The rhythmic thump-thud-thud of the Lucky Horseshoe's jukebox bled into the alley, a muffled bassline beneath the city's late-night symphony. Ethan Chen leaned heavily against the damp brick wall beside Silk Road Import-Export, the cold seeping through his thin jacket despite the faint, persistent warmth radiating from his core. The encounter with the raspy-voiced bartender, McNamara, echoed in his mind like a cracked bell. "...woke up somethin' else entirely. Something with teeth." How much had that old hawk seen?
Focusing inward, Ethan brushed against the flickering ember in his spirit. That impossible Stardust core, born not from meditation on a sacred peak but in the suffocating, polluted embrace of the Hudson. Its power was minuscule, barely 0.1% of its potential, yet undeniable. A trickle of star-forged energy circulated through ravaged meridians – pathways clogged with spiritual debris, like pristine circuitry crusted over with corrosive filth. Where celestial power should flow like liquid light, it now sputtered and sparked, feeding fractured veins of starlight that barely held together.
Spiritual Circuitry: 0.1% Functional. Primary Function: Passive Regeneration. Integrity Compromised. Status: Critical. Starlight Veins: 0.001% Formed. Current Output: Sub-Survival Threshold.
The constant feedback was jarring. Where his soul, One-Earth Chen, remembered effortless dominion over cosmic forces, this broken vessel's interface was slow, riddled with errors, agonizingly weak. Drawing a deep breath hurt, pressing against bruised ribs the river hadn't managed to drown. Yet, the Stardust flowed, knitting flesh microscopically, easing the fire in his lungs fractionally more than mere biology should allow. It wasn't healing; it was stubbornly refusing to die.
First, he thought, the cosmic indignity sharpening into a blade of pragmatism. I need shelter. This alley won't suffice if Benny decides to finish the job. Second, he needed information. Who sent Benny? Mad Dog Tsang? For fourteen dollars and some perceived slight? That reeked of petty intimidation tactics used by bottom-feeders. Or was it just a convenient excuse from someone with eyes on… whatever pathetic territory Ethan Chen, the drowned man, might have supposedly occupied?
Clutching the raw ache in his side, Ethan pushed away from the wall. The streets of Chinatown at this hour felt like walking through a crypt painted in neon. Shuttered storefronts, the lingering smells of cooked oils and unfamiliar spices mixing with the pervasive damp, piles of black garbage bags awaiting collection like diseased cocoons. Homeless figures huddled in doorways watched him pass with empty eyes. He was another ghost, still dripping, unnoticed.
Following fragmented memories, he navigated the warren of narrow streets, past peeling posters in Mandarin and English advertising phone cards and dubious cures. He turned onto a slightly wider street, Mott Street, and stopped before a narrow, three-story brick building squeezed between similar structures. Faded red paint peeled off the door. A sign above, depicting a faded golden dragon clutching a stylized letter "C," identified it as the Chen Residence & Laundry. Home. Or what passed for it.
The lower level housed the laundry – dark now, closed iron shutters pulled down over the front window. A flickering bulb illuminated the entrance to the stairs leading up to the cramped apartment where his "family" – uncle Bo Chen, his perpetually tired wife Mei, and their sullen teenager Li Wei – lived. Memories surfaced, unwelcome: Bo Chen's disappointment, Mei's anxious hovering, Li Wei's barely concealed contempt for his 'loser' cousin who couldn't even hold a job as a low-level courier. Hardly the martial dynasty his Astral Peak Pavilion heritage prepared him for.
He climbed the creaking stairs, each step a reminder of the river's beating. The door at the top was a flimsy thing, paint cracked. Taking the keys from his soaked pocket felt alien. He inserted one, twisted.
Silence.
Not the ordinary silence of a sleeping household. A thick, oppressive quiet that pressed against his newly awakened senses. The air tasted wrong – stale, metallic. Alarm spiked through his fatigue, cold and precise. His battered body protested, but the nascent Stardust core flared, injecting a micro-dash of unnatural awareness into his limbs.
He pushed the door open slowly. The familiar cramped living room was... not destroyed, but savagely violated. Cushions slashed open, cheap stuffing like diseased snow spilling onto the worn linoleum. Drawers from a rickety sideboard lay upended, contents scattered – receipts, cheap ornaments, a cracked teapot. Bo Chen's ancient portable TV was cracked down the middle. The stench of spilled tea and something sharper – fear sweat? – clung to the air. Near the kitchen doorway, a trail of dark droplets stained the floor. Not water. Blood.
"Ethan? Is that you?" His Aunt Mei's voice was a terrified whisper from behind the flimsy curtain separating the main room from the single bedroom.
He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him, eyes scanning the shadows, ears straining. The Stardust hummed low in his core, amplifying the thud of his own heart and the faint, ragged breathing from beyond the curtain. "Aunt Mei? Uncle? What happened?"
He moved towards the curtain. Li Wei's voice, raw and shaking, hissed from the bedroom. "Those bastards! Where the hell were you?"
Ethan pushed the curtain aside. The small bedroom was in similar disarray. Bo Chen sat slumped on the edge of the disheveled bed, shirt torn, a wad of red-stained towels pressed against a deep gash on his head. His face was pale and tight with pain and humiliation. Mei stood beside him, wringing her hands, her eyes wide and bloodshot. Li Wei was pacing like a caged animal, a dark bruise swelling over one cheekbone, knuckles scraped raw.
"Rats," Bo Chen rasped, his voice thick with pain and suppressed fury. He didn't look up. "Three, maybe four. Burst in... said you crossed Johnny Tsang." He winced as he shifted the towel. "Said... this was a warning. That this was nothing compared to what happens to couriers who think they can run and keep their... business. Said next time, they wouldn't just... break things." His eyes flicked to Li Wei's bruised face. Shame warred with fury on his weary face. "Li Wei... he tried..." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence – the inability to protect his home, the son who stepped up where the nephew vanished. The humiliation was a physical weight.
Li Wei whirled on Ethan, his youthful anger blazing. "They kept shouting, 'Where's the package? Where'd he stash it?' Like you stole something! They were looking for something, Ethan! What the hell did you do? Huh? Where were you? Out getting drunk while we got... got this?" He gestured wildly at the wrecked room, at his father.
Ethan met Li Wei's furious gaze. The indignity of being shouted at by a mortal whelp was almost laughable, a spike of pure One-Earth Chen arrogance. But it dissolved immediately in the face of the raw, tangible suffering of these people who shared his blood, however distant. These people were attacked because of him. Because Benny Rats-Face, the street-level parasite, acted on the orders of Johnny "Mad Dog" Tsang, the flea-bitten neighborhood enforcer. For fourteen dollars? Or something else? The phrase they yelled – "Where's the package?" – echoed ominously.
Package. The memory flickered. Benny rifling through his pockets. His grunt of disappointment. "Ain't shit here." But Benny hadn't just taken his wallet. He'd delivered a message personally at the river... and then sent his rats here.
This wasn't about the fourteen dollars. This was about something someone thought he had. Or something they wanted him blamed for stealing. The robbery at the river, the message, the violation of his uncle's home – it was coordinated punishment. A statement. This was Tsang's territory. Ethan Chen was his to kick around.
A cold fury, deeper and more focused than any river rage, settled in Ethan's gut. It wasn't the indignant roar of celestial power affronted; it was the cold, precise calculation of a predator forced into the gutter. The Stardust core pulsed, a tiny ice crystal resonating with that cold fire. He remembered the helplessness in the water. He saw the blood on his uncle's head, the bruise on his cousin's face, the raw fear in his aunt's eyes. These... insects.
He walked towards Li Wei. The younger man flinched instinctively. Ethan stopped before him, not touching, his height and sudden, unnerving stillness filling the small, shattered space.
"Li Wei," Ethan said, his voice low, devoid of any emotion except that chilling calm. "Your father needs a hospital. That cut is deep." He turned to Mei. "Aunt Mei, get Uncle Bo ready to go. Now. Take what's left of the money from the jar under the sink." He remembered its location, another mundane detail of this life. "Li Wei, you go with them. Make sure it's done. Say he fell. Nothing else."
"What? But..." Li Wei started, bewildered by the cold certainty, the unnatural command in his usually feckless cousin's tone.
"Go," Ethan repeated, the word clipped, final. His eyes held Li Wei's, no longer dismissive, but radiating an alien intensity that silenced the younger man's protests. It felt less like a request and more like an order issued by deep space itself.
Mei scrambled, her movements jerky with fear. Bo Chen groaned as she helped him stand. Li Wei shot Ethan a final, confused look – terror mingled with a dawning, reluctant awe – before moving to support his father.
Ethan turned away as they shuffled towards the door. His gaze swept the ruined living room again, stopping at the blood stain near the kitchen entrance. They dared. Stardust veins sparked within him, feeding microscopic surges of power to his clenched fists. Where cosmic might once reigned, now a harsh, physical need roared: Retribution.
He needed tools. Information was paramount. Who exactly were these rats under Tsang? Where did they scurry back to? What was this "package"? His own recollections of Ethan Chen's life were a fragmented jigsaw puzzle. He remembered the courier job for Tsang... vague recollections of picking up unmarked parcels from dockside lockers near the warehouses under the Manhattan Bridge. Delivering them... where? And when? Had he delivered the last package? Or had something gone wrong before today?
The police? Worthless. Reporting the home invasion would invite more scrutiny, more visits. Tsang would ensure any report vanished into Chinatown's complicated silence. No. Justice would be met on his terms. On the street's terms.
His eyes fell on a half-smashed bottle of cheap whiskey lying amidst the stuffing from the ruined couch. Amber liquid pooled on the floor. He reached down, ignoring the pain in his ribs, and picked it up by the neck. The jagged base was a vicious crescent of glass. A crude implement, unworthy of a cultivator's hand. Perfect for gutting rats.
He examined it for a moment, the faint, cold luminescence from his stardust core seeming to glint off the sharp edges. Power thrummed. 0.1%. It wouldn't let him manifest celestial fire, but it whispered of reflexes honed sharper than steel, endurance pushing past fleshly limits, senses straining against the mundane veil. Enough to turn this broken glass into a terrifying promise.
A sound outside – Mei and Li Wei helping Bo Chen down the stairs – broke the silence. The apartment felt hollow, broken, reeking of violation and spilled blood. But Ethan Chen remained. Not just the drowned courier. One-Earth Chen, forced into the role of a protector armed with glass and stardust.
His gaze shifted to the bloodstain once more. The cold fury in his chest solidified. The message had been delivered. Loud and clear.
His response would be written in glass and broken bones. And it would be delivered in person.