Iron Fist and Loyal Heart

Su Xinpei heard the first loud bang coming from the direction of the factory ruins at resettlement site number seven. It wasn't an explosion; it was metal being torn apart. The sound pierced through concrete walls, the ground, and all obstacles from the direction of the abandoned industrial area of ​​Beihe, like an old iron bridge being twisted in half by an unseen hand. The emergency lights in the resettlement site corridor flickered simultaneously, waking several children sleeping on the floor. Uncle Zhou's wife instinctively hugged the children tightly.

A second loud bang followed immediately. Shorter and harder, as if something had been struck several times in quick succession, each impact tightening the air. Then came a long silence.

Su Xinpei ran out from the end of the corridor. He handed the resettlement point over to Lao Sun and the social worker on duty, took out a communication chip from his inner pocket and put it behind his ear. Zhou Cheng's voice sounded in his ear almost simultaneously: "The secondary cracks left after the sealing of crack 12 in the industrial zone have been activated, and three mirror lords have squeezed out at the same time—Team Leader Ye is on the outer control line, and the fastest reinforcement will take a while." Before she could finish speaking, Su Xinpei had already climbed over the east wall of the resettlement point.

He ran from the side alley of the old district towards the factory area. When he reached the breach in the wall on the southeast side of the factory area, the one that had been knocked down by the man in the mirror last time, the stench in the air was so strong it was bitter. It wasn't blood, it wasn't rust, but the astringent smell unique to the massive evaporation of subspace entities, mixed with ozone and cold metal powder, making his throat tighten. He took out the yellow wax pill that Master Chen had given him from the inner bag and pressed it under his tongue. The extremely bitter liquid seeped down the back of his tongue, washing away the astringent feeling in his throat.

He squeezed through the gap and climbed into the outer perimeter of the workshop.

The workshop was unrecognizable. Two steel beams of the dome had been torn off, half of them lodged at an angle in the ruins, the broken edges gleaming a dark blue from the intense heat. The concrete cracks on the ground were dense and numerous, some still faintly shimmering with a purple light, like countless half-open eyes. The crack in the center of the workshop had been sealed—not with the smooth burn marks left by standard techniques, but with jagged remnants forcibly crushed by brute force, the metal and concrete at the edges kneaded together like pig iron being squeezed together by immense force, rather than being stitched up by a precise surgical procedure.

Old Iron Head sat on the collapsed machine base directly below the crack. Half of his tank top was torn off, exposing his left shoulder and upper arm. His old military tactical vest was draped over his knees, and he used a torn shirt sleeve to wrap around his left forearm. His hand didn't tremble as he wrapped it, but blood seeped from the gauze, already dripping a small patch at his feet. In front of him lay the remains of three Mirror Lords—several times larger than the one Su Xinpei had shattered last time, each the size of a small truck. The inner structures exposed after the outer shells shattered were slowly evaporating, emitting a slight hissing sound. The largest pile of remains still retained its approximate shape, with fragments of the outer shell scattered on the ground, the edges of the purplish-black fragments still flickering with a few last rays of dim light.

Su Xinpei ran over. Old Tie Tou saw him, smiled, his face covered in dust and sweat, his smile revealing deep lines around his eyes. "Damn it, almost didn't make it back. My hand slipped."

Su Xinpei didn't speak. He placed the first-aid kit he had brought on the machine base, and took out hemostatic powder, bandages, and a roll of medical tape. Then, he took out the cheap liquor that Old Tietou hadn't returned yet from the other pocket of his coat, unscrewed the cap, and placed it next to Old Tietou. Old Tietou looked down at the liquor, then at Su Xinpei—this kid had run directly from the resettlement point, probably more than two miles, his coat was all askew, but he hadn't forgotten to bring a liquor. He picked up the liquor and took a big gulp, then opened his left arm for Su Xinpei to bandage.

Su Xinpei removed the makeshift bandage from his sleeve. The sleeve was soaked in blood, and some fibers clung to the wound's edges as he removed it. He carefully picked them apart one by one with his fingertips. The sleeve was removed, revealing the wound on his forearm—not a knife wound, not a blunt force injury, but a complex injury of compression and tearing. The skin from his wrist to his elbow had been torn open from the inside out by some immense pressure. The edges of the wound were irregularly turned up, and beneath the fascia layer, purplish-black filaments could be seen slowly seeping between the dermis and fascia, like countless extremely thin wires embedded in the muscle. It wasn't bruising, not contaminants, but subspace parasitic particles—fragments left over from when the lord was shattered were embedded in the wound, corroding the surrounding muscle tissue.

Su Xinpei had seen something similar before. After breaking the mirror image at the pumping station last time, he had some purple residue on the back of his hand, which he washed off three times. But the fine threads in Lao Tietou's wound were not residue; they were alive—they were wriggling extremely slowly in his fascia layer, and with each wriggling, the surrounding muscles twitched slightly.

"Can you move?" Su Xinpei asked.

"It can move. It's just numb." Old Iron Head took another sip of wine, his voice as rough as ever. "When those three lords squeezed out of the crack, I originally just wanted to plug the opening. But the opening was too big, and I couldn't plug it with one hand, so I simply dragged them all out and smashed them. Before the third one died, it pierced my arm with a fragment of its left forearm—it even bit me after it died."

Su Xinpei didn't reply. He cleaned the edges of the wound with an alcohol swab—when the alcohol touched the purple filaments, a tiny wisp of white smoke rose from their surface, then they contracted slightly, but didn't die. He poured hemostatic powder evenly onto the wound, covered it with gauze, and wrapped it tightly with bandage, layer by layer. From the wrist to the elbow crease, each layer overlapped exactly two-thirds of the previous one, with the last layer turning at the elbow crease to seal it. After finishing, he took out the portable blood test kit from his first-aid kit, dabbed some exudate from the wound edge with a cotton swab, and dripped it onto the test card. After a moment, three lines appeared on the test card—the infection markers were high, but below the sepsis threshold; the third line—the subspace residue marker—was very light in color, indicating that the residue was small, but definitely present.

Old Ironhead looked down at the reagent card, saying nothing. He was a veteran of the old martial arts world, having served twelve years at the Glacier Fortress. He'd witnessed the fate of his comrades infected by warp debris: initial numbness, followed by blackening of the wounds after a few days, gradual replacement of muscle tissue by parasitic particles, and ultimately, more amputations than survival. But he simply flipped the reagent card over and placed it against the base, taking another sip of his drink. "The Special Meteorology Bureau's medical station has some old-fashioned antiparasitic serum. I'll have Deputy Physician Liu give me an injection tomorrow morning."

Su Xinpei put the reagent card into the interlayer of the first-aid kit. He didn't ask any further questions—Old Tie Tou's use of "tomorrow morning" instead of "immediately" indicated that he himself knew this infection couldn't be completely resolved with serum, but he didn't want to discuss it now. So Su Xinpei closed the first-aid kit, picked up the flask from the base, and took a sip. The cheap liquor was extremely harsh on the throat, but after the initial spiciness came a warm sensation that traveled from the throat down the sternum to the lower abdomen.

Old Tie Tou watched as Su Xinpei placed the wine jug back on its base, then suddenly spoke, his voice softer than before. "Back in the Glacier Fortress, one winter, a company of forty-seven men guarded a crack for four whole months. Later, the crack was sealed, and only nine of the forty-seven remained. Of those nine, three later succumbed to old injuries and died within a few years. Before they left, an old sergeant told me, 'The men of the Old Martial Arts aren't afraid of dying outside; they're afraid of dying before they've sealed the door.'" He gestured with his chin to the edge of the sealed crack behind him. "I've sealed this door three times. The first time was with you, sealing the small one; the second time was when your grandmaster was still alive, sealing the large one; and today is the third time. It's sealed."

Su Xinpei tucked the end of the bandage into the interlayer of the bandage above his elbow and pressed it flat with his fingertips. He stood up, put away the first-aid kit, and pushed the flask towards Lao Tietou. In the distance, the engine sound of the Special Meteorological Bureau's medical team could be heard from the outskirts of the factory area, their headlights sweeping a white light across the ruins.

Old Tie Tou downed the last gulp of liquor, placed the empty flask on the base, and stood up, supporting himself on his knees with his hands. His movements were slower than usual; his left arm remained at his side, and his right hand patted Su Xinpei's shoulder, much lighter than usual, but his fingertips remained steady as his hand rested on Su Xinpei's shoulder. "Go back to guard your settlement. It's not your place to carry this old bone of mine." Then he picked up the old military tactical vest, draped it over his shoulders, and walked towards the medical vehicle. The white light from the medical vehicle clearly illuminated the tear in the shoulder of his vest, the edges of which were frayed and torn by shrapnel.

Su Xinpei stood beside the machine's base, watching Lao Tietou walk to the medical vehicle and be helped into it by Deputy Doctor Liu. As the door closed, he glanced down at the empty wine jug on the base. The jug was military green, with a small chipped paint on the bottom, and a faded red string tied to the lid—a keepsake left by his master, which Lao Tietou had never replaced. He picked up the empty jug, screwed on the lid, put it in his coat pocket, and then turned to walk towards the resettlement point. A light rail train sped past overhead, its rumbling sound completely drowning out the lingering hissing vapors from the ruins of the workshop. He remembered the reagent card in his bag; the thread on it told him one thing: Lao Tietou's injury wouldn't heal with just one injection of serum. He reached into his coat pocket and grasped the empty wine jug, his steps unwavering.