Chapter 61: Power Yet to Win Hearts, Words Stir the Wind

Chapter Sixty-One: Power Yet to Win Hearts, Words Stir the Wind

Section One: Alley Silent, Night's Outcome Set

Rustmouth Street, Third Stretch, westernmost end, a gray-brick old building. The top-floor balcony, framed by tin railings, held a weathered clothesline, a wooden table flanked by folding chairs. Five-thirty AM, sky not yet dawn, the city's gray hue untouched by sunlight.

Maria stood at the balcony's edge, hands braced on the rail, eyeing a row of uncurtained windows opposite—lights burned, shadows moved, but no one stepped out.

"This morning, those households—no one taken," Tarn's voice came from behind.

One hand held a thermos, the other pocketed in his jacket, boots wet from stairwell puddles. He approached, setting the thermos on the rail.

"But no one's come down. Seals are still up." He stood beside her, gazing at the street mouth.

Maria didn't take the water, saying softly: "They know we're still here."

"And that this isn't over."

—

Five hundred meters away, Rustmouth Fifth Stretch, a temporary medical point. Three old desks aligned, flanked by folding cots and two portable heaters.

Fesina bandaged a boy's ankle, about ten. His mother sat nearby, agitated, flipping an old prescription slip.

"Handle them, keep handling," a voice came from behind—an elderly woman, fresh from a hand scrape, clutching gauze, stepping back to the wall.

"The old crew came with batons and bills," she whispered. "You bring people."

Fesina didn't reply, finishing the wrap. She stood, brushing dust from her gloves, snapped the med kit shut, and walked out without a word.

She moved fast. Not ignoring, but done listening.

—

Six-fifteen AM, Rustmouth north stretch alley mouth. A red-haired youth crouched, prying an iron plate from a power box base.

Jason stood behind, windbreaker draped, gaze low. He held a pencil, a scrapped iron sheet laid flat on a makeshift stand, its surface ground writable.

"Third Stretch mouth, Tarn and Maria alternate guard, six-hour shifts," he said slowly, voice steady.

The youth nodded, circling the zone on a paper map with a marker.

Jason bent, sketching a line map on the iron: five street stretches, three water trucks, one gas pipe remnant, two ambush points. Each stroke plain, no labels, no frills.

"No strikes," he said.

"But next time… no blocking."

Tarn rounded the corner, glanced at the map, then Jason: "You really letting them draw first?"

Jason didn't answer. He tapped a point on the map.

"Want to see who's bold, don't light the lamp first."

—

Dawn neared, unlit. Atop the fifth building, east Rustmouth, a local in his thirties, in repairman's clothes, climbed a water tank, tying a lamp to a bamboo pole, wire clip in his teeth. The bulb, wired to scrap cable, looped over the balcony rail, dangled above the street.

The light glowed, faint but holding the alley below.

Half an hour later, Maria saw it from the balcony—said nothing, just lifted the thermos, sipping.

The lamp burned all night. No one took it down, no one asked.

Section Two: Sanctions Fail, Street Mouth Cracks

Eight-thirty AM, Red Gang dispatch room.

Wei Ran sat at the map's head, three reports fanned out, near-identical:

"Rust Three order point persists."

"Street calm, no conflict."

"Sixteen households unlisted, some dodge gang talk."

His thumb rubbed a pen cap, face not angry, just coldly weary.

A dispatcher whispered: "Keep checking?"

Wei Ran, eyes on the map: "Not checking now—racing time."

"We're not making people know we're on this street—we're making them afraid to say we're not."

—

Ten AM, Rustmouth Fifth Stretch.

A four-man team entered the street mouth. Worn workwear, stainless boots, bulging backpacks tagged "Pipeline Patrol." No Red Gang marks.

They weren't here to fight—to set traps.

The first man reached the fifth building's door, pulling a clipboard, pasting an A4 notice: "Irregular Drainage Registry · Payment Deadline."

A second sheet beside: missing data from some year, overdue water bill, household to verify.

No "fine," no "collect."

But the paper, once up—singled that family out from the street.

—

A third-floor curtain twitched, an old woman's eyes scanned, then dropped.

Across, a lock shop's door half-open, its sixty-something owner crouched, polishing a brass handle. His grandson swept the doorstep, sneaking a glance at the paper, whispering:

"Grandma sent that woman tea yesterday… today it's their door."

The old man didn't look up: "New trick. Can't hit people, they hit faces."

—

Street mouth, Maria leaned on the alley wall, gray coat, tea in her cup too cold to sip. Her eyes locked on the freshly sealed building.

Tarn came from the back alley, low: "That house, we can't control. They sent hot water just yesterday."

Maria didn't turn.

She just watched—still, silent.

—

A second-floor window slammed open.

A middle-aged woman leaned out, voice sharp, clear: "My meter's what your people swapped, now I owe you?"

Her husband tugged her: "Quiet… the louder you yell, the more they know we've no one."

She wouldn't stop, louder: "Paste it! I wanted a new door!"

She paused half a second, glancing streetward.

She saw Maria—not hiding, not gone.

Standing, watching.

The woman found a foothold: "Paste another! See who lets you back!"

—

The four hesitated.

The youngest flicked his eyes to the street mouth.

In that second, Maria's gaze met his—not cold, not hard, just steady.

His hand stalled two seconds, then tore half the seal, feigning a mispaste.

"Crooked," he said.

"Back for a new one."

—

Two PM.

ARGUS prompted on Jason's palm:

[Observation Point 5: Crowd First Actively Disrupts Enforcement × Official Intimidation Halted × Red Gang Control Unbuilt, Trust Unreclaimed.]

Jason closed the terminal, saying nothing.

He knew this "crooked paper" said more than any street clash:

They didn't fear a fight now—they feared you "ruling."

Section Three: Trap Set in the Hall, Blade's Intent Unvoiced

Rustmouth outer stretch, Red Gang main hall, night looming.

The hall's banners sagged, faded "Red Martial" characters trembling in the wind. In the empty chamber, a dozen stretch heads and minor hall masters lined the walls, none speaking first.

Qing the Butcher leaned in the head seat, one foot on the chair's arm, right index tapping the wood, knuckle strikes like dripping water, even, unanswered.

The air taut, an old hide stretched to burst.

—Break, or explode.

—

"That Rustmouth point," he said, "is it theirs now?"

No one replied.

"Didn't you say don't move too soon, let them slip first?"

He stared ahead: "They haven't slipped. They're there, lamps lit, seals won't stick."

A "Thunder Iron" minor hall tried: "My men… can repaste seals tomorrow, tie in street joint patrol, pull in officials—"

"I asked 'clear,' you say 'paste'?" Qing cut in.

His tone didn't rise, but its tail sank, silencing the room.

Thunder Iron lowered his head.

—

Another whispered: "Zhou Seven's got outer street cargo lines, his men do 'off-book' jobs, no names, no logs."

Qing didn't answer, tilting his head to the man by the door—Wei Ran.

"You know him," Qing said.

Wei Ran didn't react.

"You wiped his file twice, know his unlisted jobs." Qing's finger pointed vaguely. "I'm not asking if you vouch—I'm asking, is he fit?"

Wei Ran, silent three seconds, spoke:

"Use Jian Ci, I'm not taking the blame."

"He's not ours. He's 'borrowed.'"

Qing gave a low laugh: "Think we can afford more shame?"

His tone stayed even, but the words shut down echoes.

"Who sent Hades? You? Me? What'd you say—'No blades, leave room'?" Qing eyed him.

"Tell me: that room we left, is it their order point now?"

—

The room's light dim, unsteady.

A young man by the wall stood, early twenties, clean clothes, no blade, eyes not "one of us."

Jian Ci.

He said nothing, nodding to Qing.

Qing ordered: "Take two, no badges, no point entry. Tools, side alleys."

"I don't care how—three days, clear that water truck patch."

Jian Ci replied: "Understood."

His words few, but in the Red Gang, such men were feared most.

Not "for the gang"—he solved problems.

—

Outside, wind curled the banner's edge.

Wei Ran smoked, leaning by the door, staring at the flame's brief spark.

A deputy murmured: "You really let Qing send him? Rustmouth's watched now."

Wei Ran didn't look up, exhaling smoke.

"Send."

"Let them see we still move people."

"But not us moving."

He eyed the sky.

"Tomorrow, if blood spills, it's that kid's hand."

"No one gave orders."

—

Midnight.

Rustmouth Sixth Stretch, lamps unextinguished, alley water trailing to the water truck's tail. Maria packed her med kit, Tarn checked guard shift handovers.

Jason stood in the alley's shadow, leaning on a scrap billboard.

"No more seals," Maria said low.

"Hm."

"Next time… they'll hit someone off-point."

Jason nodded, tone flat:

"Good."

"We need a reason."

Section Four: First Blade, Not Cleanly Broken

Rustmouth Sixth Stretch, pre-dawn.

The wrecked water truck sat at the alley mouth, rust-pocked, left tire half-collapsed. A forgotten metal corpse, blocking half the light.

Maria sat at its tail, one hand on a teacup, the other stuffing a hemostatic bandage into a med bag. Tarn crouched on the roof, checking a makeshift wire.

All seemed—routine.

But this day's "routine" wasn't quiet.

—

Jian Ci's steps into the alley were feather-light. Two flanked him, one ahead, one behind.

All rebadged: work caps, old logistics uniforms, boots too clean.

The first burst right, a knife sliding from his backpack, slashing diagonally at Tarn's neck.

Tarn reacted fast, parrying with a stick, but his footing slipped, forced back a step.

The second followed, no blade, shoulder ramming Tarn's waist, aiming to drag him off.

Maria looked up as the third closed, knife tip glinting.

She dodged swift, foot on the wall's base, vaulting over the truck's edge, but landed, hitting the corner, her cup rolling, shattering.

The third swapped knife hands, lunging.

—

Thud!A sound from behind the lamp, like a hammer on wood.

A stick sliced air, striking the attacker's elbow, clang, the knife flew, skidding two meters, hitting a manhole.

Chen Lei stood at the street mouth, black clothes, black stick, single hand low. He didn't speak.

The second reacted, swinging an electric prod at Chen Lei's head.

Chen Lei didn't retreat, stick leveling, clashing with a metallic hum.

He pressed, elbow to chest, half-step side, a "stick-tail knee pry" felling the man, his knee buckling like snapped timber.

—

Jian Ci moved last, dual knives sealing Chen Lei's retreat from both sides.

Chen Lei's left shoulder dipped, sliding, stick flicking down—hitting the knife's rear.

The blades jolted, force to wrist bones, Jian Ci's grip faltered, steps stilled.

Chen Lei spun the stick, sweeping shoulder, a slap smashing Jian Ci's right, knocking him back two steps, arm limp, knife falling.

—

Far alley's end, Jason stood by a scrap ad frame, gaze on Chen Lei.

Fuxi System flashed silently:

[Target "Chen Lei" Triggers Non-Affiliated Support Node]

[Suggested Tag: "Independent Tactical Support × Shadow Frequency Ally"]

Jason didn't act. He watched.

—

Chen Lei stood by the knife, stick in hand, not glancing at Maria.

She steadied, retrieving her med bag, composed as if nothing happened.

Jian Ci reached for his knife; a stick tapped his back.

Chen Lei, cold: "Who taught you to cut before walking?"

The stick locked his shoulder, Jian Ci gritted, face paling.

Chen Lei released, turned, left.

Passing Jason, his voice slow:

"She could've blocked."

Jason: "You didn't have to come."

Chen Lei didn't reply, his heels crunching alley glass as he went.

—

Tarn stood, dusting off.

"First open blade," he said.

Jason, low: "Good."

"They drew."

"We—can strike back now."

—

A distant window's curtain parted, a head peered, then dropped.

No doors opened, but eyes saw.

That stick's strike echoed clear through the alley.

Section Five: Map Lit, Street Takes Shape

Rustmouth Third Stretch east, old warehouse second floor.

A faint light, a red bulb hung on an outer window's iron hook, swaying in the wind. Dim, but framing the entire monitoring room's window. The wooden door ajar, a half-bucket of cold water and a heater in the corner.

Jason stood inside, hands behind, eyeing a dynamic map synced by Fuxi and ARGUS.

Rustmouth stretched like a spine: five main stretches, eight nodes, seventeen lamps, nine ambush points.

Tarn briefed behind:

"Fifth Stretch alley lamp line's out, I had Xini swap a backup battery for a patch."

"Frontline guard's three-man shifts, Maria, Jianluo, Xini on Sixth, first-aid stocked."

Jason nodded, sliding the map interface.

Fuxi prompted:

[Guard Status: Five Stretches Secured × Three Half-Secured × Open Sentry Link Complete]

[ARGUS Sync Addendum: Crowd Speech Spawning Meme Phrases × Hotzone Word Frequency Rising]

[Keywords: "Lamp Still Lit" × "They're Still There" × "Someone's Sitting"]

Jason said nothing, tapping a marker point on the screen.

—

Behind the water truck, Maria hung a restocked first-aid kit on its rack. She didn't sit, leaning on the truck, fingers coiling bandage.

Xini, five meters ahead, repainted a ground defense line. Red paint, wet on cement, arced along rain stains.

"Think they'll come tomorrow?" Xini asked.

Maria didn't answer, pulling a smoothed glass shard from her pocket, hanging it on the truck's tail lamp hook.

She angled it, reflecting fifteen meters back.

"Who moves first, exposes first."

She tied the kit, sat by the truck, silent.

—

Same time, Rustmouth Eighth Stretch back alley.

Welles slipped through a drink warehouse's rear door, steps light as a shadow. Trailing a pack of haulers, earpiece pressed to his right cheek.

He reported low: "Eighth Stretch, three unlogged movers, tool bags, no trade patterns, likely non-transaction entry."

Signal sent.

Jason's voice, brief: "Not selling—testing blades."

Welles paused half a second: "Understood."

—

Midnight, wind sharper.

Street lamps swayed, some windows shut, others hung new curtains.

On a Seventh Stretch apartment roof, a new signal cloth rose. White, wordless, nailed from roof to wall.

The cloth lamp glowed faint, but steady.

—

Jason closed the interface, stepping to the window.

He saw the lamp—white, not Fire, not a flag.

But lit.

He said low:

"A point isn't waved."

"A point is sat."

Fuxi prompted:

[System Status: Entering "Static Conflict Threshold"]

[Prompt: Any External Assault Triggers "Legitimate Counter Node" Formation]

[Activate Night Stretch Emergency Strike Clearance?]

Jason didn't act, sitting back.

He eyed the street, soft:

"If they want this street back—let's see if they've the guts to strike first."

His last words, almost to himself:

"This round, we don't speak."

"First move—pays the full price."