After nearly three hours of walking, Captain Shen finally reached the far eastern edge of Kambaland, near the great walls of Kowloon, and stepped into the kiln quarter. The empty arcade streets of District Pik lay behind him. Here, the landscape had transformed into something ancient, almost alien.

  The entire precinct was dotted with towering structures of off-white clay and stone, each topped by low, rounded domes stained dark by centuries of smoke and soot-laden rain. There were no flashing LEDs, no neon signs advertising clubs or diners. From above, this hidden quarter looked like a cluster of elongated igloos, awkwardly stacked and pressed together, with narrow, mud-caked lanes winding between them at every level, sloping up and down in chaotic layers.

  The air was thick with the scent of burnt minerals, carbon and warm clay. Shen navigated the twisting walkways, crossing crooked ramps and ducking under footbridges overhead, careful not to knock his head on the skinny ventilation pipes that jutted from the towers and disappeared into Kowloon’s distant, dark ceiling.

  As he walked, Shen passed door after door that looked as if they hadn’t been opened in many cycles, factories long dormant. Then, up ahead, a faint glow shone through the window of a kiln. His holocommunicator confirmed it was his destination, and gave a small smile at the sight of what might be one of the few kilns still alive in the quarter.

  He approached the simple wooden door and knocked. It swung open at the first touch, creaking on its hinges.

  The captain crept inside and pulled the door shut behind him. His eyes widened at the sudden drop just past the threshold. A narrow, rail?less staircase plunged into a vast chamber below, where a faint bass line pulsed up from the depths. Shen paused at the edge, sucking in a sharp breath at just how far down the structure seemed to go. He went down each step with care. Heat rolled upward, and the walls glistened with a permanent glaze from centuries of firing, catching the orange light of lanterns that hung from the high, domed ceiling.

  The stairs opened into rounded chambers, each one descending layer by layer into the depths below. Shelves were carved right into the clay walls, crowded with paint jars, bundles of dried herbs, small Dongist charms and children’s clay toys.

  Where are these people? Is this kiln actually running?

  Shen heard the faint pops and crackle of a fire growing louder as he descended toward a final doorway. As he approached it, the distant echo of rap music started growing louder. Last place I’d thought to be hearing music.

  Shen stepped through into a small, warm room dominated by a large oven. Its orange glow filled most of the cramped space. Beside it sat a wizened, elderly woman on a low stool, prodding the embers with a stick.

  She turned her head as he entered, a frown creasing her lined face, her hand pausing mid-prodding. She wore a long, dark tunic-dress of coarse homespun fabric, layered over an inner shirt with long white sleeves, the cuffs frayed and loose. A loose headscarf was tied around her head, and beneath it, Shen caught a glimpse of bright red prayer beads nestled against her white hair.

  The captain drew back his hood as he approached to reveal his pale, square face bathed in the kiln’s flickering glow. He wiped the sweat from his brow, shifting the short fringe on his forehead to the right.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Grandma,’ he said gently.

  Her eyes appraised him from head to toe in silence.

  ‘I’m Li,’ Shen continued, stepping closer. ‘I was sent here from Hing Sing Calligraphy & Design.’ He reached into his robes and pulled out the pamphlet. It was an invoice showing an order from this kiln.

  When he offered it, she only glanced at the paper, then fixed her eyes on him again without moving. Realising she wasn’t going to take it, Shen tucked it back into his robes.

  ‘I wanted to purchase some seshwan remover solvent,’ he tried again. ‘I can pay.’

  The old woman shook her head, then turned back to her work, prodding the kiln’s coals without a word.

  ‘Name your price. I understand if it’s gone up recently.’

  The old woman didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed fixed on the kiln’s flames. ‘Do you even know what you’re asking for?’ she croaked.

  Shen tightened his jaw. ‘I know it’s precious to your people. I only need it once. I can even return what’s left.’

  ‘Haven’t you outsiders taken enough of what’s ours?’

  Shen didn’t know how to respond.

  ‘Are you a Kingmaker?’

  His eyes widened. Why is she asking? There’s no way she could know.

  ‘That’s a first,’ Shen said with a chuckle. ‘No, I’m a businessman from Kai Ching. Someone splashed seshwan all over my shop’s wall. I’m here to clean it off, that’s all.’

  The old woman pulled her stick from the kiln and used it as a cane to steady herself. Her small frame barely reached Shen’s waist. Without another word, she shuffled to a side door and pushed it open. A burst of heavy rap music spilt out before fading as she slipped through, leaving Shen standing alone next to the warm glow of the oven.

  He stepped towards it and took a peek inside.

  The opening was wide and its interior was dark, but within, he could see layers of glowing embers banked along the curved edges of clay. Thin veins of flame danced and licked across their surfaces, feeding on the minerals nestled there. The inner walls were glazed into a slick, dappled sheen, stained in marbled patterns of coppery green, deep rust, and faint violet from countless cycles of firing.

  Near the heart of the oven, where the glow was hottest, lay clusters of dark, brittle lumps of raw mineral, which was being transformed by the intense heat into the foundational pigment of seshwan.

  The door opened again, and in stepped the old woman once more, followed by a younger man who looked to be in his thirties. He was skinny and short, like almost everyone Shen had seen in Pik.

  He wore a loose, ankle-length tunic dyed a faded ochre, with simple hemp trousers beneath. A scorched apron marked by dark stains and burns was tied over his chest. His hands were covered by lint-covered fingerless gloves, and he wore flat-soled shoes that looked handmade and heavily patched. A short scarf was wrapped around his neck, its frayed ends tucked into his tunic.

  The captain’s eyes were drawn to the younger man’s battered face. His left eye was puffy and pink, a cluster of vertical scabs lined his swollen lip, and a dark purple bruise was spreading across his cheek. The man’s expression was twisted with anger as he stormed up to Shen.

  ‘You think we’re stupid? I know you’re a Kingmaker!’ he spat, jabbing a finger so close it nearly touched Shen’s chest.

  Shen tensed. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You think it’s chance that three Kingmakers came here to steal our seshwan ink, and not even a week later, another shows up, built exactly like them, asking for the solvent? Get the fuck out of here, King!’

  Shen’s jaw nearly dropped. It must have been those same Kingmakers who graffitied Baoyan’s door. If only I could apologise for their behaviour.

  ‘Sir, it sounds like you’ve mixed things up. Whoever stole your seshwan ink are terrible people, but I don’t see how I’m connected to those thieves. Someone spilled your ink on my shop walls. I just need it removed. I’ve never known any Kingmakers in my life.’

  ‘They didn’t just take from us,’ the old woman cut in sharply. ‘They beat poor Wong too!’

  Shen glanced at the younger man’s bruised face, anger tightening in his chest. Those three are nothing but thugs, doing all this just to get at Baoyan. If I ever find out who they are…

  ‘Kingmakers…’ Shen’s voice faltered as his gaze dropped to the floor. ‘I’m from Kai Ching, south side of Central Kowloon. When the famine began, we were told it wasn’t as bad as you easterners claimed, that the numbers were exaggerated. I believed them.’ He drew a slow breath, shaking his head. ‘But seeing this with my own eyes… With each passing cycle, I find it harder to believe in the Kingmakers at all.’

  The man’s scowl didn’t soften, so Shen pressed on. ‘The Kingmakers who raided this place walked the same streets I just did. They saw the same hunger, the same misery. And still they chose to make that misery worse.’ His jaw tightened. ‘Maybe that’s why people talk about Kingmakers the way they do now. Maybe they’re right.’

  The man’s frown began to soften.

  ‘And whatever a true Kingmaker is supposed to be,’ Shen added quietly, ‘he wouldn’t be standing here saying this to you now. I know what your ink means. I’ve heard how your eastern culture reveres art like no other place in Kowloon. This seshwan ink is at the very heart of that, isn’t that right? I respect that enough that if its keepers tell me I can’t have it, I’ll head home right now, empty-handed.’

  The man studied Shen for a long moment. Then his scowl returned stronger than before.

  ‘Kingmakers… Masters of deceit! I remember learning about you lot in school. Trained to settle fights with your tongue before your gun. So for all I know, you’re just better trained than the three who came before. And like any proper Kingmaker, here you are with… How much money again?’

  Shen was silent for a moment before replying. ‘A lot. I’m just a businessman willing to pay whatever it takes to keep my store running spotless. Not a Kingmaker.’

  ‘Right.’ The man snorted. ‘I can really hold a grudge, and I’m still convinced there’s a trench coat under that hood. But we’re way too hungry to turn down money. I’d rather sell you the product before you change your mind and I get beat up for it again. Follow me.’

  He leaned close to the old woman and murmured something. She nodded, settling back on her stool by the kiln.

  Shen took a steadying breath, drew his hood over his face, and followed the man through the narrow side door.

  They stepped out into a vast cylindrical atrium that seemed to spiral down endlessly, with red paper lanterns strung between its walls. The music struck him first, loud and clearly at its source. He recognised the beat immediately: a track by the notorious criminal rapper DaoTaoFengi. Shen was too old for that scene himself, but most of the centurions from his training batch were obsessed with the controversial musician.

  The floor comprised of narrow ramps and steps zigzagging downwards into broad concentric balconies, each ring lined with small platforms and alcoves carved into the kiln’s walls. Crossing these cosy niches, Shen saw sofas patched together from old tarp and foam, groups of three or four locals huddled close, laughing, arguing, and sharing cups of water. Some rested with their eyes closed, some bobbed their head to the beat in music playing, others eyed the hooded captain as he walked past them.

  ‘Who are all these people?’ Shen asked over Wong’s shoulder.

  ‘Neighbouring kiln workers,’ Wong said. ‘This is kiln 515, the only one still running in Kambaland. We have taken in as many workers as we can from shutdown kilns. We keep this one going throughout the work and sleep cycles, share whatever food we can buy, protect each other from the Red Eyebrows, and try to keep up deliveries when possible.’

  The bassline rattled Shen’s ribs, paired with rapid drum and snare patterns that echoed off the clay walls, where purple strobe lights danced on its surface from projectors from above. The walls were covered in thick white lines that twisted and curled in huge loops and spirals across the clay. Some formed floral arcs, while others were tight geometric coils or calligraphic symbols Shen could not read. When the purple lights swept over them, the patterns flared into haunting, pulsating strings of neon white, as if the marks themselves were inhaling and exhaling.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  It struck Shen at once. This was the same ghostly white as the ink staining Baoyan’s door.

  ‘That’s seshwan ink,’ Wong said.

  ‘I figured. Why is it so special?’ Shen asked as he watched the patterns pulse with light.

  ‘Firstly, it’s luminous ink, with a pigment that emanates with Dong’s Light. But it came to us during a crucial time in history. Many centuries ago, East Kowloon was ruled by foreigners. We called them the Northmen. They were installed by the Yaozhi dynasty and took everything from us, stripping away our wealth and culture. We rebelled in the only way easterners knew how, through art. We wrote plays and made films that exposed the Northmen’s crimes. We sang songs that recorded every injustice. Even created sculptures and murals that shows how strong we remained under their rule. The Northmen hated us for it. They burned our cinemas and theatres, imprisoned musicians, shattered the hands of sculptors, and cut the thumbs off fabric spinners. Bit by bit, they crushed every form of art we had cherished and nurtured for generations.

  ‘When they came for the painters, District Pik fought back. They first destroyed every single canvas they possessed. So, the artists turned the streets into their canvas. When the Northmen tried to scrub that away, our painters created an ink that would never come clean. With it, every citizen of East Kowloon could became a revolutionary, an artist. Each one wrote down an injustice they had suffered under the Northmen, filling the streets with their testimonies. Overnight, East Kowloon turned into an open book that detailed all the Northmen’s crimes. It was not long before the easterners reclaimed power in the region, but by then the damage had already been done.’

  That mural Baoyan painted of Lord Mingchi was breathtaking. It makes sense why he is the most gifted artist I’ve ever met in the tower. And even that history book he’s been working on, I remember his mention of these Northmen, too. I didn’t believe it at first. It’s history I’ve never heard of anywhere else, but here I’m finding it, etched into every part of this district.

  Suddenly, loud cheering rose up from the bottom of the atrium. Shen paused and leaned over the walkway to his right, peering down from a small overlook. Wong came to a stop beside him.

  Shen pointed down past the hanging lanterns. ‘What’s going on?’

  Every circular balcony and alcove down below had people in clusters peering to the bottom, too, cheering. And at the very bottom, in the middle of a small crowd, he saw two people standing face-to-face.

  ‘They’re doing a Syi Jyu Wan duel,’ Wong explained. ‘Spoken rhythm-and-rhyme comps. We have them every week. You caught us at a good time. The duels are all people look forward to these days. Gives them a reason to be happy.’

  The captain raised a brow, now noticing the two people facing off waving their hand in mocking gestures. Wong continued, ‘We pick a high-bpm instrumental, one guy starts off with a bar. The opponent carries that bar’s rhyme with his own bar, and the first guy does the same once more. Then, the opponent comes again with a new rhyme, and this repeats. The rhyme is carried for three exchanges. Lose your rhythm, hesitate on a rhyme, you lose the bout.’

  ‘I’ve heard of youth doing rap battles; what makes this special?’ Shen asked.

  ‘Rap battles are informal. Just insult each other every line. We turned it into a sport and created rules that you have to learn and follow. Before Pik fell into a slump, we had district competitions. Competed against other eastern districts. Most of East Kowloon’s famous rappers are former Syi Jyu Wan champions. By keeping the sport alive, we honour the East Kowloonis who rebelled through art. As I said, our weekly duels are one of the only things that keep people motivated.’

  Shen lingered on a moment more, looking at the two challengers throwing aggressive hand gestures at each other.

  ‘Come, my office isn’t far. Let’s get this sale over and done with,’ Wong said as he walked on. With a nod, Shen followed.

  As they crossed a few short bridges along the balcony of the cylindrical atrium, Wong slid open a glass door that led into a small office alcove. It was cramped and bare, furnished with a scorched wooden desk, an old computer, and a couple of chairs. In the corner stood a tall cabinet, and overhead a ceiling fan hung motionless.

  Wong moved behind the desk, opened a drawer, and sat down. Shen remained standing for a moment, then pulled back his hood and took a seat.

  Scribbling on a pad with a pen, Wong looked up. ‘Quantity?’

  ‘Enough for a stain about this size,’ Shen said. He placed his palms apart, trying to recall the size of the graffiti. ‘But it’s only this wide,’ he added, bringing his thumb and forefinger about three inches apart. ‘How concentrated is the remover?’

  ‘Not very. You’ll probably need two vials.’

  I get the feeling he’s not being entirely honest, Shen thought.

  ‘How much is a vial, Wong?’

  ‘For you, 25,000 Hongs each. Up front.’

  ‘50,000 for two? You’re joking, right? Market price is 500 Hongs! I’ll pay double, triple, but that’s more than a hundred times the standard price! 5,000 is my offer. Even that’s generous given your circumstances.’

  Wong leaned back, folding his arms. ‘I’m handing my heritage over to put food on the table. I’d feel less bad if you were a brother. But since you’re not, there’s a foreign buyer’s tax.’

  Shen gave a short, incredulous laugh. ‘You’re serious? You’re charging me a hundred times more because I’m not an Easterner? What if I told you I was buying this for one?’

  ‘You already said it was for your shop.’

  Shen’s jaw tightened. ‘10,000 Hongs. Final offer. That could feed everyone here.’

  Wong shook his head. ‘No, it can’t. It costs 35,000 Hongs to feed us all for one cycle.’

  Shen exhaled sharply. ‘What difference does it make where I’m from?’

  ‘We were born with an artistic spirit. We’re worthy of using or removing seshwan because we’ve lived the struggle that created it. Can you say the same, stranger?’

  ‘Artists can exist outside the east too, you know,’ Shen countered. ‘I’m an artist. Perhaps better than a whole lot of you out there.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What’s your art then?’

  Shen rubbed his chin and glanced towards the door where the bass thumped faintly through the walls.

  ‘Rap.’

  ‘That’s convenient, eh? Not like we’re holding a rap competition just outside,’ Wong snarked.

  ‘Does that matter? All you need to know is that the product is going into the hands of an artist, right?’

  Wong tilted his head. ‘I’d feel like I was scamming you if I found out you had artistic talent like us. But if you can’t match us Easterners for creativity, then you pay enough to feed us for two cycles. 70,000 Hongs for two vials of seshwan ink remover.’

  ‘That’s more than what youfirst quoted me!’ Shen argued.

  ‘If I let you enter the Syi Jyu Wan duels and you humiliate yourself before everyone, then that is simply the cost of failing a sacred tradition you had no right to join in the first place. Or we can stick with the original fifty if you’d rather not disrespect our art.’

  Shen willed himself to remain impassive. I’d need to access my private tower fund. Light, this is a massive risk. I have no clue what I’m getting myself into.

  ‘Very well. Let’s head down, Wong,’ Shen drew his hood back up.

  Wong smirked, stood up, and led the way out of the office with Shen following close behind.

  As the pair made their way down through the atrium, the people they passed turned and whispered to each other. The closer they got to the main crowd below, the louder the jeering and shouting became. Shen could finally make out the words of the current competitor.

  ‘Who will I be duelling against?’ Shen muttered to Wong.

  ‘Me, of course. I got too good at beating these chumps, so I let them play among themselves. But I really want to secure this sale, so today you’re facing me.’

  It dawned on Shen why the atmosphere shifted as Wong descended the steps. He’s the local champ.

  When they reached the lowest platform, the crowd parted for them. In the centre, the two participants paused and turned to see who was approaching. As soon as Wong stepped into the circle, the onlookers erupted into cheers. The two competitors, grinning wide, nodded in greeting and then melted back into the audience.

  Wong gave a small wave, gesturing for Shen to join him. Shen, cloaked under his green hood and robes, stepped into the ring, and the crowd responded with a long, drawn-out ‘Ohhhhhh.’

  ‘Workers of the 515th! Behold!’ shouted Wong. The music in the background cut off at once.

  Around them, people immediately began chanting, ‘Wong Kar! Wong Kar! Wong Kar!’

  ‘Settle down! I’m not returning to the ring because I missed winning. I’m here to make a business decision. Before me stands a gwy-lo, demanding our seshwan! If I mop the floor with him, he goes back empty handed! Gwy-lo, what’s your name?’

  Shen stepped forward. ‘Li.’

  ‘Speak up!’

  ‘LI!’

  ‘Give it up for Gwy-Li!’

  The crowd booed and hissed. A few people threw insults and gestured at Shen.

  What the hell does that word mean? Shen wondered.

  ‘I’ll try to make this quick,’ Wong said to Shen. ‘Gwy-Li, do you remember the rules?’

  Shen gave a firm nod.

  ‘Good!’

  Wong faced the crowd again. ‘Coin!’

  Someone flicked a coin towards him. Wong snatched it out of the air and turned to Shen.

  ‘Heads or tails?’

  ‘Heads.’

  Wong flicked the coin high, caught it, and slapped it onto the back of his hand. ‘Tails. Looks like I’m leading, Gwy-Li.’

  He then glanced up towards one of the balconies. ‘Chow! You up there?’

  ‘Yes, boss!’ came a voice from above.

  ‘Play a 130 BPM track,’ Wong called back.

  The crowd stirred and let out a collective ‘Oooh.’

  130 beats per minute? That’s fast.

  The track began with a simple clicking rhythm, then layered in a snare, followed by a drum, and finally the heavy thump of a bassline. As it built into something closer to a rap song, Wong began bobbing his head more deliberately.

  Shen’s lips curled into a faint smile. Back in his academy days, when he was just a centurion, his poems had been passed from teacher to teacher, and his name was a fixture at the top of every creative Yue score sheet. His captains had praised him as a natural wordsmith, a rare mix of sharp wit and technical mastery. But that had been in the world of classical Yue poetry.

  Poems and rap, Shen wondered. How different could they be? I just have to recite my poetry fast enough. Structure my syllables to match the flow of this beat. And make the words cut deep.

  Just remember, he reminded himself. Keep it clean. Don’t punch down.

  ‘Three kings last time tryin’ to make our shit worse,’ Wong kicked things off, bobbing his head to the beat.

  ‘Now you creep in here solo sayin’ you got the better verse?’ he jabbed his finger towards Shen.

  The crowd stirred, eager. A few shouted, ‘Go Wong! Show the gwy-lo!’

  Okay. Deep breath.

  ‘Those three weren’t mine, their actions were perverse.

  Lookin’ at your face, shit, you gotta see a nurse.’

  ‘Ooooooh,’ the crowd reacted to Shen’s contribution.

  Wong smirked, then threw an answer back in.

  ‘You’ll leave with nothin’ in hand, gears in reverse.

  Backtrack to Kai Ching, or I’ll send you in a hearse.’

  Cheers erupted around them.

  My turn. Shen bobbed his head as he caught the beat.

  ‘There’s history on your walls, but my tongue says what’s next.

  Mess with a Kai Ching native and feel my vocab’s full effects.’

  Shit. Went over a syllable.

  Wong shot back. ‘You’re here to clean walls, how pitiful is your quest?

  This solvent’s worth more than anything your shop could ever flex.’

  Applause and jeers followed. Shen shrugged at the abuse, playing it casual.

  ‘Your ink’s valuable, I am honestly impressed.

  But fifty grand for two vials? From Kowloon’s shiftiest, who would’ve guessed?’ Shen gestured with a shrug.

  A wave of boos resounded through the crowd.

  Sorry. Just part of the game. Wong didn’t miss a beat.

  ‘Rich boy in a starving town, hope your conscience’s cleaner than those robes,’ Wong brushed his shoulder.

  ‘Thinking money can buy anything, now watch this gwy-lo’s ego corrode.’

  What in the Light does that word mean?!

  Shen fired back. ‘Your bars are spiralling in quality, much like this descending abode,

  Crowd’ll cheer anything as long as they’re not booing their own.’

  The boos intensified once more as Wong snapped, ‘Don’t blame the crowd ‘cause you’re all alone.

  Should’ve brought those three goons you claim you don’t know.’

  ‘I came for seshwan, but I found kilns run by clowns!

  Forget the famine, all the ink in the world couldn’t colour this dead town.’

  I shouldn’t have said that.

  Wong jabbed a finger. ‘Town’s dead ‘cause of you Kings and your crowns.

  After you leave, I hope none of you’s ever come back around!’

  ‘Point fingers all you like, it won’t ease that frown.

  When you run out of people to blame, you’ll start cursing the ground.’

  Wong’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re a fat coward bargaining with our scars,

  We bear pain straight. You’d sell your mother just to polish your jars.’

  ‘Oooooh!’ said the crowd. A few threw their hands in the air.

  Shen’s eyes gleamed beneath his hood. ‘Talk heritage and honour like it raises the bar,

  Proud of your people losing? I think that’s a little bizarre,’

  Wong tried to jump in, but stumbled on whatever he was about to say.

  He’s choking!

  Shen pounced with wild hand gestures. ‘Expected Eastern excellence, but you’re just subpar.

  Your dad’s talented, your son’s talented, sensing that talent’s skipped someone.’

  The crowd laughed and applauded. Shen continued.

  ‘Now hand me that vial, can see your jaw ajar,

  I’ll leave with my solvent, you’ll still be here studying my bars.’

  As Shen dropped that final line, the crowd erupted in a way he hadn’t expected. Some burst out laughing, others groaned in sympathy for Wong. But undeniably, all were impressed.

  Wong opened his mouth as if to reply, but he only shook his head, his face darkening with a flush of embarrassment.

  A tense beat passed, and then Wong let out a short, grudging laugh and slapped Shen on the shoulder. ‘Fair’s fair. Looks like the people can’t get enough of you.’

  Shen glanced around, his pulse still racing. The rush brought a grin he couldn’t hide. He looked up through the atrium’s rings – almost every level was packed with people still cheering down at them.

  ‘What’s the price?’ Shen asked. ‘Two vials?’

  ‘Follow me, brother.’

  As they climbed back up, the music switched to another DaoTaoFengi track. People stepped aside for them, and several reached out to pat Shen on the shoulder or back. He felt an unexpected feeling of pride stir in his chest.

  They soon reached Wong’s small office. He rummaged through the small cabinet in the back and pulled out two dark glass vials, placing them on the desk with a sigh.

  ‘Your solvent, sir. Treat it with respect. I’ll charge you family prices. Ten each.’

  Shen reached into his robes and pulled out two thick envelopes. Each was stamped with 15,000.

  ‘Is that 30?’ Wong asked, frowning.

  ‘Call it payment for letting me help keep your art alive. No strings.’

  Wong paused, then nodded, his expression serious, almost solemn. Gratitude flickered across his face as he tucked the envelopes into a drawer. ‘Thank you, Li.’

  Without another word, Shen bowed and took the vials, slipping them into his robes as he left the kiln behind.

  Hours later, after the long trek back from Pik and a silent monorail ride to Yu, Captain Shen finally stepped into the tower. He shuffled down the hall with a heavy bucket of water in one hand and the bottle of solvent in the other. Setting them down in front of Baoyan’s door, he knelt to inspect the graffiti, its dried white paint crudely dripping down the metal. Shen let out a quiet breath and dipped his cloth into the solution.

  Then he began to scrub.