My Fate Lies with Demons, Not Immortals

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In a certain city of a certain country, in a famous Chinese district where ninety percent of the city's population was Chinese.

The sun was rising, golden rays spilling lavishly into every corner of the city. Countless people, like ants, began another day of toil—some desperately searching for opportunities, others shuffling forward in hesitation—all for the sake of ever-increasing prices and mortgages that would haunt them to their graves.

But in the shantytown, already, small groups were gathering outside various teahouses.

The shantytown, known colloquially as the "village within the city," was the dirtiest, most chaotic part of the city, with a complex social makeup—like a goddess who, for all her glamour, still suffers from hemorrhoids and constipation. No matter how often it was cleaned up, it stuck stubbornly to the city's underbelly, thriving in the shadow of its brilliance.

Two young men in their twenties, sporting hippie haircuts, lit cigarettes and lounged back, propping their feet up so that the front legs of their bamboo chairs bent under the strain. The chairs creaked and swayed, and the two swayed along with them, chatting with relish:

"Only three days left. All these years, there’s never been a case that dragged out this long. Do you think this year's target might actually get away?"

"Get away? You’re dreaming. Ever since that guy started, it’s been one a year—has any family ever gotten away? Even that family who moved into the SWAT compound got their heads cut o