Chapter Sixty: Rustmouth Seizes Voice, Blood Opens the Map
Section One: Street Rally Point, First Slogan Scrawled
"We're not newcomers—we're the ones who stay."
Rustmouth Street, Third Stretch, end of Iron Valley's old cold chain pipeline.
A wrecked truck blocked the street, its tires pinning two welded scrap plates, freshly painted:
"Order Point Established · No Gang, No Trouble."
Tarn painted it, clad in a hauler's sweat-soaked shirt, a dull cloth strip tied on his arm, distinct from the Red Gang's stamped armbands.
Maria stood beside, no coat, her left arm's bandaged scar exposed, gripping a police baton, backed by four local youths—yesterday bickering over "water fees," today in mismatched uniforms, standing behind oil drums with homemade shields.
Jason didn't appear.
He sent one order:
"On this street, don't let them say who we are."
"Let them say first—who they still are."
—
ARGUS activated street segment positioning protocol.
Zhao Mingxuan's finger slid over the Rustmouth map, marking one word on Rust Three:
"Test."
Meaning—this would be the system's first formal measure: who dares strike first.
—
The first Red Gang scout appeared at the alley mouth.
No uniform, a snakeskin sack slung, water jug in one hand, hooked stick in the other, looking like a passerby, but his gait pegged him as Qing's man.
He stopped at the "Order Point" sign, spitting: "Who approved this graffiti?"
Tarn turned, silent.
Maria stepped forward: "No approval. We painted it here."
"Want to erase it, go ahead."
"But when you're done—you leave your name."
—
The air stilled two seconds.
Down the street, an old woman crouched by a doorstep, whispering to a child: "He says erase, didn't the old Red Gang say that too?"
The child, uncomprehending, stared at the order point.
The scout didn't erase, glared at the sign, and left.
As he went, three side alleys stirred—Red Gang's rapid patrol squad emerged.
Qing the Butcher didn't come, but his deputy, Hades, led five, pressing the order point from three sides.
Clad in diagonal-patterned leather armor, wielding telescopic steel batons, fully geared.
One held a notice paper—Red Gang's latest "Temporary Security Reorganization Order."
Unopened, its top line read:
"Those setting unauthorized street order points equate to mob disruption."
—
Maria ignored the paper, eyeing the men.
She said softly: "They're here to test our lives."
Tarn rose from the drum, waving to a youth behind.
The youth handed two welding rods, grip clumsy but fingers steady.
Tarn took one, planting it with a clear clink:
"This street, we're here."
"Say it's not—talk—but leave the weapons."
Hades laughed, unfolding the paper: "No talk now—arrest."
—
Tension snapped, a street lamp flared, a crowd shout erupted from the back alley:
"They're fighting!"
"Fight or not?"
"She's just standing there, face unmoved!"
The street hushed.
Hades raised his baton, stepping forward to command.
Tarn said softly: "Here it comes."
A bottle flew from a rooftop, smashing at Hades's feet.
Shattered, spilling half a bottle of stale liquor.
A second arced from behind a wall—not at men, but at their "reorganization order."
Paper tore, batons tightened.
A third—Tarn's welding rod, striking the lead's shoulder, sparks scattering.
Hades roared: "Engage!"
—
First Battle Erupts:
Maria met the lead baton head-on, parrying with her short stick, countering with an elbow strike.
Tarn tangled with the deputy, rolling past drums to force two back.
A youth, shielding, was struck down, falling but clutching the "order point" sign.
Rooftop crowds didn't shout, hurling stones, mud clumps, scrap paper packs into the street.
—
Jason stood two streets away on a vantage point, binoculars catching the "Order Point Established" sign, tilted half an inch, still rooted.
Zhao Mingxuan relayed:
"Crowd's not roused, main force unshown."
Jason lowered the lens: "But this ground's already etched with our name."
Section Two: Hades Strikes, Rustmouth's First Blood Rings
"Don't ask who holds—see who dares step up."
Rustmouth Third Stretch, pre-dawn, wind sweeping empty alleys, curling stained papers to the street mouth.
Hades led his five-man rapid patrol, entering silent.
Each wore hard leather gloves, telescopic batons, sidearm knives, chewing mint leaves, breaths masked ruthlessly. His men never asked—only struck.
—
They saw the sign.
White wood, black ink:
"Rust Three Order Point Built"
Two words smeared, paint still wet.
Hades's brow twitched, hand brushing his back.
No batons drawn, but knuckles cracked.
Ahead, figures stood.
Maria at the center, sleeves rolled, one hand gripping a baton, the other dangling, a loose-capped water bottle at her feet.
Flanking, youths in hauler garb, gray cloth pinned at collars, not lined but blocking the path.
On a second-floor balcony, a man crouched, gaze unfocused, clutching a metal rod—old car lock bar.
"Who let you plant that sign?" Hades spat mint.
Maria looked up: "No one."
"We planted it."
Hades stepped forward: "Take it down, come with me."
Maria didn't budge.
He frowned, fingers twitching, his deputy drawing a baton.
—
The first baton swept a left-side hauler, too slow to dodge, the head cracking shoulder bone with a thud. The man bit back a cry, half his body slumping.
The second baton rose—Maria lunged close.
She blocked the handle with her arm, sidestepped, knee slamming the foe's leg bend.
As his balance hit ground, Maria's elbow smashed his shoulder socket, the baton clattering, his foot slipping in water.
A third swung at her neck—a bottle shattered from the second floor, missing men, bursting at his feet. He stumbled, swing veering, cracking tiles.
Maria seized his baton, whipped it, thud, striking his cheek.
He clutched his face, crouching, blood seeping.
—
From the street corner, a shout:
"Getting real?"
No reply.
But a second bottle flew.
—
Tarn leapt from the balcony, landing, rolling, sliding into the enemy's rear, toppling one, both crashing under a stall, table collapsing.
The stall owner yelled: "Damn you, don't smash my pots!"
No one heard, chaos erupted.
—
Hades's eyes sharpened: "Pull back!"
His deputy moved to follow, baton pinned by a foot.
The youth from the oil drum.
Silent, he stared up.
Hades kicked him off, swung wide, turned—the street's sign stood.
Tilted, not fallen.
His eye twitched, muttering: "Damn it."
"Go."
—
They withdrew.
Four wounded, none dead.
But as they left, the street didn't part.
People stood, watching them fade.
No one claimed victory.
But no one stepped back.
—
Behind the wreck, Maria, panting, tossed her baton into a bucket, saying nothing.
Tarn reset a hauler's arm, teeth clenched, hands steadier than a field medic.
A child passed, eyeing the ground's words.
He asked his father: "That 'Order Point'—they wrote it?"
The man didn't answer, whispering:
"They kept the sign standing."
"Even if they didn't write it, it's theirs now."
Section Three: Night Uncalmed, Reorganization Begins at the Corner
"Do the job right, and people believe you're not just passing through."
Rustmouth Third Stretch, nightfall.
Less than two hours post-battle, a tilted iron drum lay in the street's heart, bloodstains undried, stall glass mixed with vegetable scraps.
Maria sat by the wrecked water truck, wrapping her elbow wound with burlap, glancing at the still-tilted wooden sign.
"Too obvious," she said. "This sign'll get kicked sooner or later."
"But we can't take it down."
Tarn dragged a worn bench to the roadside, sitting, catching breath: "Take it down, we're saying—we came for a fight, not to hold this place."
As he spoke, a middle-aged woman approached from across, carrying half a basin of rice, her other hand shielding a boy behind.
She didn't near, stopping two meters from Maria, speaking slowly:
"Our side… some say you beat people today."
Maria didn't move: "What'd they say?"
The woman hesitated: "Said you're not local, said a young guy got dragged in, broke his hand."
Maria nodded: "True."
"He struck first, we struck back."
"I had him taken to the back alley for treatment—if you know him, go see."
The woman stayed silent.
She set the rice by the truck, turned, and left.
The boy glanced back at Maria, his look neither fear nor trust, but memorizing.
—
At the alley's other end, Fesina stitched a wounded man's hand, packing her tools, saying to a vendor:
"Tomorrow, if he wakes, tell him not to block for others again."
The vendor, skeptical: "You're not from here, are you?"
"No."
"Then why meddle?"
"Not meddling."
Fesina glanced at the neat row of empty liquor bottles.
"It's staying—to stop the next fight from coming back."
—
Night reorganization began.
Zhao Mingxuan set a temporary command post on the wreck.
He activated ARGUS's "street segment resource registry":
Crowd Temporary Aid: Water, cloth, medicine, empty rooms, 9 categories. Reorganizable Assets: Old municipal megaphone, idle alley gate controllers, 3 anonymous crowd support nodes. System Prompt: Zone civilian engagement spiked, but below "trust authorization threshold."
He frowned, turning to Jason: "We're not 'in charge' enough."
"Winning doesn't mean they'll follow."
Jason stood at the street's end, chalking four words on a meter box:
"This Place Is Held."
He said softly:
"This street, from tonight, isn't empty."
"Empty land, people fear to tread."
"With people—trust builds slow."
—
Under the water truck, the wooden sign tilted.
But didn't fall.
Night wind blew, carrying pre-rain damp.
A dog barked in the alley's end, someone peeked from a door, then shut it.
No one came to thank.
But the rice basin stayed, unclaimed.
Section Four: Qing Reorganizes, Second Round's Eve Ignites
"They didn't win—you gave up your place."
Deep night, Red Gang West District hall, underground dispatch layer.
Narrow fluorescent tubes flickered old light, paper smoke mixing with machine oil. Qing the Butcher sat on a folding chair, forehead bound with makeshift dressing, palm pressing a dispatch map.
Hades stood opposite, left cheek bruised, eyes bloodshot, right hand bandaged, sleeve torn long.
"I pulled back," Hades said low, "because staying, we might not have gotten out."
"Not that I couldn't fight—it's not our usual fight."
Qing didn't move, eyes on the map.
Iron Valley's west segment crowd flow chart, a red circle marking:
"Rust Three."
He slashed the circle with his pen.
"Usual or not, does it matter?"
"Two days ago, this place was on our books."
"Now it's got new signs, people asking, 'Are we retreating?'"
Hades gritted: "I'll flip that street."
"Flip it?" Qing snapped up, tone icy.
"Dare go back today? Not to fight—dare stand there, facing those people across—dare say they shouldn't stand?"
Hades fell silent.
Qing stared, long.
"They didn't win," he said. "We didn't dare go back."
"Every step, we fear eyes—not of being hit, but asking, 'Do you still run this?'"
—
He rose, crossing to a wall, pulling down an old map—dynamic combat chart from taking Rustmouth.
Every building marked: residents, stalls, mood stability, response nodes.
Qing pointed to three, eyes sharp:
"I'm not hitting street signs."
"I'm hitting people."
"Tomorrow morning, send men to those three buildings, check water fees, residency papers, unlogged night lights."
"Not arrests—to show that street, it's not anyone's to claim."
—
Hades, low: "They'll fight."
"Fight," Qing nodded. "I want them to."
"They move, we hit back."
"We don't move, we've lost everything."
—
Deeper night, outside the dispatch room, someone slipped a paper through the door seam, no shout, just placed.
Qing walked over, picked it up.
Crooked scrawl, six words:
"We want to stand too."
No signature.
He didn't tear it, didn't speak.
He pocketed it, turning.
"Tell them we're back tomorrow."
"Not to take land—to ask one thing."
"This street—does it still bear our name?"
—
Rustmouth Third Stretch, midnight, the street's wooden sign stood.
But a corner bore new scrawl:
"It's not planted and yours—it's if you can make it stay."
Section Five: Rustmouth's Night of Three Moves, Tipping Point
"Not who owns this street—who dares stay."
Five AM, street half-lit, Rust Three's building alleys swelled with shadows.
No uniforms, but each left arm bore a loop of old police cord. Short batons, rubber-wrapped iron, restrained but firm.
Leading was Gale, once Red Gang "Order Maintenance" frontline head, now under Qing.
Not here to fight, they said—just "inspect," sweeping three buildings, one by one.
Inspect what?
Overdrawn water meters, drifting residency, unlogged night lights. Gale didn't explain, but his men knew—not people, but mood.
—To make this street shut up again.
—
First building, no shout, door kicked. A middle-aged man, half-dressed, was dragged downstairs.
The crowd didn't gather, watched.
Second building slowed, someone blocked the door, citing a sick mother. The enforcer ignored, boot on the frame, the blocker yielded, door shut, no one saw what followed.
—
Third, oldest, gray brick, home to front-street relocatees.
As the door neared breaking, a shout inside: "Wait—I'll open!"
A boy opened, face streaked with unwiped snot, behind him an old man on a bed, pant legs rolled, clutching an empty pill bottle.
The Red Gang enforcer scanned the room, cold: "Who got him medicine?"
No answer.
"Who stitched his wound?"
The old man looked up: "Last night… someone brought pliers and thread, sat at the street mouth, said no thanks needed."
The leader's brow furrowed.
Not aid—a reason to stand again.
—
"Clear it," he said low.
As he turned, rapid steps echoed from the back alley.
Maria rushed out, silent, one hand steadying the bloodied man dragged down, the other pressing a first-aid pack to his shoulder's bleed.
The man didn't cry, only gasped.
The enforcer eyed her: "Who're you?"
She didn't answer.
He probed: "You run that point?"
Maria said only: "I'm keeping him from bleeding."
—
At the street's end, Tarn blocked two kids from nearing the alley.
One struggled: "My grandpa's in there—what're you doing?"
Tarn didn't reply, whispering:
"Go in, you can't shield him. Stand here—someone seeing you is enough."
—
Before noon, Red Gang finished, leaving no arrests, no citations.
But the street—like stomped dust, old grit stirred.
Yet, turning back to the "order point" sign, they saw:
It stood.
Wrapped in clear plastic, weighed by stones, a small stick propped beside—like a brace.
—
They said nothing, left.
But as they faded, someone eased a curtain from a window.
Another whispered at the alley mouth:
"She didn't say who she was, but she didn't leave today."
—
ARGUS logged:
[Crowd Behavior Chain Added: Self-Reinforced Marker × Conflict Avoidance × No Intel to Gang]
[Projection: Crowd Entering "Low Trust Construction Phase" × Emotion Leaning to Actors]
[Control Suggestion: Maintain Identity Ambiguity × Avoid Active Rallying × Await Enemy Control Imbalance]