The residents of Frost Street were well aware of District Three’s current state.
They had walked through other streets. They had visited the clinic. They knew how devastating the casualties were elsewhere—scenes straight out of hell. Yet they were the lucky ones. No severed limbs. No life-threatening injuries. Most families hadn’t suffered a single loss… All thanks to Chen Ling.
They wanted to express their gratitude but hesitated, too intimidated by the impression he had left on them. Even a passing glance from him made their hearts skip a beat.
Chen Ling noticed their conflicted expressions and skittish eyes. It almost amused him.
Of course, he had no interest in fishing for praise. Keeping his expression stern, he continued his patrol, ignoring the onlookers as his black trench coat swayed gently along the empty street.
But eventually, someone gathered the courage to step forward—directly toward Chen Ling.
To his surprise, the first brave soul was none other than the funeral parlor’s Boss Xu, whom he had once scared into fainting on the back mountain.
Boss Xu carried a plastic bag, his face a mix of emotions as he approached. Chen Ling raised a brow and stopped.
"Boss Xu, what is it?" he asked calmly.
He handed the plastic bag to Chen Ling, whose lips twitched imperceptibly. Even without opening it, he could guess what was inside.
"Noted."
Suppressing a sigh, Chen Ling reluctantly took the bag of chicken hearts. At this rate, his stockpile of "ingredients" would last him well into the next year.
With Boss Xu leading the way, more residents mustered the courage to approach. Some carried bags of chicken or duck hearts, others offered bloody cuts of meat. The most absurd was a handful of IOUs scribbled with promises like "Owe Officer Chen Ling three pounds of animal hearts—to be repaid within five days."
Before he had walked ten steps, Chen Ling’s hands were full. He had no choice but to make a detour home to drop off the haul before resuming his patrol. But when he reached neighboring Frost Snow Street, another wave of gifts awaited.
No doubt, the Frost Street gossip mill had exposed his "preferences."
Chen Ling sighed inwardly. By the time he finished collecting the offerings and completed his rounds, night had fallen. Exhausted, he dragged himself to his doorstep—only to notice a lone light still glowing across the street. The breakfast shop.
After a brief hesitation, he headed toward it. The moment he reached the door, a pained yelp echoed from inside:
"Damn brat! Hold still!"
"Aaaah—Dad, it hurts! Are you sure you’re using the right medicine?!"
"I studied medicine in my youth! How could I mix up iodine? Disinfecting hurts—deal with it!"
"Gentler, gentler—AAAAAH!!"
Chen Ling pushed the door open to find Zhao Yi shirtless on the table, a gruesome knife wound marring his torso.
Zhao Yi’s face was pale, his body drenched in sweat as he whimpered. Uncle Zhao, equally sweaty, dabbed iodine on the wound, his expression torn between frustration and heartache.
"Now it hurts?! Where was this fear when you charged at an enforcer?! Good! Suffer!"
The moment the door creaked, Zhao Yi’s cries cut off abruptly.
Eyes wide, he stared at Chen Ling, gritting his teeth against the pain—refusing to utter another sound, like a stubborn duck holding its head high.
"A-Ling! Are you hurt?" Uncle Zhao turned to Chen Ling, concern etched on his face. "Fighting those monsters… Did you get injured? Badly?"
"I’m fine."
Chen Ling’s gaze returned to Zhao Yi, who visibly tensed, muffled groans escaping his clenched jaw.
"Didn’t go to the clinic?"
"Ah… It’s packed. The others were worse off, so we didn’t bother." Uncle Zhao wiped his brow, finally finishing the bandages. "Luckily, I picked up some medical skills. Simple wounds I can handle."
His technique was decent. Wrapped like half a mummy, Zhao Yi lay on the table, a desiccated corpse of shattered dreams.
Uncle Zhao exhaled heavily, his eyes lingering on his son with unreadable emotion. He turned to Chen Ling.
"A-Ling, come outside with me for a word."
Though puzzled, Chen Ling followed him into the street.
Uncle Zhao glanced back at the shop, shutting the door behind them. The dim glow of kerosene lamps seeped through the frosted glass, flickering soundlessly in the dark.
"What is it?" Chen Ling asked.
"A-Ling… Xiao Yi is my only child." Uncle Zhao’s voice was thick with bitterness. "He’s been stubborn and reckless since he was a boy. I just wanted him to find a steady job, stay out of trouble… But this time, he scared me half to death."
"I keep thinking—what if that enforcer’s knife hadn’t missed? What if it had pierced his heart? He’d be just another corpse on the street… Gone forever…"
Chen Ling studied Uncle Zhao quietly. The man’s eyes were red-rimmed. After steadying his breath, he continued, "A-Ling, I’ve lived long enough. I don’t ask for much—just Xiao Yi’s safety. You’ve always been sharp and steady. Now you’re an enforcer, someone who can shake all of District Three with a stomp… I was wondering… Could you pull some strings? Take him under your wing?"
"Order him around however you like. No rank, no enforcer title—just a doorman or clerk in your department… I just want him sheltered in your shadow."
Uncle Zhao’s back bent lower, his wrinkled face etched with sincerity and pleading—an elder setting aside all pride to beg a favor from the younger generation.
"...If it’s too much, forget I asked." When Chen Ling remained silent, Uncle Zhao forced a smile. "Just… just thinking aloud."
Chen Ling tilted his head slightly. Through the frosted glass, a shadow crouched in the corner—eavesdropping.
Pretending not to notice, he turned back and nodded.
"...Alright."