Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

When Xilun was called, he approached the table, his tall figure casting a shadow in front of it.

Morgan raised his murky, fish-like eyes and scanned Xilen's granite-like muscles. A hint of fear flashed in his eyes, but it quickly turned into mockery.

"Silen, you moved the most this week."

Morgan slowly counted out ten pieces of paper printed with inferior ink and threw them on the filthy table.

"After deducting tool wear and tear costs, steam engine contribution fees, and the Brotherhood's peace tax... here are ten vouchers for you. Take them and buy some pub taverns."

The original weekly wage of 20 silver shillings has been reduced to ten pieces of paper so hard they're not even good enough to wipe your butt with.

Xilun was taciturn, his clenched knuckles turning white from the force, and the veins on his arms twitching like crawling worms.

But he glanced at Morgan, then at the four thugs around him who were ready to draw their guns at any moment.

Xilun took a deep breath of the coal-smoky air, his dark brown eyes as calm as a dry well.

He stretched out his calloused hands, silently grabbed the stack of vouchers, and stuffed them into his pocket.

"Thank you, Mr. Morgan."

His voice was hoarse, devoid of any emotion.

"You're smart to know what's good for you." Morgan raised his bulging eyes, with a slightly rusty brass monocle embedded in his right eye socket. The subtle clicking sound of gears turning was particularly jarring on the empty dock.

His prosthetic hand, clad in a half-finger leather glove, tapped the table and casually patted the metal box beside him.

……

Xilun pulled his musty-smelling vest tighter around himself and strode into a dark alley.

This is a shortcut back to the slums, with black sewage and fermenting garbage flowing on the ground.

"Stop...stop! Hand over the money!"

A slightly trembling yet fierce voice came from the shadows filled with discarded wooden barrels.

A middle-aged man in tattered clothes blocked the way.

His gray overcoat was so worn that its original color was no longer visible; it was full of holes and patches. He clutched a rusty dagger tightly in his hand, the tip of which was even trembling slightly.

"Robbery! Did you hear me?! Hand over today's wages!"

The man brandished his short knife, but the gesture was less of a threat and more of a way to bolster his own courage.

His eyes darted around, he didn't even dare to look directly into Siron's dark brown eyes, and he muttered under his breath, "I only rob rich people... You look like a rich guy..."

Xilun stopped and calmly sized up the other person.

Through the dim gas light, he saw the man's cracked leather boots, his toes sticking out and turning white from being soaked in the black sewage.

His face, covered in grime, had prominent cheekbones, clearly indicating that he hadn't had a proper meal in a long time.

This is also a pitiful creature driven to a dead end.

Xilun did not resist, but expressionlessly pulled out the stack of waste paper he had just received, which was still warm from his body.

"This is all we have."

The man's eyes lit up, and he snatched it away like a hungry dog ​​grabbing food.

But when he could see what was in his hand in the dim light, his gaunt face instantly fell, as if he had been slapped hard across the face.

"Damn it! A voucher?!"

The man flipped through the stack of papers printed with cheap ink incredulously, his hands trembling. "Why are they all vouchers? Isn't today payday? Didn't those sons of bitches of a foreman give you pounds?"

"The Brotherhood said they're short on cash lately, so they'll be giving out this for the next six months," Siren said casually, his tone tinged with a numbness that he had long since grown accustomed to it.

"Damn the Brotherhood! Damn the vampires!"

The man spat a mouthful of phlegm onto the ground, his fierce glint turning into desperate rage. "I worked in a textile factory for three years, and all I got was this garbage! This stuff isn't even worth a piece of flesh, except for buying moldy bread from that shady shop! Those capitalists' sons are born without an anus! They should go to hell and lick Satan's boots!"

He grumbled as he shoved the stack of vouchers back into Xilun's hand, looking utterly dejected.

"Forget it! Take your trash and get out of here! I may be poor, but this stuff is too hard even to wipe my butt with!"

The man seemed unwilling to give up; his cloudy eyes swept over Xilen before finally settling on his vest.

"Take off that vest! With that build... such a large piece of fabric, it could be sold to a Jewish junk collector for a few pennies..."

Xilun didn't speak, but silently unbuttoned his vest, revealing the lining that was worn down to just a few threads, and the large hole under his armpit corroded by sweat.

The man leaned closer for a look, and his expression became even more interesting.

"……grass."

He let his knife-wielding hand fall limply, his bravado completely deflated. "How come it's even more tattered than mine? Did you use this clothing as sandpaper?"

The two stood in the cold, rainy alley, staring at each other.

"What the hell is wrong with me?"

The man sighed, tucked the rusty dagger back into his belt, and waved his hand dismissively. "Go on, go on! Don't take this road again. It's so annoying... you can't even squeeze a penny out of it."

As he spoke, he shrank his neck, seemingly trying to ward off the biting cold wind, and continued to mutter curses as he walked deeper into the alley:

"Damn this weather... Damn this factory owner... When I'm rich someday, I'll hang that bald-headed manager who only knows how to deduct pay from a lamppost..."

Xilun watched the man's hunched back disappear into the rain, his steps uneven, and silently buttoned up her vest.

He stuffed the stack of vouchers back into his pocket, exhaled, wrapped his tattered vest tighter around himself, and quickened his pace as he walked out of the alley.

......

As dusk settled, the perennial coal smog grew even thicker, as if the city were wrapped in a moldy shroud.

Xilun dragged his tired body back to the staff dormitory.

It was actually a large dormitory converted from an abandoned warehouse, filled with the stench of fermenting sweat, foot odor, and the tarry smell of cheap tobacco, which made people's eyes sting.

Xilun skillfully climbed onto the rickety iron bed, rolled up the tattered vest containing the vouchers into a ball, and pressed it tightly under the pillow.

"Hey, Celen, what a terrible day."

Finn, who was on the upper bunk, poked his head out. His thin, almost gaunt face looked particularly sallow in the dim light of the kerosene lamp.

He picked at the coal dust between his toes, muttering a complaint in a low voice:

"Damn vouchers again... I don't know how I'm going to explain this to my sick mother. This piece of paper makes it so difficult to even exchange for an egg."

Siren leaned against the wall, the dim light reflected in his dark brown eyes: "At least it's better than nothing. That Morgan guy, he's like a powder keg ready to explode at any moment."

"That vampire!" Finn spat angrily. "You know what? I heard Morgan used to be a laborer on these docks. He saved up money to go to the club, learned breathing techniques, and that's how he became a foreman. Now that guy not only has a gun, but his physique... tsk tsk, I heard that last time a troublemaking sailor got his hand broken by one whip from him."

At this point, Fein sighed, his eyes darkening. "For losers like us, with no education or connections, if only we could learn a breathing technique like Morgan... even just working as an assistant at a club would be better than waiting to die here."

"My father discussed with me sending me to the New Righteousness Society to work as a sailor..."

Xilun lowered his head in thought. Running a ship was not only hard work, but also meant being away from home all year round and facing considerable danger.

The Greywater River is inhabited by strange water pythons. If a boat encounters one, it will climb aboard and devour everyone on board, leaving no room to escape.

Nowadays, sailing teams generally need to have an extraordinary person in charge to ensure safety.

Cage jumped off the bed barefoot, his feet making a rustling sound on the cinder-strewn floor.

He hooked a broken wooden box over with one foot, plopped down next to Xilun, took out a small packet of crumpled tobacco from his pocket, carefully shook it onto a piece of newspaper, and rolled two cigarettes as thin as toothpicks.

"Want a bite? This is scrap from 'Blackjack,' it's potent."

He handed one to Xilun, lit another for himself, took a deep drag, squinted his eyes in ecstasy, and his cheeks sunken in.

Xilun didn't smoke, so he pushed it back.

Finn leaned halfway out from the top bunk, like a hanging, dried-up corpse: "Kai, you really plan to go to the newspaper? Do you think those kids from those elite schools would even look at someone like us with calloused hands?"

"As long as you pay enough, I'm Shakespeare's bastard son." Cage exhaled a puff of smoke and chuckled self-deprecatingly. "Five pounds... that's money to buy my life. My mother sent me her life savings."

"It's better than waiting to die here." Cage looked at his fingers, which were deformed from years of carrying heavy loads. "Last week, old Joey slipped and fell into the blender... When he was pulled out, no one would recognize him if they didn't see his name tag."

A deathly silence fell over the dormitory, broken only by the flickering red glow of cigarette butts.

Xilun remained silent, only subconsciously pressing the hard cloth bag against his chest.

"Sirlen!" Finn suddenly called out to him, his voice extremely low. "You're going to that club... Do you have enough money?"

Siren frowned, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the crate under his buttocks: "We're still 10 shillings short."

The air froze for a few seconds.

Suddenly, there was a rustling sound. Finn looked at the door like a wary monkey, then quickly unbuckled his belt and pulled out a few warm coins from the innermost layer of his pants.

Without counting, he grabbed Xilun's hand and forcefully shoved it inside.

"Take it! Shut up! Keep it safe!"

Finn glared, his tone so menacing it sounded like he wanted to devour someone. "Here's seven shillings and six pence! Consider it a loan! If you ever become rich and dare to renege on your debt, I'll strangle you even if I become a ghost!"

The coin in my palm was scalding hot, even a little sticky.

Xilun looked up and met Finn's bloodshot but unusually determined eyes.

"Put it away! Don't let that bastard Bill smell it!" Finn cursed and shrank back into his upper bunk, turning his back to the two men and pulling the moldy blanket tighter around himself. "I'm going to sleep. I have to catch the first coal ship tomorrow... Damn it, damn the fraternity, damn Victoria!"