Iron Fist and Loyal Heart

Chapter 8 Strange Tales of the Northern River

Strange things have happened in Beihe District for four consecutive days.

On the first day, Aunt Liu from Building 12 in the old district called the neighborhood office, saying that someone was talking next to her ear while she was sleeping. The voice wasn't loud, and she couldn't make out what they were saying, but a breath on her earlobe felt wet and cool, like someone was whispering against her earlobe. She turned over; her back was to the wall, and on the other side of the wall was the stairwell, which was empty. The second night, she had her son sleep on the outside of the bed to block the view, and turned off the light. At the same time, they both heard the sound—not coming from next to her ear, but seeping out from inside the wall, like the speaker was squeezing out from between the bricks.

Su Xinpei was eating a steamed bun at his workstation when he received the complaint. He stuffed the remaining half of the bun into his mouth, freed his hand to flip through the complaint record from the previous day, and then looked at another one that had been entered yesterday. Another household was a rented room two buildings away, shared by four dockworkers. Two of them said they were woken up in the middle of the night by whispers, while the other person heard nothing, but when he woke up in the morning, he found his pillow wet, not with saliva, and it didn't look like a leak.

He swallowed the steamed bun, wiped his hands, and turned on his computer to search for keywords. He found six relevant entries in the complaint records from the past two weeks. The earliest one was twelve days ago; the complainant was an elderly woman living alone who said someone was singing at the foot of her bed in the middle of the night. The colleague who answered the phone at the time wrote in the reply box, "Suggest drinking less tea before bed." Su Xinpei copied the addresses of these six complaints onto sticky notes and marked them one by one on a street map with a red pen. The six points weren't on the same street or in the same row of buildings, but when he traced the lines connecting them with his fingers, a chill ran down his spine—they formed an irregular ring, with the long-abandoned agricultural machinery factory at the easternmost edge of the old district at its center. The straight-line distance between each pair of complaint points was almost equal.

He put down the red pen, stood up, and went to the tea room to get some water. As he passed Aunt He's door, she was opening a letter. Without looking up, she said, "There have been quite a few complaints lately."

"I noticed." Su Xinpei paused at the door.

Aunt He placed the letter opener on the table, glanced at him, didn't ask what the complaint was, and only said, "Be careful what you do." Then she continued opening letters.

Su Xinpei returned to his workstation with his water cup. He didn't fill out any forms or make any phone calls. He first called Lao Qi from the property management office. Lao Qi was in the maintenance team and had helped him fix the office window lock last year, so he was familiar with the pipework in every building in the old district. Su Xinpei asked him if he was free to do a door-to-door visit that afternoon, and Lao Qi agreed.

At 3 PM, Su Xinpei and Lao Qi arrived at the east side of the old district. Instead of using the street office's bus, they rode two bicycles, their baskets filled with folders and flashlights. The stairwells of the old residential buildings were piled with dusty old furniture, faded fire safety notices plastered on the walls, and the air felt stuffy and sticky. Su Xinpei knocked on the first door. A middle-aged woman opened it, her hands still damp with dish soap. Su Xinpei handed her his work ID, explaining that the street office was conducting a routine check-up and asking if there had been any unusual activity lately. The woman wiped her hands and said it wasn't anything serious, except she often felt palpitations at night and would wake up in the middle of the night, thinking it might be menopause.

Su Xinpei asked a few more households. One tenant, a dockworker, rolled up his sleeve to show him his forearm—his skin was covered in tiny red dots, not raised, not itchy, and didn't fade when pressed, looking like he'd been pricked by a dense cluster of needles. "I don't know when it started, it wasn't from hitting my head on the dock," the worker said, equally puzzled. Su Xinpei looked closely for a few seconds, nodded, and said nothing.

He visited all the registered complainants and neighboring residents, checking the distances by pacing. Finally, he and Lao Qi pushed their bicycles to the old gate of the farm machinery factory. The metal fence was covered with graffiti and graffiti, and one corner had been forcefully torn open, the metal sheet rolled inward into an irregular tear, with a few strands of gray cotton thread hanging from the edge. Su Xinpei squatted down and carefully examined the ground for a long time in the afternoon sunlight—there was a deep, long friction mark on the cement ground inside the tear, dragging outward from the inside of the factory area; the mark was fresh, at most a day or two old.

"How many years has this factory been abandoned?" Su Xinpei asked.

"At least seven years." Old Qi picked up an old steel bar and lifted the edge of the breach to examine it. A damp, cool air rushed out of the gap, carrying a mixed smell of rust and rotting fabric. "The Urban Construction Bureau issued a document last year saying that it would be demolished, but no one has submitted a petition, and it has been delayed until now."

Su Xinpei noted the location of the breach in his notebook, drew the outline of the factory, and marked the direction of the drag mark. Then he asked Lao Qi to walk around the perimeter of the factory to see if there were any other entrances or exits, while he waited outside the iron gate, having no intention of going in. He knew his current level—four months of stance training, barely scratching the surface of boxing, and not even having taken the first lesson in tendon strengthening. Going into an abandoned factory alone wasn't brave; it was foolish.

But he knew something else: if the complaints were distributed in a ring shape with this factory at the center, then in the classification of the Otherworld, the implication was clear—a parasitic entity that affected the mental state and sleep quality of surrounding residents through its radiating influence. He had read similar cases in the old files; the Special Affairs Bureau's case report used the term "emotionally parasitic entity," and the common parlance was more direct: a variant of the Mirror Man, feeding on fear. He mentally reviewed this assessment, estimating the danger level—lowest, but its reproductive capacity was unknown. He didn't write it down; he simply drew a line under the words "emotionally parasitic" in his mind.

It was already past closing time when Su Xinpei returned to the subdistrict office. He didn't leave. He turned on his computer and searched for the Beihe Agricultural Machinery Factory in the municipal archives system. There weren't many files—it had ceased production seven years ago, and five years ago a company called "Mingguang Communications" acquired it, but it had never been developed. Three years ago, a citizen complained that homeless people were gathering in the factory area; the urban management officers responded but found no one. Last year, someone posted on the municipal forum that "the old chimney of the agricultural machinery factory glows at night," but the post was deleted a few hours later.

Su Xinpei copied all this information into a notepad. Then he opened a new document window, selected the street office document template, and brought up the standard format for "Jurisdiction Report".

The previous anonymous letter was a scanned copy of a blank sheet of paper, completely untraceable in terms of personal information, and it also lacked an official document number, making it impossible for the Special Affairs Bureau to archive it in the system. This time was different—he decided to use a letter from his organization.

He first listed the recipient: Tieji Branch of the Special Meteorological Bureau. Then he stated the subject: Report on Abnormal Situation in the Eastern Old District of Beihe District. The main body used standard administrative document wording—"Recently, residents have reported that their nighttime rest has been affected. After investigation, all six households in the area mentioned the whispering phenomenon, distributed in a circular area, with the now-closed agricultural machinery factory at the center." Attached were the visit records and a diagram showing the resident distribution. Signed: Beihe Subdistrict Office.

The entire report did not contain any terms from the underworld, such as "man in the mirror," "subspace," or "abnormal entity." He was neither from the Special Meteorological Bureau nor the military—he only reported facts that he could confirm within his authority: visit records, resident testimonies, and location distribution. As for what conclusions these facts pointed to, that was for the Special Meteorological Bureau to determine.

He copied the document onto a USB drive, saving it as a PDF file, and then printed a paper copy using the official stationery with the street office's standardized number from the printer's paper tray. According to the administrative procedures in the Southern League, routine situation reports submitted by grassroots street offices to specific functional departments are considered normal business transactions, as long as they do not involve criminal charges or law enforcement powers. Su Xinpei had checked the street office's document catalog from last year—at least three letters were sent to the Municipal Administration Office, and the recipient could be from another department.

He folded the letter and stuffed it into the street office's special envelope, writing "Special Affairs Bureau" on it. The letter wasn't sealed—it would be easier to prove it was an official document when kept for future reference. Looking out the window, he could see Aunt He locking the door to her inner room, preparing to leave work. Su Xinpei pushed the letter over from the table: "Aunt He, take a look at this. It's a summary of unusual complaints in the jurisdiction, sent to the Special Affairs Bureau."

Aunt He took the envelope, pulled out half of the letter, glanced at it, and looked at the visit record and diagram attached to the back. She didn't say anything. She took out her stamp box from the drawer, opened the inkpad, stamped it, and placed her signature next to the street office seal, adding a small line of text: "The situation is true; follow-up is recommended." She didn't ask Su Xinpei why he sent the letter to a higher level, only saying, "Make a copy for filing before sending it." Then she put on her coat and left work.

Su Xinpei sat down at the photocopier, printed a copy of the letter, and bound it for filing. The night breeze blowing in through the window made the leaves of the pothos plant on his desk sway gently.

The next morning, two people from the Special Meteorological Bureau arrived. They weren't in uniform and drove a car with ordinary license plates. They drove around the east side of the old Beihe district and then entered the agricultural machinery factory. Su Xinpei saw the car turn into the alley from the window and continued to review his low-income assistance documents. In the afternoon, Lao Qi called him as he passed by, saying that there were two warning tapes outside the iron fence of the agricultural machinery factory, and a sign read "Geological Disaster Hazard, Keep Away."

Another day passed. The tape was removed, the notice was taken down, and the breach in the sheet metal was sealed up. When Lao Qi rode by on his bike, he noticed that the seal wasn't the original sheet metal—it was a newly cut piece, welded to the steel frame, and sprayed with anti-rust paint. A newly built brick wall had appeared at the east corner of the factory area, completely blocking the gap in the collapsed wall. After get off work, Su Xinpei went around to take a look and heard the low hum of a forklift engine coming from the factory area. Several dark gray construction vehicles were loading things into the back of a van. On the side of the last construction vehicle, there were several tightly sealed gray bags, with plastic sheets underneath and secured with two straps. He pushed his bicycle and watched from half a street away for a while, but didn't go closer. The old chimney of the farm machinery factory wasn't glowing. But he noticed a small, blurry fluctuation in the air at the top of the chimney, like through an invisible heat wave.

The first lesson in tendon strengthening began that evening.

Old Tie Tou told him to move the bench from the yard to the door of the storage room, then pointed to the wooden dummy in the corner and said, "Go up there and give it a punch."

Su Xinpei walked over. The tire on the wooden dummy had been bent out of place by Wu Xiong earlier. He straightened it with his foot, then threw a punch. His fist slammed into the tire with a dull thud. The tire barely moved, but his wrist bounced back, and his forearm felt a tingling numbness. Old Tie Tou said, "That was pushing, not hitting. Try again." Su Xinpei threw another punch, this time pressing his wrist joint even tighter. When his fist hit the tire, he felt a momentary, twisting tremor in his arm bone at the elbow joint, and the tire wobbled twice.

"No." Old Tie Tou stood up and walked behind him, placing the enamel mug on the ground. He tapped Su Xinpei's heel with his toe. "When you punch, the force is scattered, dissipating to both sides of your wrist. It hits and that's it, it doesn't penetrate. Tendon training isn't about making your fist hard—it's about tightening your entire muscle chain." He stretched out his hands, mimicking wringing a towel. "Every punch is like wringing a towel. Start wringing from the balls of your feet, twist past your knees, twist past your waist, twist past your shoulders, and then all the tightened force converges on that one point on your fist. Just now, only your arms were moving; your waist was dead, your legs were dead. That was slapping, not striking."

Su Xinpei stood up straight again and tried to adjust his waist and hips. When he threw his third punch, he leaned forward too much and almost fell onto the stake, but the impact of his fist on the tire caused it to sway by about half a circle more than before. Old Tietou nodded: "This time it's the waist, the legs aren't enough. Next time, start by pulling in from the balls of your feet, and twist your whole body into place before you throw."

Su Xinpei didn't throw a punch immediately. He first adjusted his breathing, and the muscle memory from his stance automatically engaged—his knees slightly bent, his tailbone slightly tucked. Then, starting from the ball of his right foot, he tightened: from the ball of his foot to his knee, his gastrocnemius muscle tightened; from his knee to his hip, his gluteal muscles contracted; from his hip to his waist, the muscles on both sides of his spine tensed layer by layer; from his waist to his shoulder, his trapezius and deltoid muscles worked together; and from his shoulder to his fist, his humerus emitted a slight muffled bone conduction sound. The entire line of force was twisted into a unified whole before the punch was thrown. When he threw the punch, he actually felt it was lighter than before—not because he was weaker, but because the force was no longer being canceled out by the resistance between his muscles. The tire swung backward a full fist's depth, then bounced back and came to a steady stop in its original position.

The panel changed. [Tendon Refining (Iron Bone Hall) Experience +2][Combat Experience +1]

Su Xinpei withdrew his fist, a white mark left on his knuckles by the rough tire treads, but no skin was broken. Old Tie Tou picked up his teacup, took a sip, and said, "You were adjusting yourself between the third and fourth punches. That's enough for now. Starting tomorrow, practice three hundred punches a day on the stake—the first one hundred punches should be slow and deliberate, the middle part should be faster, and the last one hundred should be even slower than the stake. Don't stop during the slow punches; if you stop even one punch, it's all for nothing."

"Why can't the slow punches stop?"

"Fast is movement, slow is control. Movement is instinct, control is skill." Old Iron Head sat back in his rattan chair and added, "Did your Guanyuan acupoint feel warm when you threw your fourth punch?"

Su Xinpei paused for a moment, then nodded. After that punch landed, a brief surge of heat rushed through his dantian, so fast that he thought it was an illusion.

"That means the connection between the circulation of Qi and the release of power has begun. Only when the Qi can follow the power at any time can the tendon training be considered halfway done." Old Tie waved his hand, indicating that get out of class was over.

Su Xinpei didn't leave. He practiced the entire boxing stance from opening to closing, then stood in front of the training post for a while to conclude his practice. On his way home, he passed the east side of the old district; the welded-on sheet metal gate reflected a cold light under the streetlights. He stood by the roadside for a moment, adjusting his satchel. Inside were a sweat-soaked vest, a pair of leg weights, an empty lunchbox, and no new anonymous letters. He thought about two things. First, the things at the agricultural machinery factory had already been cleared out. Second, next time he encountered something like this, his skills would be even more formidable than this time.