streets, his eyes caught the bright yellow posters plastered on countless walls. Bold black letters stared back at him, repeating the same chilling message from the people of Pik:

  All eyes on Mingchi.

  As Boquin pushed aside the tent flaps, the overwhelming stench of human suffering slapped him in the face. The sharp, metallic tang of blood-soaked bandages blended with the biting fumes of disinfectant, creating a heavy, nauseating atmosphere. Inside, five aisles of makeshift stretchers lined the space, every single one occupied. Thin curtains hung between the rows, offering meagre privacy as medical volunteers, dressed in plain clothes, and Yang members in their dark robes tended to the wounded.

  This tent was one of many the Yangs had set up across the city to care for the countless injured from both the coronation and the recent march, where anxious Kuishi guarding the estate gunned down peaceful protesters led by the clergy. Those dead ranged from young students to elderly shopkeepers. Boquin had heard every rumour and detail. The marchers’ demands aligned with Yang doctrine: Pik must break from the Dynasty, scratch its name off the Unification Pact. And, as always, Kowloon answered the plea for separation with the only language it knew: violence.

  But these tents they’d set up was a reminder of what the Yang had once stood for: grassroots efforts to uplift and protect the people of Kowloon from this very violence. That was the Yang Boquin had grown up believing in. That was the cause he thought he would serve. Not the Yang who now strapped bombs to their chests and slaughtered thousands in the name of liberation.

  Inside, Boquin strode through the aisles and sidestepped around volunteers, eyes scanning for Liqui. At the third row, fourth bed, he spotted her. A female Yang leaned over a patient, gently tilting his head back with ungloved hands as she held a cup of water to his lips. The care in her movements was striking, gentle fingers steadying his jaw, eyes looking down softly, shepherding the flow of water into his mouth so a single drop would not waste.

  Boquin approached slowly as she set the cup down on a small side table and spoke to the man. ‘Call me if you’re thirsty again, sir.’

  The man nodded weakly, his gaze shifting to Boquin as he drew closer. Liqui turned, her face lighting up as she stood and embraced him.

  ‘Boquin! I was just thinking about you,’ she said warmly.

  ‘Hey, Li,’ he replied, rubbing his eyes.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  ‘What are you doing out here? Did Gan send you to help?’

  ‘Sort of. Gan did send me, but not for this,’ Boquin said, lowering his voice. ‘Something’s come up. I need your help.’

  Liqui tilted her head, then gestured for him to follow. ‘Come on, walk with me while you share.’

  She stepped around him, weaving through the crowded aisle toward the front of the tent. Boquin followed close behind.

  ‘Gajan’s missing,’ he began.

  ‘I heard he missed a few check-ins,’ Liqui said over her shoulder.

  ‘Gan wants us to watch the estate. Track the Kuishi patrols and see if we spot Gajan coming or going.’

  Liqui reached a sink and placed her hand under the disinfectant dispenser. As she rubbed her palms together and rinsed, she nodded.

  ‘Sounds important. Count me in.’

  Before Boquin could respond, a voice called from behind. ‘Aye, Boquin, that you?’

  Boquin turned to see a masked Yang volunteer rounding the corner. The figure pulled the mask down to reveal Zifuan.

  ‘The man himself!’ Boquin grinned, clasping Zifuan’s palm in a firm grip. ‘I was just about to ask Liqui where you were.’

  ‘Why? Needed a hand with something, brother?’

  ‘Gan’s asked Boquin to find out where Gajan is,’ Liqui replied.

  ‘Finally! I’ve been stressing over him.’ Zifuan said.

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ Boquin said, glancing between them. ‘Am I the only one who only found out today that Gajan’s missing?’

  Zifuan glanced at Liqui and then back to Boquin. ‘I only know because I tried contacting him a few work-cycles ago about something personal. Gan told me then.’

  ‘I found out through his girlfriend,’ Liqui added as she dried her hands on a towel. ‘She’s been on Gan’s case since the coronation, demanding answers.’

  Boquin frowned, tension tightening his jaw. ‘Feels like I’m the last to find out shit like this nowadays. Well, we need to get moving. I’ve been sick with worry since Gan told me earlier. You in, Zifuan?’

  ‘Give me five,’ he replied. ‘I’ll grab food and water.’

  ‘I need to pack a few things too,’ Liqui added.

  Boquin nodded and headed toward the entrance of the tent, crossing his arms as he waited for his comrades.

  Zifuan yanked the trapdoor hatch shut, sealing the three of them inside the cramped, cage-like balcony. The space was barely a metre high and two-and-a-half wide. Zifuan sat cross-legged, Liqui hugged her knees, and Boquin squatted with his shoulders pressed against theirs, their heads almost brushing the low ceiling as they stared out through the rusted bars.

  The balcony shuddered under them. It wasn’t perched on the 47th floor as you may expect, it hung beneath it, a small steel-frame box bolted onto a sharp architectural overhang where the building jutted outward above after level 46. Like a metal barnacle, it clung to the overhang with nothing but forty-six levels of empty air in a straight line beneath them.

  The narrow flooring itself was nothing more than a row of weathered planks. Between the tiny gaps, right beneath his legs, Boquin glimpsed the city dropping away to the street levels. A shiver ran through him as a gust of wind whistled through a crack and threaded cold into across ankles.

  ‘This place always feels like it’s going to snap off the wall,’ Zifuan muttered, clutching the bars in front as wind sent tremors through the balcony.

  ‘It’s held longer than any of you two have been alive,’ Liqui said, though her eyes lingered on the joints in the wood. ‘Gan’s scouts use it whenever we need eyes on the estate.’

  Mingchi’s estate was at the very top of a lone 60-storeys-high groundscraper. The groundscraper, the same one Boquin had slipped into during the coronation, stood apart from the other buildings around it, a ten-metre gulf yawning on every side. Only a few narrow connections bridged the gap: long plumbing pipes and strings of lanterns stretched between the buildings.

  The pipe I crossed during the coronation must be on the other side, Boquin thought. I can’t see it from here.

  ‘With how dead it’s been, I doubt anyone’s come through here in a while,’ Zifuan muttered. ‘There used to always be people down at the bottom.’

  Boquin peered down to the base of the groundscraper. Far below was Old Kowloon, the ground floor of the city where Pik’s poorest thrived before the famine. A faint red glow bled from there, where cafeterias and open-air plazas had once thrummed with noise and movement. Now the hazy light only revealed stillness.

  ‘What do you think the Kuishi are doing in their headquarters?’ Liqui asked. ‘It’s been a while since they’ve all been recalled.’

  Boquin lifted his gaze above the lower public floors to where the private levels began. From the ground floor up to the fifteenth stretched the Kuishi stronghold, where Pik’s law-enforcing gangsters trained and slept. Normally, glowing advertisements would flash across the walls in bright panels, but now they were nothing but blank squares of black.

  ‘Mingchi probably has them patrolling every level of the tower,’ Boquin said. ‘He’s terrified of an uprising. Just look at those drones circling the Kuishi headquarters level. I’ve never seen anything like it before.’ He pointed to the tiny white specks whirring around the perimeter.

  ‘I doubt the nobles living above them are even in Pik anymore,’ Zifuan added. ‘Do you see a single window lit?’

  ‘Nope, nothing,’ Liqui responded.

  Rising above the 20th floor, after the Kuishi headquarters, the groundscraper shifted in style. Its plain concrete bulk gave way to tiers of carved stone and lacquered wood, balconies lined with curved wooden railings and tiled eaves that jutted outward in layered ceramic crowns. Red-painted beams and ornamented panels showcased Pik’s deep traditions, echoing the splendour of old Zhongguo as described by the prophet Dong in the Book of Memory, where palaces of steel and glass had once covered the surface of ancient China.

  These middle levels housed Pik’s elite, families bound to Lord Gaochi’s former regime as nobles and politicians, in apartments that had once glittered with lantern-light and the sounds of feasts. Now they stood empty. Every balcony was bare, every window black.

  ‘Where’ve they gone?’ Boquin asked.

  ‘To their South Kowlooni holiday homes,’ Liqui replied. ‘Most of the rich in East Kowloon keep estates down south. I bet many fled the moment Gaochi’s death was announced.’

  Boquin’s gaze travelled higher, to the shadowed levels above the noble apartments. ‘And what about the parliament block? The offices between thirty-five and forty. Where are Pik’s politicians?’

  ‘Gone too,’ Liqui said with a hard look. ‘Those floors are probably just locked doors and empty terminals now. No one’s seen a single minister since the coronation last menses-cycle. They abandoned Pik the same way their masters did, probably sipping on cha in some southern mansion while this place starves.’

  ‘So all that’s left is…’ Zifuan murmured as Boquin lifted his gaze to the highest floors.

  ‘It’s just Mingchi now,’ Boquin concluded. ‘Just him and his guards.’

  The crown of the groundscraper loomed above them – dark and polished, built in the sacred style of old Zhongguo. Its sweeping eaves and layered roofs gave it the air of a palace rather than a residence, the same fortress where the tyrant Lord Gaochi had once ruled Pik with an iron fist. Now Mingchi cowered behind those doors, sealed away in splendour while his people starved and died below.

  The party of three – Boquin, Liqui and Zifuan – sat at eye-level to the 46th level of Mingchi’s groundscraper, across the 10 metre gap. Each held a slim, rectangular pair of digital binoculars, peering into the estate’s windows across the distance. One window in particular showed the corridor where every patrol passed before and after its rounds.

  Boxed in by the cramped balcony, the three pressed their backs against the wall. The ceiling was so low they could barely shift without striking their heads against the rough boards above.

  ‘There,’ Boquin hissed as he pressed the binoculars to his eyes. The others looked at him as he snapped his hand toward one of the windows. ‘Below. Movement.’

  They turned their binoculars together.

  ‘Right side,’ Liqui said, her voice low. ‘They’re leaving for the escalators.’

  ‘Anyone see Gajan?’ Zifuan whispered.

  Boquin studied the patrol carefully, scanning the faces above their red uniforms.

  Clean-shaven, young, slim build.

  He compared each guard against the image of Gajan in his mind. Two guards had thick moustaches, and the other was visibly older than Gajan.

  ‘Nothing,’ Boquin muttered.

  ‘Damn,’ Zifuan sighed, lowering his binoculars.

  Liqui let out a sharp breath. ‘There’s the third rotation. Still no sign. Are we going to talk about what we think happened to him?’ She lowered her binoculars, the faint glow of the lanterns outside glinting in her eyes. The two men stayed silent.

  ‘Fine,’ she muttered, turning back to the windows.

  ‘I think he’s okay,’ Zifuan said, distracted but scanning again. ‘Mingchi’s paranoid, probably keeping his Kuishi on a short leash. Gajan just can’t risk reaching out right now. He’s in a tricky spot, you know. This whole undercover shit is never straightforward.’

  ‘That’s optimistic,’ Liqui replied. ‘He’s compromised. That’s why Mingchi never answered the letter Boquin handed him at the coronation. He’s locked himself away, trying to decide who’s friend and who’s foe, acting like a cornered rodent. He knows someone let the messenger into the estate.’

  ‘Mobs can be scary,’ Boquin offered. ‘I think anyone in his place would fear an uprising. Maybe even a mutiny.’

  ‘He brought the fear on himself,’ Liqui said coldly. ‘He deserves whatever anxiety he’s feeling. I can’t think of a more reckless fool given lordship. Did you see how his guards opened fire on innocent demonstrators? I was patching up kids back there!’

  ‘Still better than Gaochi,’ Zifuan countered.

  Liqui turned, her face hard. ‘His damned father? Yeah sure. His dad killed thousands over decades. Mingchi’s halfway there on his first day! His entire coronation was built on promises that he’ll be different. Now we all know they were lies.’

  ‘I think you’re too quick to spit on him’ Boquin replied, eyes still fixed across the gap. ‘His coronation speech made it obvious he’s different to his father. Getting rid of corruption, undoing his father’s vanity projects, pledging to battle the famine. That’s more than Mingchi’s father ever did. That alone sets him apart. Gaochi was an absolute tyrant, obsessed with maintaining his cult of personality.’

  ‘And Mingchi isn’t?’ Liqui shot back. ‘He’s branded himself the saviour of all East Kowloon! Caring about Pik’s artistic legacy while we can’t even eat! He’s Gaochi in different clothing!’

  ‘I disagree,’ Zifuan added. ‘He might be young, but he’s trying. I know he’ll soon come around to our cause.’

  ‘Trying?’ Liqui’s laugh was bitter. ‘I’d rather he didn’t try at all! What sort of idiot throws a public feast in the middle of a famine? Boquin, you were there. You saw the corpses raining off balconies. This is not what happens under good leadership. If they’ve caught poor Gajan, then Mingchi will execute him and come after the rest of us Yang next.’

  Zifuan sighed, lowering his binoculars and rubbing at his nose. However, Boquin stayed silent, caught between Liqui’s anger and Zifuan’s hope.

  The hours dragged on. Zifuan slipped out through the trapdoor more than once, returning with snacks, while the balcony creaked under his weight. Lantern-light flickered across the estate’s polished black roof tiles, sometimes catching a dark dusk-cat strut by. For a heartbeat, Boquin thought he saw a figure with Gajan’s build pass through a window, but when he blinked, there was no one.

  Time blurred. Boquin refused to count the hours, knowing it would only make them crawl. The balcony groaned whenever one of them shifted – usually Zifuan – and their shoulders leaned heavier against each other as fatigue set in. Now and then Liqui and Zifuan bickered over something trivial, only for Boquin to hush them with a claim of movement from the estate. At one point he felt Liqui’s head settle on his shoulder. He didn’t dare move. She’s been tending the wounded for cycles. She needs some rest.

  Boquin’s eyelids grew heavy. He tried to force them open, but the endless rhythm of patrols, the constant howl of the wind were dulling his senses. It all became white noise. His head dipped, and then he jerked it up again.

  Then it dipped once more.

  The dream came hard and fast. When he looked up, he saw his own face staring back at him – Boquin, fixing the folds of his dark robes. He was no longer himself, but inside Gajan’s skin.

  The dark cellar shook with the roar of the crowd outside, a sound so immense it rattled the stone around them. Gajan and Boquin locked eyes, then launched into action – Boquin wiggled and squeezed through the crack in the cellar wall while Gajan sprinted back up stairs, his boots thudding against the stone floor.

  Chaos surged around him as he sprinted down corridors: Kuishi in ceremonial berets rushing by, their voices clashing in panic. He shouldered past them and sprinted for the closest balcony to see what the noise was outside.

  The world crashed into him the instant he stepped outside. Guards stood paralysed at the railing, staring at the nightmare below. Gajan pushed forward, breath caught in his throat.

  Screams and cries split the air. Every balcony of every surrounding groundscraper writhed like a living thing. Bodies surged and collided as people trampled one another, desperate to reach the food being handed out. He saw men, women, even small children, topple from the upper balconies, limbs flailing as they plunged to the ground floor. The air was filled with shrieks of terror and the sickening crunch of bones. Skulls shattered as people trampled and dragged each other to death. Blood dripped off the edge of every balcony.

  A hand clamped down on his shoulder and spun him around.

  Lord Mingchi’s face blazed with fury. Kuishi surged in from either side, locking his wrists into Xhiku links behind his back. Kuishi from behind ripped his disguise from his body until he was in his dark undergarments. He was kicked to a kneel before Lord Mingchi looming over him.

  Gajan was in a dark, shadowy place, stripped of hope.The young lord’s eyes burned with madness, fury blazing at the Yang disguised as his guard. His finger shot out, and Mingchi’s voice thundered through the man’s very bones.

  ‘YOU YANG HAVE DESTROYED THE EAST!’