From the vantage point of space, Donglin was a beautiful world. Azure oceans stretched across its surface, endless green plains unfolded like ancient scrolls, and even the ghostly pale scars of its vast mining pits shimmered with a kind of melancholy beauty, softened by the starlight diffused through high-altitude dust—like an oil painting left undisturbed for centuries, veiled beneath the dust of time.
But to the residents of Donglin District, and especially to its orphans, this planet meant one thing only: stone. Just stone. Even those vast fields of green, to their hardened, numbed eyes, were nothing more than patches of grass spread over the bones of a glorious but long-lost age. What they saw was never the surface—but what lay beneath. Ore veins. That was all that mattered.
On paper, Donglin held the same administrative level as the gleaming central planets of the Capital Ring and the mighty Xilin District. Officially, it was a Tier-2 Federal District. In the hearts of most citizens, however, Donglin had long since fallen off the map. Other than a token appearance during the Federation's 600th anniversary celebration, Donglin might as well have ceased to exist.
Donglin District consisted of a single planet: Donglin. A fact that might seem trivial, until one realizes the district was named after this very planet—suggesting that, in some distant epoch, this lonely world on the edge of the Triangulum System once held immense importance for all of humanity.
But the moment Donglin's rich veins of ore ran dry, it began to wither. Now, all that remained was rock. No minerals. Just barren stone.
Those who had the means to leave had done so long ago—using their skills, savings, and the help of relatives in the Capital Ring or Xilin to secure relocation permits. They boarded dwindling flights, powered by ever-scarcer fuel, fleeing the lifeless decay.
Of course, most didn't qualify for those precious permits. Even half-abandoned, Donglin still had mouths to feed. In this advanced society, starvation was no longer a pressing concern. Social welfare kept people afloat; money still flowed. There were still corporations, airports, food plants, mech depots, data centers—even a military base.
Donglin had all the trappings of modern civilization. But none of its spirit.
An old scent lingered here—of dust, of death. It oozed from the streets, clung to every building, and etched itself onto the faces of idle men sipping coffee and watching TV, faces devoid of purpose.
For millennia, Donglin's mines had nourished the Federation like an artery carrying lifeblood. But now, as that artery shriveled to a foul trickle, the aid trickling back from the Federation was painfully inadequate. Survival alone, it turned out, was not the same as living.
Generations of Dongliners had forged a culture of endurance, of labor and sacrifice. Not even the endless disasters of the ancient mining era had broken them. But now, facing a world without ore, without purpose, they felt only a bitter sorrow. Even the disasters were preferable to this. At least back then, they had something to fight against.
Once called "the Stones of Donglin" for their resilience, the people were now truly becoming stone—silent, cold, unmoving. They sat like statues in their armchairs and sofas, carved from habit and defeat.
"Soap operas are all it takes to pacify the ignorant," thought Deputy Chief Bao Longtao of Hexi State's Second Police Bureau. Grim-faced, he walked through the chilly air of Clocktower Street, watching the vacant expressions of locals sipping their drinks in corner bars.
He was one of Donglin's stones himself. His face, like carved granite, never showed a hint of warmth. In the criminal underworld that haunted this street, his presence was enough to inspire fear. Black market vendors would scatter the moment they spotted his black uniform approaching—especially with seven subordinates flanking him like an honor guard.
But today, a jolt ran through him as he remembered the three reporters trailing behind.
With a subtle grimace, he buttoned his collar, turned with slow deliberation, and gave the mic-holding female reporter a smile so stiff it looked like a weathered statue cracking at the corners.
"Public safety on Clocktower Street has always been well-maintained…" he said, striving to sound measured and respectable. This was an assignment from the Governor's Office. He couldn't afford to look unprofessional.
Sensing his awkwardness, the public relations officers with him quickly stepped in, smoothly taking over the conversation. Bao exhaled quietly and shook his head.
He'd been stationed in Donglin for thirteen years now. According to federal policy, he needed seven more before becoming eligible for transfer back to the Capital Ring or Xilin. But he was growing desperate. Was he really going to spend the next seven years like the unemployed miners, passing time in front of a screen?
The rules were strict: promotions were fast in Donglin, but no one left before their time. Even with a few distant connections in the aristocracy, Bao was too small a fish to count on their help.
That left only one option: results. Which was exactly why he was bringing the press to Clocktower Street.
His brief moment of melancholy shattered into alarm.
He didn't hear the reporter's next question. His gaze—sharp as a blade—swept past her shoulder, locking onto the four intersections at the ends of Clocktower Street.
The reporters noticed his sudden shift. His expression had darkened into something almost inhuman, like a moss-covered stone dragged from a riverbed after decades in the dark.
They followed his gaze—and gasped.
A soft wind swept across the quiet street. Then, from all four alleyways, came a wave of footsteps. Uneven, unsynchronized, but far too numerous to count. The sound swallowed the street like a rising tide.
Then they appeared. Dozens—no, over a hundred—youths surged out from every corner, flooding the sidewalks, blocking the intersections. Pedestrians and police alike turned to stare. Even the usual coffee-sipping residents looked up from their drinks, startled.
They were teenagers. The oldest looked fifteen, some barely ten. Their faces were still smudged with dirt.
They wore mismatched clothes, but every single one was dressed in black—black jackets, black shirts, black uniforms. One kid, clearly lacking anything truly black, had thrown on an ancient, dust-covered work shirt caked in coal ash.
They marched toward the center of the street—toward Bao and the reporters—with grim determination. Their numbers, their color, their silence—it was almost absurd. And yet it was impossible not to feel the weight of their presence.
Instinctively, Bao stepped forward, eyes narrowing at the boy in front. He recognized him.
The reporter stepped back, her eyes flicking nervously between the kids, wondering what the hell was going on—and whether she was in danger.
"What do you think you're doing here? Don't you have school?" Bao bellowed. His voice had once made gang leaders wet themselves. Today, the boys just sneered in unison and said nothing.
The leader, a boy far too mature for his years, stared Bao down with calm defiance. "We have the right to petition," he said.
"Petition?" the reporter perked up, sensing a story. Her heavily made-up face leaned closer, voice trembling. "What's your demand?"
The boy didn't answer. Instead, he raised his fist.
All at once, seven or eight banners unfurled behind him, hoisted by other kids. The bold, hand-painted slogans blazed like fire:
"Down with Regional Protectionism!""No More Signal Censorship!""We Want Channel 23!""We Want to Watch Jian Shui'er!"
The smallest boy, his face still smeared with grime, wiped his cheek and began shouting slogans with a cracked little voice—his indignation both pitiful and bizarrely endearing.
The female reporter had been ready to capture the scoop of her career.
But as she read the slogans, she froze.
Utterly confused, she turned to Bao. "Who… who are these kids?"
Bao's jaw clenched, teeth grinding. His voice dropped to a furious growl:"Damn orphan brats."