Chapter Sixty-Five: Bloodlines Clash, Rustmouth Breaks the Siege
Section One: Shadow Reports, Dual Lines Form the Game
Two-forty AM, Rustmouth main control room.
Jason stood by the window, half-open, cold wind slipping through, the street mouth lamp swaying twice, then steadying. The room was silent. Maria sharpened a knife at one side, Tarn leaned against a table leg, Jianluo stood, not against the wall, tension unyielded.
They awaited a letter.
Not an order, but an echo—a possibility they'd bet on for three days.
A faint tapping came from the corridor's end. Zhao Mingxuan rose, opening the door.
The messenger was a boy, barely fourteen, fingers red from cold, one sleeve misfit. The letter, wrapped in oilpaper, bore no name, no seal, just a brass pin in the top-left corner.
Jason took it, fingers cool. Reading the first line, his brow didn't shift, but his gaze sank half a shade.
He passed the paper to Zhao Mingxuan.
Zhao Mingxuan scanned three seconds, exhaling: "Qing's moving. Eighty men, split two ways."
The room stilled a beat.
Maria paused her knife: "Full-line assault?"
"No," Zhao Mingxuan shook his head. "Two fronts, forty each. One hits Rustmouth, one storms headquarters."
"Headquarters?" Tarn's brow creased. "They're after our scrap tower?"
Jianluo glanced up: "Not a feint. A split."
Jason nodded: "They bet we'll cling to the tower—control's there, they think we won't dare lose it."
"So, Rustmouth's line looks loose."
"They're playing double-or-nothing. Either front's a win."
No one spoke, wind gusting, lifting a paper's edge.
Jason shut the window.
"They want us to pick one," he said. "We'll give an answer."
His hand rested on Jianluo's shoulder, voice low: "You lead, ambush Rustmouth's stretch."
"They're not attacking first—they're 'reclaiming.' Thinking we fear a spread line."
Jianluo nodded: "No hiding this time."
Tarn stood: "Fight's on. Fifteen enough?"
"It's about hitting hard, not whole," Maria rose, grabbing her iron crossbow. "Their forty come, only the messenger walks back."
Jason tapped the war map: "They hit Rustmouth's main line—narrow, deep alleys, many side paths."
"We don't defend. We let them in, then strike."
Zhao Mingxuan pulled terrain charts, voice sharp: "We set barriers in East Third Alley and Meter Alley, lime and scrap pipes for zigzags, break their formation."
"Maria, high-point dazzle lamps; Tarn, two with spray barrels, smoke to choke vision."
"Jianluo, front press, open fight, second alley closes."
"Fallback route?" Jianluo asked.
Jason, calm: "You don't fall back."
"Win, you stay."
—
Three-fifteen AM, Jianluo, Tarn, Maria led fifteen from the control room's back door.
No orders shouted, no rally. Footsteps light, wind weaving through buildings, listening for the first move.
A shadow flickered under a streetlamp—surveillance sentry pulling back.
Maria, low: "Faster than we thought."
Jianluo eyed the alley mouth: "Good. No time to wonder 'is it a trap?'"
Tarn pulled a damp lime pack, squeezed, tossed it into the alley. Lime hit ground, billowing like mist, clinging to brick.
He grinned: "Work."
They weren't guarding a point. They were burying men.
Section Two: Alley Ambush, Rustmouth Strikes Back
Rustmouth Sixth Stretch, East Third Alley, three-twenty-eight AM.
Streetlamps dimmed deliberately, a yellow arc spilling over piled scrap barrels and wood frames at the turn. Alley mud damp, wind stirring lime dust, rippling like unclear water.
Jianluo crouched behind a wall, stick in hand, eyes steady.
Across, the alley was Red Gang's frontal path. Step in, they'd hit the "zigzag trap."
Tarn stood right, spray barrel in one hand, ignition wire in the other. The barrel held half-modified mist—old gasoline, dye, no flame, but choked breath.
Maria lay on a second-floor ruin, one hand on the sill, the other aiming her crossbow. A bag of glass shards underfoot, silent unless moved. She didn't move; it didn't clink.
All knew—once it started, "retreat" wasn't an option.
—
Three-thirty-one AM.
A muffled thud from the alley's end—someone kicked down an old shed door.
"Front clear, target alley in Sixth Stretch mainline, advance as planned."
Red Gang came.
First wave, seven: three with iron spears, two with shock rods, others with hand shields and tile knives. Formation loose, steps firm, veterans of such streets.
Tarn, low: "Not flat advance—'inward sink.'"
"They'll collapse center when we counter, then press back."
Jianluo, cold: "Then we don't counter."
"We break their 'sink.'"
—
Three-thirty-four AM.
Enemies hit the alley midline.
Tarn kicked a piled barrel, sparking the wire, a dyed low-heat mist surging, swallowing frontline vision.
Jianluo charged, stick sweeping, first strike cracking a flank guard's knee—snap—the man knelt in lime, no grunt.
Two spears thrust back, Jianluo sidestepped, stick tip hooking a spearhead, slamming it down, crashing against a barrel's edge, a jarring clang.
A roar from the mist: "Squad, pull back! Ambush—"
Maria fired her crossbow, an iron bolt piercing the mist, hitting a shield-bearer's shoulder, crashing him into the wall, shield sliding into mud.
A second bolt shot from the ruin, piercing a tile knifer's thigh, half his blade hitting a lime pack, white haze exploding.
The alley drowned in chaos.
—
"Left line pinned! To the mouth!" someone yelled.
Turning, they found the alley tail blocked by wood frames, Tarn bracing three scrap doors with a stick, three steps sealed, retreat void.
Jianluo cut into the midline, stick parrying a third spear, elbow smashing chest, blood spat.
He kicked another rising knifer: "Want to live, drop it, down."
No reply, only a frontline man charging again.
Maria's three bolts spent, she drew her waist knife, leaping from the stairs, blade slicing a spearman's forearm, a long gash.
She rolled, landing, voice icy: "We're not here to guard the street."
"We're here to take lives."
—
Red Gang's line shattered.
From "inward advance" to "every man for himself." They'd planned to "control, extract"; the alley became a cauldron—who entered, cooked.
Tarn lit the last lime barrel, wind fanning, the alley whitened.
Enemies shouted: "Signal flare! We're trapped—"
They realized—they were bait.
—
Jianluo heard their cries, eyes unchanged.
His stick flicked, knocking a wall-climbing Red Gang back to the corner.
"The real fight's not here."
"But you lot—already dead enough."
Section Three: Scrap Tower Half-Broken, Thunder Shadow Emerges
Three fifty-nine AM, abandoned tower, south first-floor alert passage breached.
Red Gang's second wave smashed two front iron gates, electric hammers and breaching wedges snapping inner locks.
This forty-man assault moved quiet, knowing their goal wasn't a point—it was the nerve center.
If this tower fell, Rustmouth's "hold" was empty words.
—
Welles' leg bled, bandaged tight. He leaned against the broadcast room's thick wall, short gun low, pressed to the door seam.
The corridor drowned outside shouts, only iron clashing, floors cracking, and distant shots—old rifles, hot weapons.
"They're not bluffing," a control guard panted. "They mean to gut us."
Welles didn't answer, earpiece looping a broken feed:
[S-Point Breached × Warehouse Line Lost × Order Packet Dropped × … × Response Failed]
He pocketed the terminal.
"Hold this passage four minutes, I'm no deputy outside."
—
The outer passage broke, a grenade lobbed in.
Not military—street-rigged, tight pin, welded metal skin.
A guard kicked it out reflexively, exploding at the outer wall, brick shards flying.
It shattered the last "mental line."
Some retreated, some fled to the second floor.
Welles nearly roared, "Run back, you're dead," when a dull thud sounded above—
Not an explosion.
A floor slab cracked.
—
Fourth-floor old broadcast control room, side wall—bang—bricks burst, dust flying, a figure charged through, kicking a Red Gang man climbing the side stair.
The man saw only a short stick arc, smashing his brow.
Blood sprayed, he tumbled down.
The stick's owner leapt, stick and elbow felling a second.
A third stick thrust dropped three, rolling down.
His landing barely sounded, the tower unready for him.
—
Chen Lei stood mid-stair, face blank, sweeping the moving below.
None knew him, all stopped.
A Red Gang man raised a gun, fingers trembling under that gaze, grip lost.
Chen Lei didn't speak.
He descended, each step pressing a "mental redline."
Enemies didn't retreat—they slid, from facing to sidling, to wall-hugging, unsure when this man appeared.
—
Welles, seeing him: "What the hell… are you even human?"
Chen Lei didn't look.
He entered the main passage, stepping over a dropped shock rod, wiping a burning cloth.
He stood, facing the core room's last door.
Low: "The path below isn't yours."
Turning, his first emotive words: "Enter, fine."
"Leaving… depends on me."
—
Red Gang's command frequency crackled:
[… Unknown Entity in Tower × Mid-Line Defense Broken × Breakout Failed …]
—
Outside, some tried fleeing, but a side wall erupted in dust—Chen Lei's non-lethal wall bomb, sealing the mouth.
—
Red Gang was trapped.
No longer hunters clearing a point—deer in a scrap tower's jaws.
Section Four: Jason Reinforces, Dual Lines Encircle
Four-twenty-seven AM, Rustmouth Meter Alley.
Jianluo bound the last Red Gang downed, wrists wired. Tarn crouched roadside, cleaning a wound, forehead blood unstaunched, silent. Mist lingered, Maria recovered med packs from the firing point.
"We getting out?" a young guard asked, voice acrid with smoke.
Jianluo looked up: "No."
He pointed south.
"New direction, another fight."
—
Forty seconds later, Jianluo kicked open a debris path's side door, the main team breaking from Rustmouth, sprinting ARGUS's preset channel to reinforce.
Pavement tiles bulged—smoke lines Tarn buried. Jianluo ran, shouting: "Reload! Don't pant, tower's breaking!"
No replies, steps quickened.
—
Tower first-floor passage, Chen Lei was an iron wedge, locking Red Gang's assault between three broken segments.
He stood, silent, felling one, pausing seconds.
None dared charge, none touched. Not fast—his presence made movement feel doomed.
—
Until the fourth enemy surge, a soft sound outside.
Not gunfire, not breach—a lime pack hit, rolled, burst.
Red Gang's seasoned front changed: "That's not ours—they're back!"
Chen Lei didn't move, lips curling.
He glanced at the Red Gang crammed behind the door.
"You thought this was the hardest stretch?"
He tucked his stick: "You haven't seen a real 'turnback.'"
—
Outside, Jason stood on a debris rack, wind puffing his coat. One hand held a tactical terminal, the other gripped a rail.
Below, Jianluo, Maria, Tarn, fifteen full, gear rough, mood ice.
Jason, one line: "They're in."
"We go in—not to save."
"To send them out."
—
Jianluo charged first, stick swinging, Maria's crossbow snapped counter lines, Tarn stormed the side stair, second mist cloud released.
The tower's side, once a blind spot, became a "snipe retreat" gate.
Red Gang's front pressed Chen Lei, unaware their rear was cut.
Pincer locked.
—
Chen Lei pressed forward, stick low, elbow locking throats, no longer "standing"—chasing.
"No leavers," he told Welles. "Who enters, stays."
Welles pinned a Red Gang deputy by the broken door, wiping blood: "They can't run now."
"Fear's they'll stand."
Chen Lei: "Standing falls too."
—
Red Gang, pinched, formation shattered.
Two fleeing via windows were cut by Jianluo from a broken stair, one stick to the nape, out cold.
The rest had one word: retreat.
But no retreat.
Tower sealed, men pierced, mist laid, hearts broken.
—
Jason stood mid-passage, watching the cornered enemies, unmoving.
His eyes ice.
Not victory—a verdict.
Section Five: Siege Set, Qing Captured
Four-forty-three AM, tower south alley.
Qing arrived, the tower burning—not aflame, but lights, dust, and enemy shadows ablaze.
"How long inside?" he asked his deputy low.
"Thirty-three minutes entry, twenty now," the deputy, sweating. "Wireless cut, feed dead, no retreat set."
"Twenty minutes no signal, you tell me now?"
Qing's words cut, right foot shattering a brick wall, half-body crashing the front sentry, dragging a feigning-dead Red Gang man.
"Speak!"
The man gasped, face bloodied, voice trembling: "They… two lines, outer still, core trapped… our men inside, but…"
"But you didn't go back?" Qing released, the man collapsing like a cut puppet.
He didn't curse, didn't shout.
He drew his beheading short knife from his back.
Blade elbow-length, edge black-sharpened, blunt tip, thick, for bone, not flesh.
He walked into the south corridor.
A dozen followed, steps aligned, cement-line precise.
—
First turn, three shielded the path, gaps opening—a black shadow charged.
Qing moved not fast, but short. Not "fight in"—"cut in."
First shield's stick rose, Qing's knife sank shoulder, slashing, shield dropped, man flipped.
Second turned to flee, Qing's backhand yanked his collar, knee to spine, kneeling, a blade across back, down.
Third dropped resistance, tried: "We're not—"
Qing didn't wait, kicking him into the side wall, a thud cracking it.
—
Mid-passage roared.
In dust, Qing heard a name—Jianluo's voice from the upper side path: "South main assault, prep pincer."
His eyes sank: "Lured off."
He glanced at his deputy: "How many left?"
The deputy, strained: "Control's cut, just us—less than ten fighters inside."
"Exit?"
"… Blown shut."
Qing turned, eyes cold as cement over lit coal.
He spoke low to his eight: "No way out."
"Then we—carve a path."
He raised his knife.
—
Tower core turn.
Chen Lei looked up, hearing a blade's sharp scrape on brick. He shifted his stick's grip: "Here."
Jason entered the main door, eyes sweeping the sealed passage, one line: "Show him the door."
"But no escape."
—
Qing charged fast.
Not leading—surging, his men pulled into his storm.
Chen Lei met head-on, weapons clashing—clang—sparks flying.
Qing cut vicious, force in elbow and shoulder, no probe, first strike all-in lethal.
Chen Lei stepped back, deflecting, stick rebounding from the ground, hitting Qing's shoulder, forcing a stagger.
Both paused, no second move.
Chen Lei stared: "Think you can cut out?"
Qing didn't speak.
He glanced at his shoulder.
Bruised.
He knew—no win.
He turned, seeing his last men halted. Some panted, some shook, some… fled in the haze.
—
Jason approached, standing alley mouth, no gun, no sound.
Qing faced him, spitting: "You waited for me to hit this tower, didn't you?"
Jason, calm: "Not waited."
"Waited for you to know—no one's left for your next step."
—
Qing silenced three seconds, flipping his knife, driving it into the wall.
"Kill me?"
Jason: "Killing's useless."
"Your men are nearly gone."
"I want you to know—you didn't lose a fight."
"You fought to the end, found only yourself."
—
Chen Lei sheathed his stick, Jianluo emerged from the side tower.
Jason's final line: "Choose—fight on, or yield."