The heart of the slum, "Seven Turns Alley," was so narrow that only a single carriage could pass through alone.
The low shacks stood shoulder to shoulder, vying for cramped space, with the sky relegated to a thin, elongated crack.
Upon entering the alley, Zhang Shuyuan was forced to slow his pace as the once-wide streets narrowed.
Suddenly, seated on the cart, Shen Qing tensed up, gripping the arrow tightly, his heart like the taut string on the bow, his expression solemn.
He ducked to avoid a protruding eave and said, "Xiao Hu, draw the bow to the full, and hide well."
"Okay."
Seeing Shen Qing in such a serious state, Shen Xiaohu quickly placed an arrow on the bow, drew it fully, ready for battle.
The quiet in the vicinity was unnerving.
It gave Shen Qing a bad premonition.
As they turned the first corner, the nag pulled the cart onto a short, straight section of the alley.
Then, Shen Qing saw about six or seven young men leaning against doorways.
