Chapter Seven: Gui Lirong, the Tiger of Nanshan

By the window on the fourth floor of the triad headquarters, Uncle Wen peered down at the street below.

"This kid Yang Sheng really knows how to beguile people," he remarked. "Your average street thug doesn't have that kind of talent. Boss, what if Yang Sheng actually manages to take out Luo Rong this time?"

Uncle Chang squinted slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. "If he actually manages to kill Luo Rong, wouldn't that just bring glory to our Hong Sheng Lian? Don't worry, this boy won't be making any waves. As long as the three of us haven't stepped down, anyone who wants to rise to the top must first have our approval."

When newcomers rise, the old guard must fade away. The three elders of Hong Sheng Lian had held the reins for over twenty years, and they were far from ready to retire.

Down below, Yang Sheng had quickly selected four men, in addition to Ghost Wen. Two of them, recommended by Ghost Wen, were among the most capable fighters among the Hong Sheng Lian foot soldiers.

One was called Leopard Head—a tall, fierce-looking man. Although he lacked formal combat training, he made up for it with raw strength and a willingness to fight dirty. The other, Dilu, looked somewhat handsome, though he sported dyed yellow hair and an earring, giving him the air of a typical street hoodlum. However, Yang Sheng studied him thoughtfully for a few moments. The guy clearly had training; his steps were powerful and his frame held a natural, upright posture, even as he tried to mimic the slouching gait of the other thugs.

Ghost Wen leaned in, looking quite excited. "Hey kid, how are we going to do this? Do we need to disguise ourselves and sneak into Luo Rong's headquarters to assassinate him?"

Yang Sheng’s mouth twitched slightly. He was now certain that Ghost Wen had volunteered simply because his hands were itching for a fight.

"This is a triad hit, not a spy mission. Why would we disguise ourselves? We're going to storm the place."

Dilu scratched his head. "Brother Sheng, isn't that a bit too brutal?"

Yang Sheng said in a low voice, "It is exactly that brutal. Tell me, if you were in Luo Rong's shoes, would you ever expect a dying organization like Hong Sheng Lian to come for your life in the middle of the night?"

The others shook their heads. In fact, some were beginning to feel a pang of regret, wondering why they had been so impulsive in volunteering for such a lethal mission.

Yang Sheng spread his hands. "You wouldn't expect it, and neither will Luo Rong. Luo Rong is the Mong Kok '揸fit人' (boss) for the Ying Lian Society, but his influence has extended across the entire Yau Tsim Mong district, so his men are spread thin. At this hour, he'll definitely be at his headquarters in the Fulong Building. The building's layout is narrow, so numbers won't matter. The six of us are enough to block the corridor—three in front, three in back. As long as we kill Luo Rong with maximum speed, we have a chance of making it out alive."

Seemingly infected by Yang Sheng's confidence, the others began to steady their nerves. They wrapped their weapons in newspapers and hid them under their clothes, ready to depart. This was a common tactic in triad warfare; otherwise, walking around with a machete would surely earn them an invitation to the police station for tea.

Dilu carried a kukri—a Nepalese machete. Leopard Head didn't use a blade, opting for an alloy baseball bat; it suited his style and wouldn't draw as much heat from the cops. When Yang Sheng glanced at the weapon Ghost Wen had chosen, he let out a soft exclamation of surprise. It was a pair of forty-centimeter-long, straight bayonets, the handles marked with barbs, looking like relics from another era.

"Are those Japanese Arisaka bayonets?" Yang Sheng asked, puzzled. He had only ever seen them on television.

Ghost Wen nodded. "Yeah. I saw them at Uncle Wen's place and asked for them. They say one of our Hong Sheng Lian’s legendary 'double-flower' fighters killed two Japanese soldiers during the occupation and seized these. Word is, over a dozen traitors and soldiers have died by these blades since then; they terrified the Japanese enough that they wouldn't dare patrol that street in groups of fewer than five. Man, using a Jap's own weapon to kill them—just thinking about it is a thrill."

Yang Sheng nodded. Hong Sheng Lian had once seen glorious days. In terms of pedigree, they were direct descendants of the Hongmen, tracing their history back to the transition between the Ming and Qing dynasties. During the Japanese occupation, many Hong Kong triads had either collaborated for profit or out of cowardice. But Hong Sheng Lian had refused to join them, instead engaging in underground resistance and assassinating many Japanese officers and traitors. Their disciples were once so wanted that they were forced to move their operations into the shadows.

In that era, many of Hong Sheng Lian’s greatest fighters died under Japanese gunfire, losing nearly ninety percent of their elite. By the time Japan surrendered, the organization had fewer than a hundred members left, marking the start of their decline. Because their best fighters had been decimated, those who remained were largely weak and incapable, failing to seize the opportunities for growth and letting the organization wither until today. If only they had managed to keep a leader like Chai Hongtu, they might not have ended up in this state.

"By the way, kid, aren't you going to use a weapon?" Ghost Wen asked, looking at Yang Sheng curiously. You don't go to a fight empty-handed, do you? Unless you're using your fists?

Yang Sheng thought for a moment. "Do we have a three-edged spike? Help me find one."

The essence of traditional martial arts lay in weapon combat; in fact, many early styles were derived from weaponry. Modern schools all had specific weapons to match their techniques—the Bagua used knives, while the Xingyi used spears. Yang Sheng, however, hadn't invested much time in this, as he had originally learned martial arts solely for revenge. He couldn't exactly carry a massive Guan Dao into the Lin Group's headquarters to settle a score. Even when he did study weapons, it was only a shallow dabbling, mostly focused on short-range gear. Among those, the three-edged spike was what he had practiced the most and was most proficient with.

After securing a three-edged spike, the six of them hailed a taxi and headed toward the Fulong Building.

At that moment, on the sixteenth floor of the Fulong Building, in a lavishly decorated office, Luo Rong sat in his executive chair, cursing angrily.

"Damn whore! Your technique was so trash you almost bruised my 'little brother'! Do you want me to throw you into Portland Street for some advanced training?"

The woman, gagging and sobbing, pleaded, "Please, no, Brother Rong! I'll pay back the money as soon as I can!"

Luo Rong pulled up his trousers, lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and waved his hand impatiently. "One month, at most. If you can't pay, I'm sending you to the brothels."

As the most powerful boss in the Ying Lian Society, Luo Rong wasn't the best fighter; in fact, he was arguably the weakest. He had started as a paper fan (strategist) and couldn't even fight as well as a common foot soldier. He had reached his current scale for one reason: he was rich—very rich.

Luo Rong had built his fortune on usury, earning him the nickname "Usurer Rong." While other triads relied on protection money or drug dealing, Luo Rong had long since turned his eyes elsewhere. From loans to finance, from counterfeit clothing and bags to pirated discs, and even the film industry—he had a hand in everything. It was precisely because he had money that he could support so many henchmen and dare to challenge the head of the Ying Lian Society, Chai Jiu.

As he turned to leave, a "thumping" sound came from the next room. Luo Rong knocked on the door and shouted, "Ah Hui, stop the boxing for the night! If you don't need sleep, your boss does!"

The door pushed open, and a tall youth, nearly 1.9 meters in height, stepped out. He had a lean, sharp face and a sinister expression. His forearms and hands were wrapped in white linen, and he was shirtless, beads of sweat dripping from his well-defined muscles. Tattooed on his chest was a ferocious beast with dragon horns, looking like a wolf. Every time a bead of sweat rolled over the beast’s crimson eyes, it looked as if the creature were blinking—it was chillingly eerie.

This was Luo Rong’s true right-hand man, Yao Hui—the "Southern Mountain Tiger" of the Ying Lian Society’s three tigers.

Yao Hui was an orphan. His father had abandoned his mother, and she had eventually passed away from illness because they couldn't afford medicine. In Hong Kong at the time, there were countless orphans like him, and only a few ever made it into the Po Leung Kuk; Yao Hui had spent his life wandering the streets. Once, Luo Rong had seen Yao Hui being beaten bloody by a gang for stealing half a roast goose, yet the boy hadn't let out a sound, stubbornly chewing the meat even as he was pummeled. Impressed by the boy's toughness, Luo Rong had given him a bowl of roast pork rice and asked if he wanted to follow him. Since then, Yao Hui had been his shadow, eventually rising to become a double-flower fighter.

Luo Rong had valued Ruan Feng only because he could fight, but he never truly trusted that Vietnamese man. His true confidant had always been Yao Hui. Yao Hui’s room was right next to his office; even when Luo Rong was with a lover, it was Yao Hui who stood guard outside.

"I called the three old fossils at Hong Sheng Lian earlier and told them to hand someone over. Knowing those geezers, they won't have the guts to stand up to me. I'm going to sleep. If Hong Sheng Lian shows up to deliver the guy, don't wake me—just take the bastard and throw him in the harbor. Damn it! I spent over a million on that Ruan Feng guy, pulling strings with the other bosses to get him a double-flower position, and this is what I get. What a massive loss. That Vietnamese punk was a total waste—got beaten to death in the first round of the tournament. All he could do was talk tough!"

Luo Rong grumbled as he went back to his room. His office in the Fulong Building was incredibly luxurious, with a massive bedroom in the back.

Yao Hui closed the door. He didn't go back to boxing. Instead, he unzipped the punching bag he had been hitting—the one that was slowly seeping blood. Inside the bag was a person, beaten to such a bloody pulp that their features were no longer recognizable.