Where there are people, there isn't always a jianghu, but there is always a city. And in East Lin District, the largest of these cities is the capital of Hexi Prefecture. In this city, aside from the ever-present drunkards, the streets are home to another familiar sight: petty dealers in illegal trade lurking in the shadows, watching out for patrolmen—and orphans.
East Lin was once the wealthiest and most technologically advanced mining planet in the Federation. But no matter the level of civilization, mining has always been a dangerous profession. Even with the invention of autonomous crystal-drilling machines and full-spectrum computer safety monitoring, the unpredictable shifts of subterranean veins and unquantifiable geological activity continued to claim lives. In the thousands of years that followed, countless miners perished in accidents, leaving behind children who grew up as outcasts, drifting through the streets of East Lin's cities.
Some of them had no parents. Others had only one. These different backgrounds bred different scars. Though the Federation fully covered their living and educational expenses, nothing could keep these kids from skipping school. Too young to drink legally and tracked constantly by implanted chips, they couldn't drown their boredom in liquor like the miners did. Nor could they trade in the black markets. Rations were provided, yes—but a life without light, like that of caged pigs, couldn't drain their surging hormones. And so came violence, faux toughness, turf wars... all inevitable.
Deputy Director Bao's contemptuous tone when he spat out the words "bastard orphans" referred to these kids—the very ones who caused endless headaches for the governor's office and the police force alike.
Though far from becoming an organized gang, and despite their amateur attempts at mimicry being mostly harmless, their orphan status alone made the authorities uneasy. Especially now, with East Lin's resources running dry, most of these orphans had been left behind after the last great mining disaster ten years ago. The consequences of that tragedy still rippled through the region...
"We want Jian Shui'er!"
"Jian Shui'er!"
Sirens wailed as the second precinct of Hexi's police department, responsible for the Clocktower Street area, rushed to carry out the Deputy Director's furious order. Over a hundred black-clad orphans were quickly cordoned off in the middle of the street.
Yet the children showed no fear. Facing down batons and riot shields, their cries only grew louder. The slogans they held aloft—scrawled on filthy tarpaulins—wobbled in the air, crooked and ragged. Perhaps they were getting tired?
The most absurd sight was the youngest orphan, who seemed too exhausted to chant. Instead, he simply repeated "Jian Shui'er, Jian Shui'er," over and over in a soft, breathless voice, as though the name itself held some kind of magic.
"Yell like you mean it!" barked the group's leader, tugging sharply on the boy's ear, his eyes bright and fierce. Only now, surrounded by police, did a flicker of fear cross his heart. But—Xu Le had said the media would be here today. That meant Bao wouldn't dare make a move. When had Xu Le ever been wrong?
Thinking of that name, the boy straightened his back, puffed out his chest, and shouted toward the camera behind the police lines with righteous defiance: "We want Channel 23!"
A hundred voices echoed, furious and solemn. Children rising in the streets, facing off against the Federation, all for the sake of... watching TV. What a surreal scene this was.
But to Bao Longtao, it was no joke. It was no farce.
From the moment he heard "Channel 23" and "Jian Shui'er," he knew this was serious. These kids weren't bluffing.
When the governor's office finally caved under the combined pressure and veiled threats of several Hexi Broadcasting board members, Bao knew this day was inevitable. After the directive went out—citing a vague "telecommunications security ordinance" to temporarily suspend Channel 23's broadcast signal across Hexi—over a thousand protest letters flooded both the governor's office and the police department.
Each letter demanded the same thing as these orphans: bring back Channel 23. More precisely, bring back the show Full Metal Frenzy, which had been airing for just two months in the capital's star systems. And most of all, bring back Jian Shui'er.
Bao Longtao had seen the show. He knew exactly what made Jian Shui'er—playing the fleet commander of a battlecruiser—so mesmerizing. That doll-like face, those violet curls that shifted from soft to stormy, that tiny frame clad in a crisply tailored officer's uniform. The way she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes... She looked so much like his own daughter. Only cuter.
A chill crawled up Bao's spine, snapping him out of his daze. He turned just in time to see the female reporter next to him speaking rapidly into the camera. Her lens angled past her shoulder, capturing the passionate mob of children. There was a glint of schadenfreude in her eye.
So this was how bad the rift between News and Production had become? Bao sighed inwardly. The heads of Hexi Broadcasting had gone to absurd lengths—risking public outcry and using a flimsy excuse—to halt Channel 23, all to protect their ratings. But their own News Division, directly managed by the regional committee, now seemed poised to betray them with live footage of this protest.
They don't understand. They're not from East Lin. They don't know what television means to these people. What Channel 23 is to them. As Bao had once put it—cruelly but not inaccurately—"For the ignorant masses, a soap opera is enough." The dying cities of East Lin had long lost interest in their own lives. But that didn't mean they didn't dream. Television was their window to something better. To beauty. To fantasy. That dream was salt and spice to their otherwise tasteless existence.
Jian Shui'er...
A rare warmth touched the corners of Deputy Director Bao's usually stern mouth. Even these orphans, whom he usually loathed, didn't seem so detestable now.
But the smile vanished quickly.
These kids had made a public spectacle, a blow to his authority. If this footage aired, the infighting between the News and Production divisions would explode all the way to the governor's office—or worse, the Committee itself. Would he be made the scapegoat?
Bao narrowed his eyes, scanning the flushed, chanting faces. How had they known about today's tour with the press? Was this really just about Jian Shui'er? Could a fictional starlet from some faraway star system truly inspire this kind of uprising?
No. Something felt off. It smelled like orchestration. If someone was pulling strings behind the scenes… could they have predicted the timing, the media presence, the internal power struggle?
His eyes settled on the group's leader—Vigo, a wild sixteen-year-old known for his boldness. Bao knew him well. But even Vigo wouldn't dare act this brazenly to his face.
Then Bao noticed something.
Vigo's eyes flicked toward a shadowed alley at the edge of Clocktower Street.
Bao turned to follow his gaze.
But there was nothing there.