He never had much money, so he used it sparingly, yet somehow lived more comfortably than others. Across the overpass was a housing rental market. Edward Clark thought to himself that he would probably have to move to a place farther away this time; otherwise, if Julia Cooper saw him, it would be a real headache. Fortunately, this city was huge—wandering alone in it was like being a needle in the ocean, not so easy to find.

He walked slowly up the overpass. A child crawled over using both hands, a rice bowl clamped in his mouth, with only a few coins inside. The child’s legs were already broken, propped up on his shoulders, looking unspeakably miserable. Edward Clark's eyes blazed with anger; he took a sharp breath and forced himself to calm down.

When passing by the little boy, Edward Clark didn’t do as others did and toss a coin. Instead, he glanced around, shook his head, went to the roadside to buy a newspaper, and casually found a step to sit on.

Here, the housing rental market was next to the job market. Many students or workers, just like him, flipped through the job listings in the newspaper, searching bitterly for a meager position.

Edward Clark sat there until nightfall. Even the ads for treating psoriasis, venereal diseases, and syphilis he had read twice. At last, the person he was waiting for arrived.

A battered mid-sized van sped over, and two people—one tall, one short—jumped out quickly. The night was dark, perfect for shady business. The two hurried up the overpass, picked up the child, and carried him down. A few passersby, seeing this, hurriedly stepped aside. The two men casually tossed the child into the back of the van as if throwing away a bag of garbage. The van had been modified, with all the back seats removed, clearly to fit more children like this.

“How was it today?” The driver, a man with a scarred face, asked, turning his head.

“Damn it,” one of them cursed. “Not even enough for gas money. People these days have less and less conscience. This kid didn’t work hard enough—no food for him when we get back!”

The child trembled all over but couldn’t say a word.

The two men got into the van and ordered, “Drive, quick. There are a few more to pick up. Damn, what a hassle.”

The three of them passed several more overpasses, picking up a few more children like the first and stuffing them into the van. Some were missing a hand, some had a broken leg, some were covered in sores oozing green pus, emitting a constant stench. Even the two men, used to this, couldn’t help but cover their noses. “Can’t Old Thompson keep them cleaner?” the tall one complained.

“Can you make money if they’re clean?” the short one replied coldly.

“Damn it, they’re so filthy that anyone who sees them just dodges away—how are we supposed to get any money?” the tall one cursed. “Next time, we should suggest this to Big Boss.”

The three of them discussed the business and the issue of conscience in the van, not even glancing at the children behind them. The van twisted and turned, finally entering an alley. They stopped at the gate of a large courtyard and rang the doorbell. After a while, a limping man hurried out and opened the door.

“Just prepare food for five,” the tall one got out and shouted as he walked into the yard. “Not much money today. Some of them didn’t work hard—no food for them.”

A cold voice came from inside, “If you can eat, eat more, because you might not be able to eat in the future!”

All four were stunned and turned around together. They saw a man in an ill-fitting suit and worn-out leather shoes walking in, expressionless, with a pair of mustaches at the corners of his mouth and a slightly dark face.

Edward Clark had already taken off his glasses and changed his appearance. He walked down slowly, and those eyes, which seemed highly nearsighted, were now blazing with fury!

“Who the hell are you to meddle in my business?” the short one cursed, swaggering over. “I told you to get lost, did you hear me? I’ll count to three. One, two…”

“Three.” Edward Clark said coldly. With a wave of his hand, there was a cracking sound, and a scream pierced the night. The short man fainted instantly—his arm had been twisted like a pretzel!

Only now did the three realize this was no one to mess with. The tall one’s voice trembled, “Which line is Big Boss from? We can talk this out!”

As he spoke, he signaled with his eyes. The driver had already circled behind Edward Clark, pulled out a knife, and lunged viciously.

“Talk it out,” Edward Clark replied. Without even looking, he kicked backward. The driver’s knife flew into the air, and the man himself was sent flying, crashing hard into the wall with a loud thud, sliding down like a pile of mud, silent.

The knife spun in the air and landed in Edward Clark’s hand. He casually tossed it, and it pinned the tall man’s leg. The tall man screamed and fell over.

The limping man shuddered, realizing things were bad. He grabbed his crutch and tried to run, but suddenly froze—because Edward Clark was already standing in front of him. A slap sent blood and two big teeth flying from his mouth. “If you don’t want your other leg to end up like those kids’, propped up on your neck, you’d better sit down.”

That was more effective than anything. The limping man’s remaining leg trembled, and he knelt down, sobbing, “Sir, I’m just the cook.” But his voice was muffled and barely understandable.