Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

Xilun paused, stopped, and looked back.

In the wind and snow, the figure of the man in black was almost disappearing into the darkness, his steps hurried, showing no sign of turning back.

Are there gunmen in this area?

Xilun stood still, letting the snowflakes fall on his eyebrows and melt into icy water that flowed down.

What does this sentence mean?

He and this person were complete strangers, so why would the other person deliberately bump into him to warn him?

Was it out of kindness?

In this downtown area, kind-hearted people are fewer than three-legged toads.

Or perhaps there's something else going on!

Xilun squinted, his brain racing.

If we're talking about finding someone who wants to kill him, then it can only be...

Morgan!

Although that old man looks like a fool who only bullies laborers, he must have some dirty tricks up his sleeve to have been able to survive at the docks for so many years.

Could it be that Morgan hired someone to ambush and kill him on the way?

Xilun slowly slipped his hand inside his coat and grasped the cold "Pepperbox" pistol.

The rough texture of the gun grip rubbed against my palm, bringing a cool sense of security.

He stroked the gun barrel, and as he pondered, he came to a conclusion.

......

Greywater River, Red Brick Alley.

This is one of the few working-class areas in the dock district, where some foremen, gang leaders, and smugglers live.

Inside a detached red brick bungalow, the stove fire was burning brightly.

The smokeless coal crackled softly in the furnace, heating the room to a reddish hue, creating a stark contrast with the frigid world outside.

Morgan sat on the sofa, his gaze fixed quietly on the hot wine burning on the stove.

Sitting opposite him was a lean man with shifty eyes, his deputy, Lori.

It's been a week.

Morgan tilted his head back and downed the liquor in one gulp, the spicy liquid burning down his throat and into his stomach.

"That little brat is still alive and kicking!"

Morgan slammed his glass down on the oak table, the glass striking the wood with a dull thud.

Lori shrank back, gave a wry smile, and his face, which had been wearing a fawning smile, was full of helplessness.

"Boss, it's not that I don't want to do it, this kid is too weird."

Lori rubbed his hands, trying to explain: "His life is as disciplined as an ascetic now. He trains at the Iron Cross Club during the day, which is full of skilled fighters, and it's Ryan's territory. How could I dare to cause trouble there? When I go back to the dormitory at night, it's a communal dormitory with dozens of coolies crammed together. If I rushed in and opened fire, whether I could kill him or not is another matter, but I would definitely be torn to shreds by those coolies myself."

"An excuse!"

Morgan snorted coldly, his cloudy eyes flashing with a fierce light, like an old wolf driven to the brink of despair.

"There are always times when he's alone! On his way to and from school? At mealtimes?"

“He always walks on main roads, and…” Lori hesitated for a moment, then lowered his voice, “Boss, the Metropolitan Police Department has been cracking down hard lately. Last time, two Black Death cult lunatics died on Gray Rat Street, and now the patrolmen are sniffing around like mad dogs. If I open fire on the street, my life is over.”

Morgan stared intently at Lori, his gaze gradually turning icy, a look that sent chills down Lori's spine.

The air seemed to freeze.

"Lorry, have you forgotten who fished you out of the ditch, fed you, and made you their deputy?"

Morgan's voice was deep and hoarse, carrying an undeniable air of authority.

"All I want is for you to fire one shot at him, whether it kills him or not, just fire that shot..."

He pushed a cloth bag in front of Lori.

"Here's twenty pounds, enough for you to go to one of the East India Company's islands, or to the Strait of Malacca, and seek refuge with Cheung Po Tsai. Make your move tonight, then take the midnight train, and nobody will be able to find you."

Lori stared at the money and gun on the table, his Adam's apple bobbing violently.

Twenty pounds.

This was a huge sum of money for a dock thug, enough to buy his life.

But he was more aware of Morgan's methods.

If you don't agree, the bullet in this gun might pierce your skull in the next second.

Lori took a deep breath and grabbed the gun and money bag from the table with trembling hands.

Morgan nodded in satisfaction, poured himself another glass of wine, and waved his hand: "Go on, and make sure it's done cleanly."

Lori tucked the gun into his waistband, grabbed his money bag, and turned to walk out of the warm red brick house.

The moment the door closed, a cold wind carrying snowflakes rushed in.

Lori shivered. The determination he had shown in the room vanished instantly, replaced by a look of gloom and malice.

"You old fool, you want me to be buried with you?"

Lori glanced back at the window that was letting in warm light, then spat a mouthful of phlegm onto the ground.

"Pooh!"

He is greedy, but he is not stupid.

He wouldn't dare kill someone at this critical juncture.

Lori stood in the shadows at the alley entrance for a while, then beckoned Quinn over—a dim-witted but obedient and reckless young man.

"Take it."

Lori shoved a pepper box into the hothead's hand and slapped a twenty-pound note on his chest.

"Boss, I have a mission for you. Go find that guy named Xilun, shoot him, and run. The money is yours."

The hothead stared at the gun and money in his hand, his eyes gleaming, nodding repeatedly: "Don't worry, Lori, I'll definitely blow his head off!"

Watching the hothead disappear into the night, Lori suddenly felt a chill.

He tightened his collar and slowly walked to the entrance of the Iron Cross Fighting Club.

Seeing Xilen come out of the club, he naturally followed him, and when the time was right, he bumped into him head-on.

"Be careful on the road, sir. There are roving gunmen in this area!"

……

The snowflakes were like tiny grains of salt, stinging my face.

Quinn huddled in the shadows of the corner, his hands in the pockets of his worn-out jacket, his right hand gripping the cold "Pepperbox" pistol tightly.

His palms were sweaty and sticky, making it difficult for him to grip the gun handle.

He was a refugee who had fled from St. Albans.

He was herding sheep on the mountain when the mudslide happened.

The village chief said it was the wrath of the gods, the Behemoth rising from the earth.

Quinn didn't believe in God; he only remembered the roar of the mountain collapsing, which sounded like ten thousand bulls bellowing.

On the way to escape, his father stuffed the last piece of bread into his mouth, and then starved to death by the roadside ditch.

My younger sister was sold in exchange for two bags of brown rice.

He carried his sick mother on his back and begged his way to Saint Laurent.

My mother didn't survive that winter. On a snowy night, she coughed up blood and died under the bridge at the dock.

Lori saved him.

Just as he was about to freeze to death, Lori threw him an old cotton coat, a bag of charcoal, and two pieces of black bread as hard as rocks.

"To live, you have to be a dog." Lori, wearing leather boots, looked down at him through the slushy snow. "Only dogs get to eat."

Quinn doesn't want to be a dog, but he wants to live.

He did the dirtiest jobs at the docks, ran errands for Lori, and even helped dispose of the bodies of two gang members after a shootout.

He is a man of few words, ruthless, and never asks questions he shouldn't.

Today, Lorry gave him twenty pounds.

Those were twenty brand-new banknotes, still smelling of ink.

Twenty pounds.

In St. Albans, that amount of money could buy two strong oxen, build a draft-free brick house, or marry a woman with a large bottom.