Chapter Sixty-Three: Capture High, Not Low, Rustmouth Turns the Tide
Section One: First Strike Prevails, Lock the Enemy's Core
Rustmouth Street, Fifth Stretch, ten PM sharp.
ARGUS war room, Zhao Mingxuan stared at the main screen's encrypted comms capture, knuckles tapping the desk. The terminal flashed a voice snippet and signal analysis chart.
[Call ID: Thunder Iron × Unregistered Contact]
[Keywords Tagged: Private Deployment × Bypassing Hall × Tonight's Action]
He removed his headset, reporting crisply: "Thunder Iron's activated a private line, contact's non-hall, planning to take Fifth Stretch tonight himself."
Jason stood behind, eyes on the unlit beacons of the Fifth Stretch alley: "No org channels, no dispatch log, just his men."
"He thinks Rustmouth's still a gamble he can win."
Zhao Mingxuan: "Set a lure?"
"Lures don't beat borrowing their momentum," Jason's voice low, steady. "We fake an open channel, let him think we've dropped edge control."
"The more he believes we're not guarding, the faster he'll rush to reclaim."
"We don't rush to win—we need him to cross first."
—
Ten-fifteen PM, Rustmouth Fifth Stretch south boundary, Old Warehouse Alley.
Thunder Iron wore unmarked black workwear, collar snapped, face masked, two trailing wall-side, no comms gear, moving by infrared beacons.
"Lock the perimeter, I'll hold the back breach," he said. "Seal signals, move, no waiting."
The two nodded, silent.
They didn't know the alley was tagged by ARGUS as a "lure trap zone," every path pre-mapped, ambush points set.
—
Same time, Jianluo and Welles positioned between an old elevator shaft and a scrapped hot water pipe.
"Target's in," Jianluo confirmed low.
"Alley mouth sealed," Welles replied.
Jason's voice echoed through the channel, emotionless: "Execute."
—
Ten-twenty-three PM, action began.
Thunder Iron's trio hit the alley core; overhead lamps died. Puddles gleamed, air thick with mildew.
He halted instinctively, hand rising to signal, but before he could, a blunt stick struck his left shoulder, cracking below the collarbone, slamming him into the wall.
He rolled, drawing a blade, but Jianluo dropped from above, pinning his wrist, kicking the knife, stick tail to throat, a knee crushing his gut, locking him down.
The two behind split to react.
The first veered left, Welles locking his neck from behind, elbow pinning spine, down.
The second lunged for a right corner, aiming to call aid, but an elbow smashed his nape, out cold.
All contained, under fifteen seconds.
—
Jianluo knelt, pinning Thunder Iron: "Who else did you bring?"
Thunder Iron gritted, struggling.
"You thought you'd retake Rustmouth—you just tested wrong," Jianluo said coldly. "Now you know."
Jason stepped from darkness, standing before Thunder Iron, not looming, just watching, half a minute.
"You're not the first thinking old tricks could reclaim this street," he said.
"But you're the first we're sending back."
Thunder Iron panted: "Not killing me?"
"Killing makes you a martyr," Jason's tone calm. "Sending you back—you're not even a warning."
"You're an explanation."
"That you're nothing now."
—
"Put him under the streetlamp," Jason ordered.
"No face cover, no binds."
"We don't shame him—him walking back's enough."
Jianluo released, dragging Thunder Iron up. Welles offered a water bottle: "Drink it yourself."
Thunder Iron didn't take it.
They said no more, pushing him to the street mouth, distant lights already flaring.
—
Ten-forty PM, Rustmouth Fifth Stretch mid-alley, Thunder Iron shuffled east.
No blood on his face, gait steady, but he didn't look back.
No one stopped him.
Jason stood in shadow, watching.
"This street doesn't need 'winning' to settle scores anymore," he said.
"It needs—who dares walk in."
Section Two: Thunder Iron Falls, Red Gang's Line Breaks
Red Gang main hall, twelve forty-two AM.
A single half-dead chandelier lit the hall, yellow glow casting a file's shadow on the table.
Qing the Butcher leaned in the head chair, smoking one after another, ashtray overflowing. He didn't speak, waiting.
The door opened, his first glance caught Thunder Iron.
He returned, but not whole. Face bruised, left arm slung, eyes hollow, no men behind, no words.
Qing watched him enter, sit, silent ten seconds, then asked: "Where's your crew?"
Thunder Iron looked up, no anger, just dull: "They didn't kill me."
"Dragged me, sent me back."
The hall froze.
Stretch heads along the sides swapped glances, none answering.
Qing stared: "Meaning?"
"They knew who you were, kept you alive—and sent you back?"
"Not couldn't fight—didn't want to," Thunder Iron said.
"I thought two men could pry Fifth Stretch. We hit the alley, got boxed."
"They moved precise, like they'd mapped it. We were split, I was pinned before I swung."
"Then?"
"Then nothing. No message, no wounds, just dragged to the light, let go."
"No one cursed me, no one blocked me—just watched me walk back."
Qing's low laugh, short, biting: "They didn't hurt you, but didn't spare you."
"You walked back—sitting here, who takes you seriously?"
Thunder Iron didn't reply, staring at his bandaged hand. He knew he didn't lose in a fight—he lost being "shown."
Minor hall heads whispered, one muttering: "Jason doesn't just hit—he picks who walks."
Another: "He let Thunder Iron back to force us—do we still call him ours?"
"Keep him, we're propping a loser."
"Drop him, we're tossing him."
Qing heard, glanced over, silencing them.
Wei Ran entered, standing by the door, not sitting: "Fifth Stretch lost, confirmed."
"ARGUS set new lines, we can't even ping signals. It's not we can't fight in—the street assumes we're gone."
Qing bit his cigarette, eyes sinking: "Assumes we're gone? We're not."
Wei Ran, impassive: "But they're not listening anymore."
"It's not we're absent—they don't care if we are."
—
Outside, an alarm blared twice—perimeter signal intercept triggered.
Qing stood, eyeing Thunder Iron, voice uncontained: "Think you're still a stretch head?"
"You walked back—they spared your life."
"You sit here—we haven't dealt with you."
Thunder Iron looked up, voice hoarse: "Deal with me now, it's hall cleaning for outsiders to see."
"If I walk out again, think they'll strike?"
He paused: "They won't. They know I'm worthless."
Qing slammed the table, porcelain shattering.
"That's not your call!"
"When did you get to decide your worth?"
Wei Ran stepped closer: "He doesn't—but outsiders judged him used, released."
"Now it's not if he's ours."
"It's if we dare keep him."
—
The hall deadlocked, smoke thick, pressure sinking.
Qing scanned the room, all silent.
He laughed, low, raspy: "Fine, from today, Rustmouth Fifth Stretch isn't ours."
"I'll watch them hold it—or not."
"No more men."
"But none of you talk retreat."
"We don't strike, but we don't yield."
He stormed out, steps heavy, back rigid, a monument untoppled.
—
The hall stilled, eerie.
Thunder Iron sat, unmoving.
No one told him to leave, no one asked him to stay.
From this moment, he knew: Red Gang didn't kill him.
But Red Gang no longer kept him.
Section Three: Lay Empty Traps, Reap Axe Line
Twelve fifty-three AM, Rustmouth Sixth Stretch south, near the main gas pipe corridor.
ARGUS tagged a "lure structure zone" on the intranet map: alley mouth turn, two second-floor drainage platforms, four-sided cover forming a closed loop, internal heat control and thermal shielding mimicked as "post-evacuation residue."
Zhao Mingxuan lit markers at the console: "Set as fake withdrawal channel, three side paths open, south mouth lights off, signal relay switched to 'standby listen.'"
Jason stood by, checking views: "Sentries fully pulled?"
"Fake withdrawal cleared," Zhao Mingxuan pointed. "But heat traces, battery lamp glow, and false thermal signals remain."
"With Red Gang's outdated combat scans, they'll read this as not fully abandoned."
Jianluo, behind: "If it's Axe Line, they're not probing—they're killing."
"They solve problems—no haggling."
Jason glanced: "We give them a shot, see who's solved."
—
One-eleven AM, Rustmouth main stretch south, Seventh Stretch rear warehouse exit.
Three in unmarked tactical gear, steps crisp, no open lights. Each carried a short blade, sleeve knife, shock rod; one bore an aluminum bone stick, likely Axe Line execution team.
Leading, a scarred-face brute, left index joint battered, gait left-leaning. His voice low, pressing: "Fifth Stretch fell, the hall can't lose another dragged back."
"Lose this, they'll think Rustmouth's theirs."
His men didn't reply, checking weapons, switches live.
—
One-fourteen AM, trio hit Sixth Stretch south entrance.
Lamps out, a torn "patrol evacuation" tag dangled under an eave, half-pasted, words blurred.
No footprints, but the alley reeked of recent smoke, proof of prior guard.
"Looks pulled, but rushed," one said. "Paths open, like someone stayed."
The captain didn't answer, scanning walls: "They wouldn't give it up."
"But they might think we won't come."
He paused two seconds, stepping into the first passage.
—
War room, ARGUS prompted:
[Target Entered Lure Structure Zone × Stable Movement Frequency × No Lateral Probe Pulses]
[Assessment: Target Lacks Flank Sentries × Assumes Forward Residual Guard × Clear Assault Intent]
Jianluo crouched on a corridor platform above B-exit, eyeing heat shadows in the alley seam: "In."
"First three minutes, single-line advance, no sentries—they think we've quit defense."
Jason, via earpiece: "Let them walk a few more."
"Not our time to move."
—
Tarn stood at the target path's final dark alley, behind a disguised trash heap and sewer pipe "temporary dead zone."
He checked his watch, cold light glinting. His lips twitched, barely.
"Now we ask—who's collecting who?"
—
One-seventeen AM, Axe Line crossed the main gas pipe turn, entering the narrow mid-alley.
Formation shifted, two front, one rear, front pair with shock blades, rear activating a thermal scanner, checking for stragglers.
"Temp's off," the deputy frowned. "Forward wall's heat lags, like fresh pullout."
"Too slow," the captain's lip curled, eyes sharp with locked judgment.
He signaled forward, leading into the final twenty-meter zone—ARGUS's lure system's deepest layer, the "reaping zone."
As they crossed the boundary, a near-silent electric signal triggered.
"Lockdown."
ARGUS relayed to Jason's ear:
[Target Entered Full-Sealed Segment × Retreat Paths Locked × 3 Reaper Points Deployed × Vision Advantage: Ours Absolute]
Jason ordered: "Move."
—
First wave struck from above.
Maria, hidden in the pipe platform, launched, a cloth-wrapped iron needle stabbing the lead's left shoulder joint.
Precise, non-lethal, it broke formation—the man drew instinctively, caught by his harness, forced back two steps.
Next second, Jianluo leapt from the wall's edge, landing, stick sweeping, a brutal strike to the second's ribs, crashing him into a corner.
"Ambush!" the captain roared, reaching for a flash grenade.
Before he pulled the pin, Tarn burst from the alley wall.
No shout, no warning, a straight charge slammed the captain's chest, toppling man and grenade into an empty oil drum pile, a jarring clang.
Sparks flew, the grenade dropped unignited, Maria scooping it into her side.
—
Alley fight turned close.
The third tried rising, Tarn pinning him with a knee, throat locked, out in half a second.
Jianluo dragged the second, shoulder twisted, controlled to the ground.
Alley mouth sealed, trio subdued.
Time: thirty-two seconds.
—
Far off, Jason stood on a third-floor broken platform, peering through half-reflective glass.
Lamps dead, air still, only sharp breaths and tactical boots grinding.
"Fiercer than predicted," Zhao Mingxuan said via comms. "But rigid."
Jason: "They've lost self-judgment. They came to obey orders."
"Beyond orders—no plan."
He paused: "So we planned their end."
—
Maria crouched, checking the second's gear.
"Axe Line, confirmed," she flipped a folding blade, med pack, chain lock. "Red Gang's formal strike face, not fringe probes."
Jianluo, cold: "Not here to talk—to rip ground."
"Ground didn't give."
—
Jason ordered: "Free two, keep one."
Jianluo: "Which?"
"The lead. He carries a message back."
—
The captain, groggy, was pulled up, face scraped, breathing ragged, knees buckling.
Jason stood before him: "Next time, be sure—one of your men walks out alive."
He didn't order more, turning away.
—
Jianluo unbound, Tarn half-dragged, half-released the captain from the alley.
Maria cleared traces, ARGUS tagged:
[Lure Reaping Success × Structure Team ID'd as Enemy Combat Core × Tactical Efficiency: 92%]
—
Third Stretch quieted, echoes fading.
Jason, via earpiece: "We didn't say who we are."
"But they'll know—this stretch was never empty."
Section Four: Zone Redrawn, Orders Void
Two AM sharp, Rustmouth war room, ARGUS tagged Sixth Stretch as "Tactical Complete Segment."
Zhao Mingxuan dragged the zone from gray edge to red matrix, "Controlled" flashing on the map's sidebar.
"Axe Line failed, no counter moves," he looked up. "Red Gang's action chain's snapped."
Jianluo leaned in a corner, tuning an elbow brace, stick streaked with wet dust: "Lost their mid-tier, no one dares take the next order."
"They tried a hard hit, got hit back, no deaths," Tarn cut in. "Now they're wondering—who calls this stretch?"
Jason didn't speak, marking the "Sixth Stretch Main Gas Pipe Corridor" as Non-Combat Zone × Temporary Silent Control.
He knew this wasn't victory's declaration.
It was making orders impossible.
—
Same time, Red Gang hall underground dispatch mouth.
The data wall projected Rustmouth comms feedback, Fifth and Sixth Stretch beacons tagged "Silent × Channel Unlinked."
A dispatcher tried frontline: "Z17, confirm marker task completion?"
No reply.
He switched: "Z17, confirm retreat mouth status."
Still nothing.
Qing approached, eyes on the Sixth Stretch's red blip, face blank: "Their men didn't return?"
Wei Ran, aside, calm: "Not that they didn't—orders can't reach."
"Rustmouth's two things now—we can't get out, they can't call in."
"Send more, someone's got to dare order."
—
Qing didn't move.
He knew the hall's remnants weren't scared to fight—scared it'd be pointless.
Scared worse—fighting and explaining why they didn't win.
—
Rustmouth Sixth Stretch alley tail.
Maria's pack hit the ground, Jianluo returned from a side path, both wordlessly clearing ambush residue.
No talk, each move prepping the next trap's reset.
The alley stilled, no whistles, no broadcasts.
Only distant mouth light spilled—on a wall Jianluo wiped clean.
The old "Evacuating" sign was torn, replaced by a blank paper.
No words, just there.
A default, a taunt.
—
War room console, Jason stood before the map, linking Fifth and Sixth Stretches with a red line: "Full stretch control."
"No claims, no flags."
"One thing—stay here."
—
Tarn: "Next stretch?"
Jason, calm: "We don't move next."
"They'll decide if they dare send more."
He tapped the console, map prompting:
[Fifth, Sixth Stretches Form Continuous Control Structure]
[Current Status: Controlled × No Claimed Title × Signals Blocked]
[Suggested Order: Maintain Silent Lockdown × Await Enemy Command Collapse]
—
Jason closed the palm screen, voice low:
"From now, the street they can't command is the one we hold."
Section Five: Hold the Line Unclaimed, Critical Silence
Rustmouth Fifth to Sixth Stretch junction, a temporary lockdown band just reinforced.
Not sealed, but "one step spared." No markers, no words, just three folding barriers and a blank sign.
Tarn set the last support, angling it to block alley-side sight. A fist-sized gap between iron let light leak—lamps, no one.
Maria, pack slung, watched two seconds: "This street's where no one dares call out."
"They can't shout through, we don't plan to."
Tarn nodded: "The quieter, the more whoever speaks pays."
—
War room, Jason held a cold water cup, standing before ARGUS's static line map.
No flickers, prompts, alarms; all channels listened, none broadcast.
"We claimed nothing," he said.
"But this stretch, not one spot takes their 'come in' orders."
Zhao Mingxuan: "Hall's gone full cold-start. Dispatch sent no new orders, all stretch links cut."
"Not their choice—they can't issue the next."
—
Qing sat in the dispatch hall, eyeing the projection's line map, every Rustmouth channel tagged "Response Delayed × Sync Failed."
Silent half the day, he murmured: "They didn't block us."
"We can't call."
No one answered, not even Wei Ran.
That wasn't a line to counter.
—
Rustmouth street, wind swept old alleys, former "seal zones" now bare frames.
No patrols, no crossings.
No crowds rallied, no clamor, just passersby glancing, heads down, gone.
Control, not by shouting.
Order, not by flags.
Only those standing stayed.
—
Jianluo sat on a Sixth Stretch high platform, mending a stick's last crack. Silent, no glance back.
Behind, Maria leaned on a water tank, watching a cargo cart crawl past.
No guide, no block.
The cart swerved the barrier—driver's instinct, dodging the "blank."
—
ARGUS prompted:
[Rustmouth Fifth to Sixth Stretch Status]
[Marker Structure: None]
[Command Nodes: Void]
[Control Form: Silent × Controlled × Blocked × Unclaimed]
—
Jason stood at the third-floor monitor mouth, eyeing the street: "If they can't dare say 'we still rule,'"
"We don't say we took it."
"We stay—not leaving."
"Wait for them to turn, ask who this street hears."