San Francisco welcomed Zhou Mo with a cold rain.
The rain lashed the windshield of his Ford Pinto, distorting into a blurry sheet of water, the wipers swinging weakly like a pair of dying metronomes.
Zhou Mo parked on a sloping street and killed the engine.
The dashboard’s fluorescent glow ticked over, displaying 9:47 PM.
He sat in silence for five minutes, listening to the light ticks of the cooling engine and the dull drumming of rain against the roof.
“Welcome to hell, California branch,” he muttered, grabbing the brown leather jacket from the passenger seat and throwing it over his shoulders.
The jacket still smelled of stale tobacco and cheap cologne, a relic belonging to Tony, who had died long ago in a New York warehouse.
Zhou Mo pulled up his collar, pushed the door open, and stepped out.
The icy rain drenched his black hair in an instant.
Dense rows of old Victorian buildings lined both sides of the street, their signs displaying a mix of Hanzi and English: Golden Gate Restaurant, Lucky Star Mahjong Parlor, Lee’s Grocery.
Neon signs bled softly into the misty rain, staining the wet asphalt in mottled shades of red and green.
He desperately needed a place to settle down, but more importantly, he needed to completely erase his tracks.
A shabby sign hung at the entrance of a narrow alley: “Fulong Inn.” Half its lightbulbs had long since burned out.
Zhou Mo walked in, the wooden stairs creaking under his weight.
The front desk was housed in a glass booth, where an old man stared at a small television playing an old Cantonese movie.
Zhou Mo tapped lightly on the glass.
The old man turned his head slowly, his gaze indifferent, as if assessing a worthless piece of junk.
He looked to be in his late sixties, his face deeply lined, wearing a faded gray sweater.
“Staying?” the old man asked, his Mandarin carrying a thick village accent typical of early immigrants.
“One night,” Zhou Mo replied concisely.
“ID.” Zhou Mo reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a forged Washington State driver’s license under the name Zhou Ming.
The old man held it up to the light for three seconds, asked no questions, and pulled a registration ledger from a drawer.
“Twenty a night, ten deposit.” “Room 207, second floor.
Shared bathroom.
No hot water guaranteed after ten.” Zhou Mo counted out thirty dollars and handed it over.
The old man took the cash and slid over a key attached to a plastic room tag.
The entire process took less than two minutes, and they exchanged fewer than five sentences.
*Perfect,* Zhou Mo thought.
This old man was either used to dealing with all sorts of shady characters, or he was hiding secrets of his own.
Room 207 was less than eight square meters, with minimal furnishings: a bed, a desk, a chair, and an old wardrobe.
The yellowed wallpaper peeled at the seams, and dark green mold crept along the corners of the walls.
The window faced the fire escape of the building across the alley.
Zhou Mo left the lights off, walked to the window, and parted the blinds slightly.
The rain was still falling.
An overturned trash can lay in the alley below, where a few stray cats scavenged for food.
From the building opposite, the crisp clatter of mahjong tiles echoed, interspersed with muffled arguments.
Farther away, the sound of a television news broadcast drifted in intermittently: “…Vought International announced today that it will establish a West Coast branch…” Zhou Mo closed his eyes.
Deep within his pupils, a faint, imperceptible golden light flashed.
*Wall-Piercing Vision.* An invisible sensory field rippled outward in all directions.
Shallow-level details flooded his mind: the snoring of the man next door, the sizzling oil of the landlady’s wok downstairs, two teenagers stealing beer at the alley-mouth convenience store, a tone-deaf rendition of a birthday song inside a Chinese restaurant three blocks away.
His perception sank deeper.
Several streets over, in the basement of an unmarked building, a dozen heat sources clustered together.
Their presence was cold and hostile, smelling of fresh blood.
Someone was cleaning a firearm, the metallic scrape of parts clearly audible—a Wah Ching gang hideout.
Deeper still, in the city’s sewer system, several figures darted at high speed.
They were definitely not rats.
They were larger, swift, and highly coordinated, with body temperatures slightly lower than normal—Foot Clan ninjas.
High in the sky, far in the distance, a faint energy fluctuation occasionally swept past, light as a dragonfly skimming water.
Not a plane, not a bird, but a living flying object.
A mutant, or a Vought supe on a night patrol.
Finally, his perception reached out toward the distant, deep ocean, the waters west of the Golden Gate Bridge.
A low, ancient frequency echoed there, resembling a whale’s song but far more complex and mysterious, carrying an inhuman rhythm.
Zhou Mo withdrew his senses and slowly opened his eyes.
“Damn.” He cursed softly under his breath, though a playful smirk curled the corner of his lips.
“This place is basically a superhero playground mixed with a monster zoo.” He needed a strategy.
Direct confrontation?
Too stupid.
The light and dark energy bombs were still suppressed inside him.
The Thirty-Six Heavenly Dipper Methods could not be easily exposed, and his Mister Negative powers were still in their infancy.
Moreover, any of the factions lurking in the shadows of this city could easily turn him into an experimental subject or mark him as an eyesore.
“I need to find a suitable identity to integrate myself.” Zhou Mo pondered.
It had to be low-profile, highly practical, and allow him to naturally interact with people from all walks of life.
He recalled the subclass systems from video games.
Herb gathering, mining, and blacksmithing were all too conspicuous.
Only one profession fit perfectly—a doctor, or a traveling physician.
He took off his soaked jacket and decided to head out to purchase some essentials.
A toothbrush, a towel, a change of clothes, and food.
Having driven for three days straight from New York, he had survived entirely on gas station hot dogs and potato chips.
The convenience store at the mouth of the alley was still lit.
Zhou Mo pushed the door open.
Behind the cash register, an Asian girl kept her head down, reading a manga comic.
He picked out some cheap daily necessities, grabbed two packs of instant noodles, and a bottle of mineral water.
“Six-forty,” the girl said without looking up.
Zhou Mo paid, grabbed the plastic bag, and walked out of the store.
The rain had slowed, turning into a fine, chilly drizzle.
Just then, a faint groan drifted from a darker, narrower alley nearby.
Zhou Mo paused for half a second, then turned and walked in.
Deep in the alley, an old man sat slumped on the wet, cold ground, leaning against a trash can.
He looked to be in his sixties, wearing faded blue overalls, clutching his chest tightly.
His face was deathly pale in the dim light.
“Sir?” Zhou Mo approached slowly.
The old man struggled to lift his head, his eyes clouded with agonizing pain.
He parted his lips but couldn’t form words, producing only a ragged, wheezing gasp.
An acute heart attack.
Zhou Mo knelt down and placed his fingers on the old man’s wrist.
The pulse was rapid and irregular, the skin cold and clammy—highly typical symptoms.
“Help…
help me…” the old man squeezed out with the last of his strength.
Zhou Mo didn’t say a word.
He quietly channeled the gentle, positive energy from his Mister Negative powers.
A faint, nearly imperceptible white glow seeped from his fingertips, virtually invisible in the rainy night, as he pressed them lightly against the inner side of the old man’s wrist.
Pure, soothing healing energy flowed in.
The old man’s body shuddered, and his pupils dilated slightly.
The suffocating tightness in his chest vanished rapidly.
His breathing gradually stabilized, and the deathly gray hue faded from his face, replaced by a trace of healthy color.
“You…” The old man stared at Zhou Mo in astonishment.
“Don’t speak.” Zhou Mo released his wrist and firmly assisted the old man to his feet.
“Can you stand?
I’ll help you back.” The old man nodded.
His legs were still somewhat weak, but they could support his weight.
He pointed toward the other end of the alley.
“My place…
is just ahead.
I run a grocery store.” The two of them walked slowly out of the narrow alley.
The old man introduced himself as Uncle Chen.
He ran a small sundries shop nearby.
“Tonight was truly…
thank you so much.” Uncle Chen’s voice was still weak.
“A moment ago, I really thought I was going to die back there.” “I just happened to be passing by,” Zhou Mo replied flatly.
“How long have you had this condition?” “This is the first time it’s been this severe.” Uncle Chen sighed.
“Before, it was just occasional chest tightness.
I’d take some pills and push through.
I don’t know what happened tonight…” Rounding a corner, “Chen’s Grocery” came into view.
It was a small storefront with its metal roll-up door pulled halfway down.
Uncle Chen reached for his keys, his hands still shaking uncontrollably.
Zhou Mo took the keys, unlocked the door for him, and guided him inside.
The store was packed with shelves of goods, the air thick with the scent of aged dried foodstuffs.
“Sit down first.” Zhou Mo helped Uncle Chen into a chair behind the counter.
“Is there any water?
Drink some warm water to recover.” Uncle Chen pointed to a thermos flask in the corner.
Zhou Mo poured a cup of warm water and handed it over.
The old man took a few sips, and his complexion improved further.
“Young man, are you a doctor?” Uncle Chen asked curiously.
“I studied traditional Chinese medicine for a few years,” Zhou Mo replied casually.
“I just moved to San Francisco.” “No wonder your touch is so effective.” Uncle Chen’s face was filled with gratitude.
“If my old bones hadn’t run into you…” “How is the security around here?” Zhou Mo subtly changed the subject.
“The alleys are very dark.
It doesn’t look very safe.” Uncle Chen’s expression shifted slightly, and he lowered his voice.
“It used to be peaceful, but lately…
it’s been far from safe.” “There are always unfamiliar faces loitering on the streets.
You can tell they aren’t ordinary folks.” “Old Wang next door said he saw people dressed in black, moving incredibly fast, jumping back and forth across the rooftops.” Zhou Mo instantly concluded those were Foot Clan ninjas.
“And,” Uncle Chen continued in a whisper, “the Wah Ching gang has been getting more and more arrogant.
They’ve raised the protection fees twice already.” “Small business owners like us simply can’t afford to mess with them.” Zhou Mo nodded slightly, asking no further questions.
He helped Uncle Chen inspect his medicine box, making sure he had nitroglycerin on hand, and carefully gave him a few daily precautions before turning to leave.
By the time he stepped out of the shop, the rain had stopped completely.
The wet streets reflected the neon lights, creating a blurred, dreamlike play of light and shadow.
Zhou Mo took a shortcut back to the inn, walking through another quiet alley.
Halfway through, two figures slowly stepped out of the shadows, blocking his path.
They were two Asian youths in their early twenties, one tall and one short, dressed in tight T-shirts and jeans.
The tall one had a green dragon tattooed on his arm, while the short one had a cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Hey, new face,” the tattooed youth said, stepping forward with an arrogant tone.
“Wandering around so late?” Zhou Mo stopped, still holding the plastic bag from the convenience store.
“Is there a problem?” “Routine check.” The short youth spat out his cigarette butt.
“Chinatown hasn’t been peaceful lately.
We need to check for suspicious characters.” Zhou Mo saw through them instantly.
These two were low-level punks from the Wah Ching gang, running a textbook shakedown.
“Just moved here.
I’m staying at the Fulong Inn.” “Oh?
Staying at the inn?” The tattooed guy closed the distance, stepping almost directly into Zhou Mo’s face.
“Then we definitely need to check.
Where’s your luggage?
Let me see.” He reached out, aiming to snatch the plastic bag from Zhou Mo’s hand.
Zhou Mo didn’t budge.
The moment the punk’s fingertips were about to brush the bag, Zhou Mo shifted his body slightly, his shoulder making what appeared to be an accidental, light bump.
A brief contact, lasting only 0.3 seconds.
Mister Negative’s ability—Negative Energy Absorption.
The tattooed youth froze instantly.
A sudden wave of emptiness and despair swept through his entire body.
It felt as though his strength had been instantly drained, and his mind was suddenly filled with depression and self-loathing.
He stumbled backward, his face turning pale as his lips trembled uncontrollably.
“Boss?” The short youth sensed something was wrong.
Zhou Mo looked at him calmly, his eyes devoid of emotion.
At the same time, a trace of the ancient, high-level pressure from the Tiangang Arts leaked out—not brute force, but an aura of absolute authority forged through eternity.
A chill ran down the short youth’s spine, and an inexplicable terror gripped his heart.
The air in the alley seemed to freeze, making it difficult to breathe.
Instinctively, he grabbed his dazed companion.
“Let’s…
let’s go.” The short youth’s voice trembled.
“Something’s wrong with this guy.” The tattooed youth was still trapped in a state of stupor.
He was dragged and pulled by his companion out of the alley, quickly vanishing around the street corner.
Zhou Mo stood in place, waiting for five seconds before resuming his pace, walking unhurriedly back to the inn.
Returning to Room 207, he locked the door behind him and set the plastic bag on the table.
Outside the window, the San Francisco night remained loud.
Neon lights flashed, and the wail of sirens in the distance grew louder before fading into the night sky.
Zhou Mo took off his jacket and sat on the edge of the bed.
The information he had gathered tonight was sufficient: the Wah Ching gang, the Foot Clan, unknown supes in the sky, an unidentified deep-sea presence, and Uncle Chen, who served as a perfect breakthrough point.
“A doctor,” he murmured to himself.
“Or a traveling physician.
Free consultations, specializing in difficult and unusual illnesses.” This identity offered immense advantages.
It allowed him to naturally interact with all kinds of people, build a positive reputation, provide a perfect cover for gathering intelligence, and naturally seek out herbs to prepare for future alchemy.
He needed to prepare some basic tools: acupuncture needles, cupping jars, and common herbs.
He would head to a Chinatown herbal medicine shop tomorrow to acquire them.
As for a medical license?
In 1997 San Francisco’s Chinatown, nobody was going to bother checking.
Zhou Mo lay down, resting his head on his hands.
A water stain on the ceiling spread into a pattern that resembled an abstract map of the city.
“I’ll start with this street,” he planned silently.
“Cure a few people, let the word of mouth spread naturally, and then slowly expand outward.” The neon glow from outside sliced through the blinds, casting alternating lines of light and shadow across the wall.
San Francisco fell asleep.
But in the unseen depths of its shadows, countless eyes remained wide open.