Deep into the night, the clamor faded, and no torchlight flickered.

Xiangzi pulled a leather pouch from his pocket, passing it back to Liu Tang. “Master Tang, I’ll try breaking out soon.”

Liu Tang nodded silently, opening the pouch to sip a few drops of water before sealing it.

Xiangzi stomped, the branch trembling as he leaped to another tree like an ape.

Patient and cautious, even at night, he avoided the ground, moving treetop to treetop.

With his peerless vision, he glided through the dark like a specter.

Such agility shocked Liu Tang.

In just one day, this big lug had delivered too many surprises.

—

Though the Li family had deployed heavy forces, no one expected someone could escape the mining zone this way.

The mineral dust’s toll on a warrior’s blood and qi was unbearable, even for high-rank warriors.

But since swallowing the tiger demon’s blood and qi marrow, Xiangzi felt more adapted to the dust-laden environment.

His heart sank—this wasn’t necessarily good.

But he had no time to dwell.

Leaving the mining zone, he avoided main roads, sticking to mountains and ridges.

Though Forty-Nine City’s outskirts had been stripped bare by refugees, the night’s cover let him reach the city gate.

He didn’t choose Yongchang Gate but Guang’an Gate, where refugees entered.

—

Outside Guang’an Gate, the night was thin, bamboo shacks swaying in the chilly breeze.

Flickering campfires dotted the scene.

The bamboo shelters, topped with straw, were flimsy, barely blocking the cold.

Refugees huddled together, relying on body heat.

Those who couldn’t endure were carted off by the police bureau come morning.

Survivors received a yellow cornbread and a bowl of watery porridge—enough to last another day.

Marshal Zhang’s mercy granted an extra cornbread to those over sixty.

For the refugees, the cold nights and empty stomachs were brutal, but there was hope—

Each morning, the police bureau held a lottery at the gates. Those drawing long sticks could enter Forty-Nine City.

Mostly the old and weak participated.

The strong either enlisted at recruitment stations or tried their luck at rickshaw yards or labor agencies, hoping to be picked as porters.

These were prime options, offering food and shelter, saving expenses, and even leaving a few coppers monthly.

Lesser options were the dangerous mining zones outside the city, but at least food was guaranteed.

So, when two burly men burst into a large shack, the refugees froze.

Sharp-eyed ones noticed one was badly injured but quickly pretended to see nothing, closing their eyes.

Surviving refugees were no fools.

The foolish ones were long dead.

—

The campfire’s glow flickered across Xiangzi’s face.

Seeing the gaunt men, women, and children, he felt out of place, hunching his broad shoulders lower.

After a night of running, even with the [Rickshaw Puller] panel’s boost, his blood and qi were drained, his dantian’s vortex nearly still.

His face was pale.

Hiding most of it in shadow, he scanned the shack.

Mostly elderly, with a few women and children.

He and Liu Tang, young and robust, stood out.

But surviving the night would do—no one would guess they’d escaped the mining zone and blended with refugees.

Xiangzi tucked the bundle with his short spear under him, glancing at Liu Tang. “Master Tang… how’s your condition?”

Liu Tang, head bowed, forced a smile. “Much better…”

Xiangzi nodded, knowing Liu Tang was sparing his feelings.

After a day and night in the mining zone, Liu Tang’s blood and qi had no chance to recover, fighting from start to finish on sheer will.

Without the tiger meat, he’d have collapsed long ago.

Xiangzi frowned—he’d noticed on the mining route that he adapted better to the zone than others.

This day and night confirmed it.

Otherwise, he wouldn’t have dared swallow the blood and qi marrow despite the “ore miasma” risk.

Why this was, and whether it was good or bad, he couldn’t say.

Shaking off the tangled thoughts, Xiangzi glanced at Liu Tang’s ashen face, hesitated, then pulled a foul-smelling chunk of meat from his pocket.

The tiger demon’s remaining heart.

The shack’s stench masked the bloodiness.

Liu Tang, sensing Xiangzi’s intent, waved it off.

Xiangzi whispered, “Master Tang… we might face trouble tomorrow morning.”

Liu Tang paused, silent.

Xiangzi was right—after a day and night of fleeing, even iron would break.

They had to take the risk.

—

By the campfire, Xiangzi skewered the tiger heart on a stick.

Sizzle. Oil dripped, and a rich meaty aroma spread.

Soon, hungry refugees crept closer, drooling.

Xiangzi’s eyes narrowed, his bundle shifting to reveal a glint of steel.

No gesture was needed—his spear and hulking frame scared off prying eyes.

The shack quieted. Xiangzi tore off a charred piece, chewing slowly.

The scalding hide slid down, and soon, his dantian’s faltering vortex stirred.

Xiangzi relaxed, thinking—if he had demon meat daily, his martial path might face no obstacles.

He chuckled wryly.

Warriors relied on tonics, and after just two tastes of demon meat, he felt its addictive pull.

No wonder Uncle Jie always sighed: warriors didn’t train—they ate and used medicine.

His hand paused, eyes dimming.

His gaze drifted through the night, toward the Li family’s mining zone.

His grip on the stick tightened, veins bulging.

—

Footsteps approached, snapping Xiangzi back.

A gruff voice rang out, “Hey, big guy, what’s that smell? Let me try.”

Xiangzi’s brow twitched—the voice was familiar.

Looking up, he froze.

A bearded man stared back, equally stunned, blurting, “It’s you?”