Iron Fist and Loyal Heart

Chapter 3 The Old Man in the Vest

The investigation was stalled at 2:30 p.m.

As Su Xinpei followed the engineering department into the oldest apartment building in the old Beihe district, carrying his briefcase, he was still planning his training for the evening. His basic physical fitness was over fifty experience points short of the beginner level, which translated to about two hundred push-ups, or an hour of intensive training in the activity room. He had discovered last night that higher concentration yielded more training experience points, so tonight's plan was to turn off his phone, stop browsing the news, and focus on strength training circuits on the mat, aiming to at least raise his basic physical fitness to over seventy. As for the incomplete Iron Bone Forging Technique, he didn't plan to touch it for now—before understanding the panel's mechanics, rashly practicing a technique of unknown origin, without explanation, and whose only connection was a found metal-like ring, wouldn't be cautious; it would be suicidal.

As the thought crossed my mind, the security door behind me moved slightly on its own.

It wasn't blown by the wind. Su Xinpei turned his head and saw the old security door handle on the fourth floor slowly pressing down, as if an invisible hand was twisting it from the other side. Then the door opened—not pulled open from the inside, but rotated 180 degrees, the door leaf embedded in the wall. Behind the door should have been the living room of 401, the altar, and the old lady's old television, but after the door was turned upside down, what was revealed in the doorway was a corridor that had never appeared in this building before. The walls were cold gray, the lighting was dim, and there was a damp, rusty smell in the air. At the end of the corridor was another door, with a faded doorplate hanging on it, the number 402—there was no 402 in this building, there were only four units per floor, and the door numbers ended at 401.

Su Xinpei didn't move. Not out of calmness, but because his legs wouldn't obey him. His heart pounded three times in his chest, then was drowned out by an even louder sound—a scream came from the end of the corridor from the young engineer in the engineering department, his voice as if someone had choked him and forced it out: "The wall! The wall is moving!"

Su Xinpei turned his head and saw that the wall at the other end of the corridor was bending. It wasn't a physical tilt or crack, but rather, like looking at a distant view through a heatwave, the outline of the entire wall was slightly distorted, and the cracks on the wall surface flowed slowly like oil on the water. This feeling overlapped for a moment with the coolness on his fingertips when he brought that unidentified object close last night—not in terms of shape, but in some inexplicable deviation in how the material itself was perceived.

The testing device in the engineer's hand emitted a sharp beeping sound, and the data on the screen jumped wildly. He took two steps back, his back hitting the stair railing, muttering something unintelligible. The other engineer reacted faster, already pulling out a walkie-talkie, but after pressing the call button, all that was heard was a piercing white noise.

Su Xinpei swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away from the distorted wall. His first thought was to run. His second thought was where to run—both ends of the corridor were abnormal; a door had become a passageway, and a wall was bending. The stairs were in the middle, but the stairwell door, which had been open a moment ago, was now closed; he was certain he hadn't heard it close.

The third thought was the calmness trained by the panel. It wasn't courage, but something the counter had repeatedly taught him over the past few dozen hours: experience points are gained more slowly when you're flustered, and faster when you're focused. Focus. Focus. He silently repeated these two words to himself, feeling his heart pounding slowly subside from his throat to his chest. His hands were still trembling, but his mind was already working.

He took two steps back, pressing his back against a resident's security door, his right hand reaching for the doorknob—locked. He pressed himself against the door, using the light filtering into the stairwell to scan the corridor. The corridor was a straight cylinder with three doors on each side, and a fluorescent light was still flashing overhead. There was something amiss at both ends; he was standing right in the middle. The fire escape was in the stairwell in the center of the corridor, but the door was now closed. Su Xinpei didn't open it; instead, he moved three steps to the side, standing in a small, recessed corner of the corridor—a blind spot next to the garbage chute, usually piled with residents' discarded shoe racks and empty cardboard boxes. Now, at least it would protect his back and right side. His physical fitness was barely passable, but calmness became his first line of defense at this moment.

Just as he ducked into the recessed corner, something emerged from the flip-top door in the corridor.

not human.

The thing emerged from the doorway like a crumpled wad of tin foil unfolding on the table, its outline blurred. At first glance, it resembled a human figure stripped of its bones and stuffed into some translucent, damp material. Its surface reflected fragmented light under the fluorescent lamp, like a mirror shattered and barely pieced back together. It had no eyes, but Su Xinpei knew it was watching him. The feeling of being watched wasn't visual; it was like someone pressing cold fingertips against the back of his neck.

The person in the mirror. Su Xinpei didn't know the name; he only knew that this was definitely not some neighbor who had wandered into the wrong house.

The thing moved slowly down the corridor, pausing briefly at the door of room 401—Su Xinpei could see through a crack in the corner that the old lady's faded doormat, embroidered with the words "Safe Entry and Exit," was still tucked under the door. The thing hovered over the doormat for less than two seconds before continuing to slide forward. The movement was silent, but wherever it passed, a thin layer of frost immediately formed on the wall, like the surface of frozen meat just taken from the depths of a cold storage. The fluorescent light flickered twice as it passed, its brightness abruptly decreasing, the ends of the tube emitting a dark purple glow, then as if most of its power had been drained, leaving only a thin, grayish, cold light barely illuminating the room.

Su Xinpei held his breath. He counted in his head. One, two, three—the thing was about three meters away from him, moving towards the stairwell. He estimated that at its current speed, it would be parallel to the concave angle in about ten seconds. In ten seconds, he would either be discovered, or—

A muffled thud.

It wasn't a gunshot. It was a fist.

The closed stairwell door was kicked open from the outside, slamming against the wall with a loud bang. An old man in a tank top emerged from the stairwell, carrying a military-green water bottle in his right hand and a half-smoked cigarette in his left. He took a swig from the contents of the bottle—which smelled like cheap liquor, not water—before turning his gaze to the object in the hallway.

"One?" he said, his tone as if he were asking how much cabbage was per pound at a market. Then he put the cigarette in his mouth and reached for the head of the thing with his free right hand.

The thing reacted faster than Su Xinpei had anticipated. Its body shattered suddenly the moment the old man's hand touched its surface, like a mirror struck by a stone, shards scattering in all directions. Su Xinpei instinctively closed his eyes—when he opened them again, the fragments had already reformed, piecing together a human-shaped outline on the old man's right side. One of its limbs lashed out a semi-transparent extension, aiming straight for the old man's neck.

The old man didn't dodge, or even turn around. He reached out to his right with his left hand, every muscle in his forearm suddenly tightening, producing a deep, muffled thud—like steel bars being instantly straightened. His knuckles struck the edge of the shards, which stopped about two inches from his palm, as if hitting an invisible wall, rippling across their surface before scattering into the air with a whoosh. Su Xinpei felt a jolt in the back of his head, as if something invisible was crawling up his spine, causing him to instinctively tense his back. The shards fell to the ground with a soft rustling sound, then evaporated quickly like water hitting a furnace, leaving behind ashes with a cold, fishy smell. The fluorescent lights returned to their original brightness, illuminating the corridor as if nothing had happened.

One punch. Just one punch.

The old man took the cigarette out of his mouth, exhaled a puff of smoke, looked down at the evaporating fragments on the ground, and said, "That's it."

Su Xinpei emerged from the recess. His legs were still a little weak, but his senses had returned. He cleared his throat, about to speak, when the old man spoke first.

"From the neighborhood office?" The old man looked him up and down, his gaze lingering on his briefcase for a second.

"Yes," Su Xinpei said. "And you are?"

"From Tiegutang." The old man pulled a crumpled business card from his vest pocket and tossed it aside. The card spun like a blade, and Su Xinpei nearly missed it when he reached out to catch it. He looked down at the card; the front read: Tiegutang · Tie Zheng. The back had only one address: No. 17, Beiyi Tiao Lane, Beihe District. No phone number, no email address, no job title. The entire card was almost soaked in oil, reeking of a mixture of strong liquor and sweat.

Su Xinpei looked up, wanting to ask something, but the other person had already turned around and started walking downstairs. After a few steps, he stopped, turned his head, and said, "Kid, don't tell anyone what you saw when you get back. If those people from the Special Meteorological Bureau ask, just say the wall cracked, and you don't know anything else."

"That thing you just hit—"

"The wall," Old Ironhead interrupted him without turning his head, "You only see the wall."

His figure disappeared into the stairwell, his footsteps sinking down each step until they were finally drowned out by the sound of the wind coming from downstairs.

Su Xinpei stood there, clutching the business card in his hand. The engineer rushed over, his face still showing lingering fear, and tugged at Su Xinpei's sleeve, rambling incoherently—about the detector overshooting its limits, the walkie-talkie malfunctioning, and the need to write an accident report. Su Xinpei listened, nodding occasionally, but his mind replayed the scene from just moments before. The old man's fist hadn't even touched the thing, yet it shattered. Not from a shockwave, but from a visible heat wave distorting the air in front of the fist, before the fragments were broken apart—he had the perfect lateral angle to witness this. This wasn't any physical phenomenon he was familiar with, much less the "standardized force" his instructor had demonstrated in biochemistry class.

He recalled the incomprehensible red-stamped documents in Aunt He's filing cabinet, and the "special phenomenon" in the full name of the Special Phenomenon Bureau. He suddenly understood something—another set of rules existed in this world, some people used them, some people knew about them, but he, Su Xinpei, had never even heard of them.

The investigation ended hastily. The engineer took photos, made markings, and wrote in the report, "Structural cracks have appeared in the walls of the fifth-floor corridor; it is recommended to close the building for inspection." Su Xinpei didn't add anything. In his own report, he only wrote six words: "Investigation in the old Beihe area: cracks found on the fifth floor." Aunt He's teaching—don't conceal the facts, and don't reveal details.

It was 4:30 PM when Su Xinpei left the apartment building. Instead of heading straight back to the subdistrict office, he stood under a streetlamp at the entrance to the old district, examining the business card repeatedly. The paper was of poor quality, soaked with the smell of strong liquor. The address was North Alley, a place he knew well—one of the most dilapidated alleys in the lower district, lined with shops that had been open for over twenty years, selling hardware, bulk liquor, and repairing old radios. Tiegutang must be some inconspicuous storefront deep within that alley, and if he hadn't taken that liquor-soaked business card, he probably would never have given it a second glance.

He put the business card into the compartment of his briefcase and walked back to the neighborhood office.

Aunt He was organizing the file boxes in the cabinet when she saw him come in. She looked up and asked, "How's the investigation going? Are you hurt?"

"It's nothing serious," Su Xinpei said, putting his briefcase on the table. After thinking for a moment, he added, "There's a crack on the fifth floor, and it's not small."

Aunt He was silent for a moment, without asking for details, and only said, "Don't work overtime tonight, go home early."

"Okay," Su Xinpei replied. Aunt He never pressed him for what he needed, but she would always say something simple at certain moments, like when she was doing paperwork, she would leave an extra centimeter of page margin for each file—those who didn't leave it wouldn't notice, but those who did would feel a warmth in their hearts when they flipped through it.

It was already evening when Su Xinpei returned to his apartment after get off work. He changed into slippers, hung up his coat, and poured himself a glass of water. After sitting down, his hand instinctively reached into his coat pocket—the found item was still there, feeling the same slightly cool touch as before.

He placed the item on the table and stared at it. Just as his fingertips left its surface, a faint warmth seeped from its side. He paused, then reached out to touch it again. The warmth had returned to normal—not that it had become hot, but rather that for a moment it had been warming, like a recirculation of something passively activated.

Su Xinpei withdrew his hand and looked down at his fingertips. His fingertips were neither discolored nor scarred. He turned his hand over and examined it in the light, but couldn't see anything unusual; only the lingering warmth at his fingertips seemed to be dissipating more slowly than usual.

Then he froze.

The panel in my mind was flashing. Not a faint flash, but the entire line of entries was emitting a soft golden glow. The progress bar for the Iron Bone Forging Technique (incomplete) had turned from gray to light gold, and a new line of small text I hadn't seen before had appeared directly below it.

[Skill trigger medium detected: Holder contact.] [Trigger status: Matches host record.] [Completeable fragment detected: Attempt synchronization?]

Su Xinpei stared at that line of small print for a long time, so long that three light rail trains passed by outside the window.

He sat at the table, picking up and putting the object down several times. Each time his fingertip touched it, the panel would flash, as if some signal was trying to connect. The second time he touched it, the same question popped up again: "Try to synchronize?" He didn't click it—as soon as he closed the panel and lifted his finger from the surface, the synchronization prompt disappeared immediately; when he touched it again, the prompt reappeared, repeating this twice, with a stable response.

It wasn't a random malfunction. That panel, that object, and the anomalies he had just witnessed in the apartment building—they were all connected.

Su Xinpei held the ring—he had already decided to call it a ring, it was slightly smaller and lighter, but there was no other word for it—in his palm, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the crack in the ceiling.

The panel was still flashing, waiting for his reply. He didn't click immediately. It wasn't fear, but an instinctive caution—Iron Bone Hall, Old Iron Head, the thing shattered with a single punch, that business card soaked in alcohol—he hadn't yet visited them, hadn't yet seen what lay behind that door, what kind of place it was, what its rules were. He decided to go to that door first before making a decision.

He put the ring back in his coat pocket, took a shower, ate a bowl of instant porridge, and sat on the edge of the bed doing three sets of push-ups. The panel faithfully displayed the experience points three times, but the progress bar for Iron Bones Body Tempering remained at zero. The basic physical fitness experience points jumped to sixty-two.

He pulled the blanket up and closed his eyes. In the darkness, the crumpled business card soaked in alcohol and the pale golden glow of the panel alternated. No. 17, North Alley—he would go there first tomorrow.