In the backyard of the Old Residence, the well water had boiled.

  Thick white steam rose into the moonlight, shrouding the small courtyard in a haze that felt like a faded dream from a bygone era.

  Dashan rolled up his sleeves. He dipped his hands into the scalding basin, pulled out a towel, wrung it dry with steady, practiced movements, and walked to the lacquered box. Gently, he wiped away the layer of dust that had settled on the lid.

  “Madame Shen,” he said softly. “Open it.”

  Shen’s fingers flicked. The rough hemp rope snapped as if cut by a blade. As the heavy lid creaked open, it didn’t reveal ledgers of money. Instead, it exposed stacks of old-fashioned pawn tickets and loan receipts, neatly bundled with red thread.

  “Dashan,” Shen said, picking one up. Her fingertips traced the elegant brushstrokes of the calligraphy. “Your father’s greatest pride wasn’t the Wan Corp balance sheet. It was these. Thirty years ago, during the Old City demolition, these were left by the craftsmen who were forced out of business. Wan Changqing bought their livelihoods with cash, and he bought their silence. But in the logic of the old school: Money can be cleared, but debts of honor cannot. These papers… they are their lives.”

  Just then, a heavy knock echoed through the wooden gate of the old house.

  Boom… Boom-Boom.

  Two fast, one slow. This was the traditional knocking rhythm of Old City, known as “Knocking to Ask the Way.”

  Ruyi tensed, gripping her black folding fan until her knuckles turned white. She stared at the gate, expecting Zhao’s thugs.

  But Dashan straightened his back. “The door isn’t barred. Come in,” he called out, his voice resonating with authority.

  The gate creaked open.

  It wasn’t Zhao’s bodyguards. Standing there was a withered old man, his back slightly hunched, wearing a faded grey work uniform. In his hand, he carried a wooden toolbox—the mark of a master carpenter of Old City.

  “Wan Dashan?” the old man squinted, his voice sounding like gravel grinding together.

  “It’s me, Uncle Wang,” Dashan said. He clasped his fists and bowed deeply—a gesture of respect from a junior to a revered elder, not a CEO to a worker.

  Uncle Wang snorted. “Zhao Tianqi tried to stop me at the alley entrance. Said the Wan family runs on algorithms now. Said I need facial recognition to enter.” He reached into his pocket and slammed a worn, shiny wooden tag onto the table. “I told him: My old face was recognized by Wan Changqing thirty years ago. Today, I heard the Wans are holding a ‘Living Funeral’. I’m here to collect my receipt.”

  Through the crack in the gate, the headlights of Zhao’s SUV pierced the darkness like restless, probing eyes.

  “Uncle Wang, the receipt is here,” Dashan said. He pulled the yellowed paper from the box. But instead of handing it over, he held it directly over the flame of a nearby candle.

  The paper curled instantly, turning into black ash that drifted to the ground.

  “The debt is cleared,” Dashan said, locking eyes with the old carpenter. “But I have a request. For these three days of silence, I need you to gather your old brothers. Guard the entrance of this old house. No guns. No sticks. Just bring your hand planes and ink markers.”

  He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a serious whisper.

  “If anyone tries to rush in based on a few lines of code… show them what ‘Human Scale’ looks like.”

  Uncle Wang stared at Dashan. A strange light flickered in his cloudy eyes. He understood. Dashan was using these old debts to build a “Bio-Firewall” in the middle of a digital desert.

  An algorithm could simulate any logic, optimize any path, and predict any outcome. But it could never simulate the stubbornness of a craftsman protecting his reputation.

  “Good,” Uncle Wang said. He picked up his toolbox and turned toward the gate, his steps heavy and solid. “Wan Changqing never cared for rules in his life. But it seems he spawned a son who understands them after death. I’ll guard this door.”

  At the alley entrance, Zhao Tianqi watched from his car as the hunched figure sat calmly on the threshold of the Wan residence. The old man unhurriedly pulled out an ink marker and began snapping a straight black line across the stone pavement—a traditional boundary line that no machine could cross without permission.

  Zhao tried to make another call. His screen still displayed the icy “No Signal” icon.

  “Mr. Zhao,” his bodyguard whispered nervously. “That old man isn’t moving. Our cars can’t cross that line without triggering… something. And we can’t drag him out without causing a scene.”

  Zhao stared at that simple black ink line. For the first time, he felt a chill run down his spine.

  This wasn’t technology. This wasn’t logic. This was stubbornness. Raw, fleshy, human stubbornness that his algorithms couldn’t compute, couldn’t bribe, and couldn’t delete.

  He realized with growing dread that Dashan wasn’t just hiding behind a wall. He was building a fortress made of people.

  [SYSTEM ALERT: PHYSICAL BARRIER DETECTED.]

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  [BARRIER TYPE: HUMAN WILL.]

  [STATUS: UNBREAKABLE BY DIGITAL MEANS.]

  He burned the debt to buy loyalty. Now, a single carpenter with an ink line is stopping a high-tech convoy. Can Zhao's algorithms calculate 'stubbornness'? Apparently not! ????

  The 'Bio-Firewall' is active. Who will be the next to answer the call? The tailors? The chefs? The opera singers?

  Question: What's the most 'unhackable' thing in your opinion? A password? Or a promise? ??

  Next Chapter: The funeral preparations continue, but Zhao is getting desperate. He might try something... dirty. ??