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Slum, Spice Nation, two o’clock in the morning.
More than a thousand short concrete buildings, tin houses, and temporary tents crowded to form a puzzle of messy pieces. In the left bottom corner was a tin house with only half of its rooftop intact, under which lay a frail, thin garbage collector with tanned skin. He was a wanderer, and unconscious, he lay on a few sheets of cardboard with a dirty worn rug covering him.
Bottles and trash cluttered the house. Qing Ling, Wang Zikai, Gray Bear, Nainai, and Hong Xiaoxiao waited in the dark corners quietly, each wearing a black cape.
Wang Zikai was snoring, asleep. He had taken a punch from Azure Dragon and crashed into a clock tower. It hurt like hell, but...
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