The mud of the Thames held the blood Zheng Qian had shed in his previous life. In 1875, the Razor Gang held him under the murky water. As his throat filled with coal-dusted river water, only the twin-fish jade pendant around his neck burned hot.
When he opened his eyes, he was at Imperial College in 1873. Brass instruments in the laboratory gleamed coldly, and a fog warning sounded outside the window. He had been given another life, with the memories of two lifetimes and a hatred etched into his bones.
This time, mechanical blueprints would be his blade, and steam engines his shield. From the laundries of Limehouse to the warehouses at St Katharine Docks, from the razors of Irish immigrants to the heart of power in the British Empire, he would grind everything he had lost to pieces beneath gears and blood, then build a new order for the Chinese with his own hands.
When the Black Dragon opens its eyes, all of London will hear the roar of turning steel.
