The Phoenix of the Slums

Thestenchofrottenfood,smoke,andsewagehungheavyinthehumidairofDonghai’sslums.Itwasthekindofplacewheredreamswenttodie—unlessyouwereLiTianming.

Barefootandshirtless,Tianmingcrouchedbesideabroken-downnoodlecart,hisleanbodyglisteningwithsweatandgrease.Hisfingersmovedquickly,fixingthecart’saxlewithabentwrenchhe’dsalvagedfromajunkyard.

“You’reamiracleworker,Tianming,”saidOldMa,thecart’sowner,afrailmaninhissixtieswithasmoker’scough.“Comebytomorrow,I’llhaveleftovernoodlesforyou.”

Tianmingflashedatiredsmile.“Idon’tfixthingsforfood,UncleMa.JustremembermyfacewhenI’mfamous.”

OldMachuckled,thinkingitwasajoke.ButTianmingwasn’tjoking.

Helookedup.Inthedistance,theneonskylineofcentralDonghaipulsedwithlife.Towersscrapedtheclouds—homesoftherichandpowerful,thosewhowouldneversetfootintheseslums.Butoneday,heswore,hewouldstandabovethemall.

Ashewalkedbacktowardtheabandonedtraincontainerhecalledhome,avoicestoppedhim.

“LiTianming?”

Heturned,immediatelyalert.

Amaninablacksuitstoodundertheflickeringlightofastreetlamp.Hisfacewaspartiallyhiddenbyahat,buthisposturewasrigid,trained—likeasoldierorakiller.

“Who’sasking?”Tianmingaskedcautiously.

Themansteppedforwardandhandedhimaplainwhiteenvelope.“You’renotwhoyouthinkyouare.”

BeforeTianmingcouldspeak,themanvanisheddownthealleylikeashadowswallowedbythedark.

Heartpounding,Tianmingopenedtheenvelope.Insidewasasingleoldphoto. 

WhoisLiTainming?Whowastheman?Whatisthismystery?

Readthenoveltofindout.

[Author'snote:-ThisnovelisoriginalworkwrittenbySilkAndSpellsi.e.me.]