Iron Fist and Loyal Heart

The containment operation ended at 4:30 a.m. When Su Xinpei crawled out of the sewers, it was still dark. The night sky over the lower part of Ironthorn City was tinged with a gray-orange hue by the exhaust fumes from the distant industrial zone. The air carried a cold, metallic smell, mixed with the acidic odor of the lingering residue from his reflection in the mirror on his cuffs. He took off his old military boots outside the fire door and returned them to Old Iron Head, then put on his own shoes. The soles of his boots crunched on the broken bricks, and the lingering numbness from his standing meditation acupoints remained on his feet. Old Iron Head took the boots, dusted them off, said, "Nothing special tomorrow afternoon," and then turned and walked deeper into the alley. Su Xinpei emerged alone from the ruins, walking along the unlit alley on the east side of the old district towards his apartment.

A car was parked at the alley entrance. It wasn't the typical black van seen at the Special Meteorological Bureau, but an inconspicuous, dark gray, older model sedan. The car had no markings, and the exhaust pipe was still emitting faint white smoke, indicating it had only recently been parked. The door was open, and a man leaned against it, wearing a dark blue stand-up collar jacket, with a badge depicting a single, closed eye pinned above his left breast pocket. Ye Xinghe.

Su Xinpei stopped in his tracks. His right hand instinctively drooped to his side—not out of war, but because his knuckles were still burning from smashing the person in the mirror, and it felt more comfortable with them hanging down. Ye Xinghe, holding an unlit cigarette, saw him approach, took the cigarette from his mouth, and tilted his head towards the alley: "Coordinator Su, is it convenient for us to chat for a bit?"

Su Xinpei didn't say anything and walked over. He stopped two steps away from Ye Xinghe.

"The information you provided in your anonymous tip was extremely valuable," Ye Xinghe said, his tone calm, as if reciting a meticulously prepared memo. He skipped the small talk and cut straight to the point: "We've been keeping an eye on you for a while now."

Su Xinpei didn't respond. He knew what Ye Xinghe was referring to—the letter complaining about the unusual situation around the abandoned school building of Beihe No. 2 Primary School. It was signed by an organization, but the Special Affairs Bureau only needed to check the operation logs of the archive system to find out who was in charge. He hadn't deliberately hidden himself; he just hadn't signed it voluntarily. Now that they had come knocking on his door, he wasn't surprised.

Ye Xinghe pulled a white business card from his inner pocket and handed it over. The card was thin, made of stiff paper, with only one line of text and a badge on the front—a closed eye—and below it printed "Southern Alliance Special Elephant Bureau, Ironthorn City Branch." The back read: Ye Xinghe, Field Operations Squadron, contact number, and a handwritten extension number. There was no title, no email address, and no address. Su Xinpei took the card and gently pressed his finger along the edge of the paper—the material was different from the standard business card paper purchased by the street office; it felt brittle, the edges were sharper, like stock from a military printing plant.

"I'm Ye Xinghe, the squad leader of the Iron Thorn Branch of the Special Elephant Bureau. We met at the street office last time." Ye Xinghe turned the business card to him, then put his hand back into the pocket of his stand-up collar jacket. "You're not a formally employed staff member, but we'll provide you with some perks—access to information, intelligence support, and the authority to legally handle certain gray-area matters. You only need to provide assistance as an advisor when necessary. You can refuse."

Su Xinpei looked down at the business card. One eye closed, Special Meteorological Bureau. He'd seen this logo many times from manuals and seals, but this was the first time someone had handed him a business card bearing it directly. He remembered the complaint records in the blue file boxes at the bottom of the archives cabinet, the silver seal on the iron gate of the bungalow area, the mirror image he'd just punched outside the fire door, and Old Iron Head's words in the workshop: "What the military fears most now isn't subspace entities, but the ever-thinning cracks." Then he glanced back into the depths of the alley—Old Iron Head was gone, but the sound of the enamel mug on the rattan chair hitting the wine jug seemed to still linger in the dark alley.

Old Tie Tou didn't come out. Su Xinpei knew the old man must have overheard the conversation—his ears were incredibly sharp; he could wake up from a snore if a car stalled within a twenty-step radius. But he didn't come out. Su Xinpei understood what this meant: This is your own business, you decide for yourself.

He turned back to look at Ye Xinghe, then put the business card into his coat pocket. "I'll think about it."

Ye Xinghe nodded, offering no further questions or pressure, as if the answer was entirely within his expectations. He put the unlit cigarette back in the pack, straightened up from the car door, and said, "If you need to access non-classified information during the consideration period, you can call the number on the business card. But one thing needs to be made clear beforehand—if you accept this identity, your on-site reports will no longer be anonymous." Su Xinpei nodded. Ye Xinghe closed the car door, and the gray sedan silently glided out of the alley, its taillights flashing briefly at the corner before disappearing into the dense network of side streets in the old district.

Su Xinpei stood at the alley entrance for a while. The streetlight cast a long shadow on the old bricks piled up against the wall. He took out the business card from his inner coat pocket and, by the light of the only working streetlight at the alley entrance, glanced at the handwritten extension number on the back. The number was short, only about four digits, indicating it was a dedicated line—not a forwarded line, but a direct call to a personal terminal. He put the business card back in his inner pocket and walked towards the apartment.

It was almost 5 a.m. when he got back to his apartment. He took off his coat and noticed a purple stain on his cuff—a remnant of the shards of his reflection in the mirror, now dried and powdery. He hung his coat on the back of a chair, went to the bathroom, and washed his forearms and hands again with soap. The purple powder under his fingernails dissolved in the water, staining the sink's glaze a light blue. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and then sat on the edge of the bed, placing the business card on the bedside table, leaning against the pillows and looking at it.

External consultant for the Special Affairs Bureau. Not a formal position, no salary, no professional title, but he can access non-classified documents, receive intelligence support, and legally handle gray-area matters. "Legally handling gray areas"—these words echoed in Su Xinpei's mind. Having worked in the street office for three years, he knew better than anyone what "gray areas" meant. Low-income households on the verge of poverty who didn't meet the aid criteria but genuinely couldn't afford medical care were in the gray area; old buildings in the district with structural defects that didn't meet demolition standards but leaked during every heavy rain were in the gray area; last year's unusual complaints marked as "closed without abnormalities" were also in the gray area. Now, the Special Affairs Bureau had given him a business card, essentially telling him: you can legally enter these gray areas, no longer anonymous, no longer hiding behind your unit's signature, no longer worrying about overstepping your authority.

But he also knew that this business card was both an admission ticket and an identity token. When he was anonymous, he was only responsible for his own judgment; after signing his name, he would bear joint responsibility for the operation of the entire system. He remembered what Old Tie Tou had said at the door of the storage room: "If one day you are no longer a mail carrier, you will have to stand on your own judgment, not on paper." It turned out that the old man had already guessed that there would be this business card.

He dozed off for a while as dawn approached. The alarm rang, and he sat up, washed his face, and looked at the faded red bruise on his right knuckle in the mirror. He thought for a moment, then pulled out an unopened pack of bandages from the drawer and stuck one on the second knuckle of each finger. After applying them, he turned his hand over to examine it—the bandage's flesh color was a shade too different from his natural skin tone, looking quite unnatural. He peeled it off and used two darker adhesive strips, wrapping them twice. Better than the bandages. Time to go to work.

The neighborhood office was exceptionally busy today. The year-end review process for renewing minimum living allowance applications was nearing completion; hundreds of documents piled up on half a table, the printer malfunctioned twice, and the water dispenser needed a new bottle of water. Aunt He was organizing the year-end community activity schedule in the back room, while Su Xinpei processed over ten minimum living allowance renewal applications at his workstation, his wrist aching from stamping so many documents. At lunchtime, he placed his steamed bun next to his mouse pad, munching on it while opening the resident information system on his computer, and inadvertently searched for the keyword: "Beihe Factory District."

Several foreign news reports popped up in the search results, all with headlines like "Abandoned factory emits strange odor late at night; environmental protection department says it's monitoring" and "Is industry active in the lower district of Ironthorn City? Officials refute rumors, saying it's only for temporary military deployment." He clicked on them and quickly browsed through them—the wording was all "online rumors" and "reported by some residents," and the official responses were all phrased as "clearing up potential geological hazards" and "do not approach." In the news comments section, someone asked, "Did something happen again at the agricultural machinery factory last time?" Someone replied, "Don't ask, it's just a rumor." Su Xinpei closed the webpage. He knew what was underpinning these reports—he had seen it with his own eyes last night, and even smashed one of them with his own hands.

In the afternoon, Aunt He went out to a meeting in the district. Before leaving, she placed a stack of documents on Su Xinpei's desk, saying that these needed to be filed that afternoon. Su Xinpei took them and flipped through them. The top document was an attachment to the street office's year-end comprehensive management report. On the fifth page, in the fourth column, there was a headline: "Cooperate with the Special Affairs Bureau to do a good job in calming the emotions of residents in abnormal areas." He read this line twice, then closed the document and put it in the to-do list.

He arrived at Tiegutang half an hour earlier than usual that evening. Only Wu Xiong was punching the sandbag in the courtyard; the canvas was patched upon patched. Wu Xiong's punches were much heavier than a few months ago, each blow sending the sandbag swinging in a more complete obtuse angle. Seeing Su Xinpei enter, Wu Xiong stopped and wiped his sweat with a towel: "Master went to Master Chen's. He wants you to practice standing meditation on your own tonight." Su Xinpei responded, changed his shoes, and went to his standing meditation spot in the courtyard. He assumed the stance, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, tailbone slightly tucked, spine straight. But today, he opened his eyes after less than two minutes. It wasn't that his physical condition was wrong—his body was excellent; after mastering the tendon-strengthening technique, the stability of his small muscle groups had significantly increased, and the golden veins faintly glowed. It was that his mind couldn't calm down. His mind kept replaying the handwritten extension number on the back of the business card, Ye Xinghe's words "authority for gray area matters," and the familiar yet unfamiliar force he felt when he punched the person in the mirror outside the fire door last night.

He stood for a while longer before stopping. This was the first time in almost half a year that his mind had wandered so completely. He sat on a bench, took a sip of water, and pulled the business card from his coat pocket, placing it on his lap. Wu Xiong, having finished a set of punches, sat down beside him, glanced at the business card on his lap, and sniffed it: "What's that smell like? It's like the old medicine paste from Master Chen's pharmacy." Su Xinpei ignored him, turning the card over to look at the extension number on the back.

When Lao Tietou pushed the door open, Su Xinpei was still sitting on the bench. Lao Tietou was carrying a plastic bag containing two servings of fried noodles, the oil already seeping out of the bag. He shoved the plastic bag into Wu Xiong's hand, then walked up to Su Xinpei and glanced down at the business card on his lap.

"From the Special Affairs Bureau?"

"Um."

"Did you accept it?"

"Still considering it."

Old Tie Tou grunted, took a cigarette from his pocket, put it in his mouth but didn't light it, and sat down on the wicker chair next to him. He picked up the enamel mug and took a sip—the tea was cold. He frowned, put the mug down, and said, "Keep the things safe. Don't show them to Wu Xiong; he won't recognize them." Wu Xiong peeked out from behind the fried noodles, wanting to say something, but Old Tie Tou glared at him, and he shut up.

After a moment of silence, Old Tie leaned back in his wicker chair, looking at the old elm tree in the yard: "This business card means you can access field operation records, basic blueprints, and low-level anomaly reports. Your status as an external consultant will require you to report to the Special Meteorological Bureau the next day. The neighborhood committee that pays your salary is still there; they won't deduct your pay—you'll be sitting in their cubicle in the office building reading documents the following afternoon, but you won't receive a military salary." He paused, placing the enamel mug on his lap, "But you'll still come here to practice your stance at night. The cubicle in the office is a dead wall; the stance is your own little corner. As long as the stance is there, the spirit remains. No matter how beautifully the Special Meteorological Bureau's report is written, your roots are still under your own feet."

Su Xinpei put the business card back in his inner pocket. He stood up and walked to the center of the courtyard to rearrange his stance. This time, he closed his eyes for a full fifty minutes. The sensation of Qi rose from his dantian, traveled up along the Ren meridian, and circulated twice throughout his body. The indentation on his left rib tingled briefly under the warmth of the Qi and blood, then subsided. When he finished the stance, he picked up his water bottle from the bench and took a sip. The water was cold, but what he swallowed was warm.