The Phoenix of the Slums

It was past midnight when Tianming left the safehouse alone for the first time in days. Zhao had insisted he rest, but the air inside was stifling—too many shadows, too many questions.

He needed to breathe.

He walked through Donghai’s industrial zone, the streets slick with rain, neon lights flickering off cracked pavement. He wore a hoodie now, low over his eyes. Not Li Tianming. Not Jiang Ming.

Just a boy looking for himself.

But peace was a lie.

A shadow moved behind him.

Then—another.

He slowed. The hairs on his neck rose.

He wasn’t alone.

From behind a dumpster, three men stepped out. Not thugs. Professionals. Tight formations, tactical gloves, steel rods in hand.

“You’re a ghost, kid,” the leader said. “But ghosts can bleed.”

Tianming didn’t speak.

He dropped his duffle bag and slipped into the stance Zhao drilled into him all week—left leg back, hands raised, right foot angled for pivoting.

The leader rushed in first—rod raised high, coming down fast in an overhead arc.

Tianming sidestepped left—the rod whistled through empty air—and as it passed him, he pivoted on his back foot, using the attacker’s momentum.

He brought his right elbow forward, sharp and direct, smashing into the man’s ribs.

CRACK.

The attacker stumbled, groaning, dropping his rod.

Tianming didn’t wait.

He swept his right leg across the man’s knees—a low crescent kick, just like Zhao taught—bringing the man crashing down.

One down.

But the second man was faster.

He swung his rod in a wide horizontal arc.

Tianming ducked low, rolling beneath the swing, and rose behind the attacker’s flank.

He jabbed a fist upward, hitting the kidney with a solid thud.

The man spun, roaring in pain, throwing a punch.

Tianming leaned back, just enough for the knuckles to graze his nose—and then stepped in with a counterpunch.

A straight punch. Center mass. Followed by a left hook.

The man’s head snapped sideways, and he hit the ground hard, groaning.

Two down.

The third was smarter.

He dropped his rod, pulled out a combat knife.

Tianming’s eyes narrowed.

Zhao’s voice echoed in his memory: “A man with a blade doesn’t need strength—he needs timing.”

The man lunged.

Tianming stepped right—then cut back left, dodging the lunge just barely.

The blade nicked his hoodie.

He grabbed the man’s wrist with both hands, twisted it downward.

The knife clattered to the ground.

But the attacker threw a headbutt.

BAM.

It hit Tianming in the shoulder—but he didn’t stumble.

Instead, he pulled the man forward, twisted behind him, and locked an arm across his throat.

The chokehold was tight.

Ten seconds.

Nine.

Eight…

The man thrashed—but his strength faded. Finally, his body slumped.

Tianming dropped him.

The street was silent again.

Only his own breathing filled the night.

He looked at his bruised knuckles, his torn hoodie, and the blood on the pavement.

He didn’t feel fear.

He felt awake.

Alive.

Empowered.

From the rooftop above, Fang Yuwei lowered her binoculars.

She tapped her earpiece. “Kid handled himself. Sloppy footwork. But instincts? Killer.”

Zhao’s voice responded from the other end.

“Then it’s time we stop calling him a trainee.”