Futile Devices Scans

He Chusan, hiding behind the signboard of a cart noodle stall, was seized and dragged out by the great boss Xia Liuyi as though an eagle snatching a chick.

“‘Almost home,’ was it?” Xia Liuyi sneered coldly, brows knit.

With gold-rimmed spectacles perched upon his nose, He Chusan gave a solemn explanation, “I hadn’t eaten dinner, so I came here for noodles. I was just about to head back.”

Xia Liuyi slapped him on the back of the head. Damn it—lying through his teeth with eyes wide open! Eating noodles for an entire hour? Who the hell was he trying to fool?!

He Chusan staggered slightly from the blow, yet calmly adjusted his glasses and said, “Brother Liuyi, I still have to work overtime tomorrow, Sunday. I won’t disturb you any further.”

Xia Liuyi struck him hard across the back again, venting his irritation. “Scram!”

Clutching his briefcase, He Chusan obediently “scrammed.” With his recent promotion and pay raise, he had acquired a new suit—crisp, immaculate, lending him the air of a refined professional elite.

Yet his tall, slender frame and solitary figure gave him a faintly desolate air. Step by step, slow and dragging, he walked as though crippled by the two slaps Xia Liuyi had just dealt him.

He deliberately dragged his pace halfway down the street, and sure enough, from behind came two sharp car horns—beep, beep.

Xia Liuyi leaned out of the window, cigarette between his lips, his face full of impatience. “Get in! I’ll take you back.”

……

A-Biao drove, A-Yong sat in the front passenger seat as guard, while He Chusan accompanied the boss in the rear of the Mercedes-Benz, head lowered, silent.

Xia Liuyi nudged him with his foot. “What are you smirking at, you damned brat!”

He Chusan raised his head—sure enough, the corners of his lips were lifted. “Brother Liuyi, how have you been lately? In good health?”

Xia Liuyi snorted. “So-so.”

“That’s good,” He Chusan said. “My father asked after your teeth. A few days ago he kept nagging me—told you not to snack before bed, and to remember to brush your teeth.”

Xia Liuyi’s mouth twitched; at once, his teeth began to ache. With a darkened expression, he snapped, “What the hell does it have to do with him! Has his little shop opened yet?”

“It has. Business is quite good. He even wants to sell fruit now—there’s a whole stockpile at home, we’re running out of space.”

“If there’s no room, move out.”

“Yes, that’s the plan. I work late, he wakes early—it disturbs his rest. And next month I’ll be transferred to Central…”

“Central? Becoming an elite now, are you, He Chusan?” Xia Liuyi teased.

He Chusan cooperated perfectly, lowering his head with a shy expression. “Hardly, hardly.”

Xia Liuyi kicked him again. Damn it—give him an inch and he takes a mile. What’s with this bashful act!

At that moment, a phone rang. A-Yong, seated in front, took out the boss’s brick-sized mobile—only to find it was not the one ringing.

The “elite” He rummaged through his briefcase and produced his own mobile. “Hello?”

“Xiao He?” His tone softened instantly.

Xia Liuyi lit another cigarette and rolled down the window for air.

“…I’ve eaten… not yet, I’m on the way back—Brother Liuyi is giving me a ride… Mm, I’ll pick you up after work tomorrow… anything’s fine, what would you like to eat?… Alright, I’ll try… Oh, right, my father made soup for you—I’ll bring it tomorrow… okay, I’ll tell him…”

Xia Liuyi rolled his eyes toward the window, his cheeks aching from the sweetness—damn it, showing off lovey-dovey nonsense right in front of the boss!

He Chusan flaunted his affection for a full five minutes. Xia Liuyi’s cigarette had nearly burned to the end before he finally closed his phone, dragging his movements as always. “Brother Liuyi, Xiao He sends her regards.”

Maintaining his lofty demeanor, Xia Liuyi merely gave a noncommittal grunt, too lazy to respond.

The car stopped two streets away from He Chusan’s home, letting him off at a distance. He bade Xia Liuyi farewell, walked a few steps, then turned back and tapped on the window.

Xia Liuyi rolled it down.

“Brother Liuyi, take care of your health. And if you go up the mountain, be careful.”

Xia Liuyi waved him off impatiently.

As the car drove away, Xia Liuyi glanced back unconsciously. That damned brat was still standing by the roadside, watching him.

He turned forward again, leaning back into the seat, his mood restless.

“Boss, heading up the mountain?” A-Biao asked.

“No. Home,” Xia Liuyi replied, somewhat weary.

After a pause, he added, “Have someone bring that cake to me.”

That very night of his birthday, Xia Liuyi sat alone at home, drinking beer before the memorial tablets of Qinglong and Xiaoman. He burned the birthday card He Chusan had sent with a lighter, then ate more than half of the fruit cake before falling asleep without brushing his teeth.

The next morning, he awoke with a toothache—this time, a real one.

A week later, it worsened to the point that his entire cheek swelled. Left with no choice, he donned sunglasses and a mask to conceal himself and went to the hospital. There, one of his inferior molars—one of those installed by He’s dentist father last year—was extracted.

Half his mouth stuffed with cotton, saliva pooling, Xia Liuyi lay miserably in the dental chair, listening to the shrill whirring of instruments within his mouth. He longed nothing more than to tie up He Chusan and his father and dunk them into a pig cage… damned brat! Quack doctor!

“These teeth are of poor material and prone to inflammation,” the doctor told him. “Mr. Xia, shall we replace them all at once?”

At this, Xia Liuyi shook his head furiously. Damn it—pulling one already felt like death!

“Boss, just replace them all,” Xiao Ma, who had accompanied him, suggested. “Gold teeth—very stylish!”

Xia Liuyi grabbed the nearby surgical tray and hurled it straight at him.

Xiao Ma fled the operating room in a panic, cursing at the subordinates outside, “Where the hell has that brat surnamed He gone?! It’s been so long since he came to cheer the boss up!”

As for that brat surnamed He—on one hand, he played the game of advancing to retreat with the boss; on the other, he was busy striving in his career. Working in investment banking, and specifically in the booming field of real estate investment, he faced immense pressure, high risk, and staggering returns.

At that time, Hong Kong’s economy was flourishing. The property market soared steadily upward, and young men flocked to the financial world, exhausting themselves in pursuit of wealth. The economic crisis unfolding in Japan, as well as the liquidation of a certain foreign bank in July, brought little shock or warning to the industry.

He Chusan ate at the office, slept at the office—Monday through Saturday, working day and night, spinning like a top. The only reason he had not gone bald after a year was perhaps due to the sets of Taiji he practiced in the break room whenever he found a spare moment.

On the rare Sundays when he had time, he would revive his “Best Actor” talents, donning his father’s old coat, mussing his hair, darkening his complexion, putting on sunglasses, and sticking on a fake mustache. With a small cart of miscellaneous goods, he would push it beneath the office building of Xia Liuyi’s “headquarters” to sell.

He dared not appear openly before Xia Liuyi—but being unable to see him left him restless, itching to the bone. Thus he resorted to this method. Three times he paid protection fees, once Brother Ma even personally bought cigarettes from him—yet his disguise was never exposed.

Xia Liuyi entered the office once in the morning, occasionally left at noon to dine, returned in the afternoon, and went out again in the evening—He Chusan observed it all. Chewing betel nut in a carefree manner to maintain his disguise, yet in his heart, waves of youthful longing surged again and again—a strange way, perhaps, of venting the pressure of his work.

This refined “Elite He” wore an innocent face but harbored shameless thoughts. What he most enjoyed watching was the sequence of movements when the great boss Xia descended the stairs to his car: tilting his head to take a drag of his cigarette, flicking it away, unbuttoning a single button of his suit, then bending to enter the car—

That curve of his backside—no need to mention how striking it was.

What a pity. Back in the days when that man lay bare upon the shabby bed in Jiaolong Walled City, he hadn’t seized the chance to grab hold and knead it a few more times!

……

That year, Hong Kong’s weather was unusually warm. The summer heat blazed fiercely, draining even the street toughs of their vigor—they preferred to wait for nightfall, drinking beer in the cool breeze, playing small games and shouting drinking chants. Xia Liuyi and Fat Seven each lay low, avoiding attention, lying dormant for several months.

By September, however, the Hong Kong Legislative Council introduced its first batch of directly elected members, stirring undercurrents beneath the surface.

Inspector Hua—a highly respected Chief Inspector in Kowloon City, a benefactor and protector to those of the underworld—personally called Xia Liuyi, inviting him and Fat Seven to his residence for a simple meal two days before the Mid-Autumn Festival, on a Saturday at the end of September.

On the surface, it was a farewell banquet before his retirement; in truth, he intended to mediate between the two sides and put an end to their long-standing conflict.

No matter how much Xia Liuyi detested Fat Seven, he could not refuse Inspector Hua’s face. That evening, he dressed formally and set out with two carloads of bodyguards, heading to Hua’s mansion in the Mid-Levels. Located on Hong Kong Island, it lay outside the territories of both Xia Liuyi’s Xiaoqi Hall and Fat Seven’s Hesheng Society—a neutral ground.

Stepping out of his car with a cigarette in his mouth, Xia Liuyi saw Fat Seven alighting from a Bentley across from him, his belly protruding. Xia Liuyi narrowed his eyes in a cold smile; Fat Seven’s slack lips twitched. Around them, bodyguards rested hands on their guns, tension crackling like drawn bows and unsheathed blades.

Inspector Hua, white-bearded and pot-bellied like Fat Seven, emerged from the courtyard with a cigar in his mouth. Without ceremony, he gave Xia Liuyi a heavy slap on the back. “Xiao Liu, my young brother!”

“Inspector,” Xia Liuyi replied respectfully.

“Brother Hua,” Fat Seven greeted.

“Old Seven!” Inspector Hua slapped his back as well. “Inside, both of you! Don’t stand out here glaring at each other!”

By custom, both sides disarmed, bringing only two unarmed subordinates inside. Xia Liuyi brought A-Yong and A-Biao. As he raised his arms at the entrance for inspection, his gaze flickered—and he caught Fat Seven exchanging a glance with the house steward.

A spark of caution ignited within him. Turning slightly, he signaled subtly to Xiao Ma waiting in the car.

Leaning on his platinum cane, Inspector Hua waddled ahead. “I’m old now—it’s time to enjoy peace. I didn’t want to meddle in this affair. But the two of you have made too much noise—do you take this old man for nothing? Tonight, for my sake, both of you behave!”

“Inspector, I have always respected you,” Xia Liuyi said. “Rest assured—so long as Fat Seven does not trouble me, I will not disgrace your face.”

Fat Seven snorted coldly. Inspector Hua stopped and glanced back; Fat Seven lowered his head, reluctantly muttering, “Understood, Brother Hua.”

They took their seats in the second-floor dining hall. Inspector Hua sat at the head, with Fat Seven and Xia Liuyi on either side. Fat Seven plopped himself into the left seat; Xia Liuyi frowned slightly but said nothing.

Also present were Inspector Hua’s wife and younger brother. Madam Hua was a famed socialite among the wealthy, while Hua-Er was a seasoned businessman. Together, they cultivated a warm and harmonious atmosphere. Xia Liuyi handled such occasions with ease, presenting himself as a courteous junior, setting aside past grievances. Though taciturn, Fat Seven also gave face to Inspector Hua and refrained from souring the mood.

“Xiao Liu, I remember when you were young—you and Xiaoman often came to our house. While Qinglong discussed business with Old Hua, I would take you two to make pastries,” Madam Hua said wistfully. “Later, you entered the company, and Xiaoman married. You stopped visiting so often.”

“Work has been busy,” Xia Liuyi replied. “I’ve neglected to pay my respects—my apologies. Xiaoman often spoke of your pastries, saying no matter how she tried, she could never match your finesse.”

Madam Hua lowered her head, wiping away a tear. “Yes… if she were still here, I could teach her again myself.”

Xia Liuyi did not believe that tear entirely sincere—yet his own chest tightened painfully. Without revealing it, he raised his wine cup. “Madam, Inspector—your kindness, Xiaoman remembered, and so do I. Allow me to offer a toast.”

After the toast, Inspector Hua cleared his throat. “Madam, such sorrowful matters need not be mentioned at a gathering like this. Go see if dessert is ready.”

Madam Hua withdrew tactfully. Hua-Er also stood. “Brother, esteemed bosses, I have other matters to attend to. Please enjoy yourselves.”

Once they left, Inspector Hua waved his hand, dismissing the attendants. Xia Liuyi and Fat Seven’s bodyguards also withdrew, standing guard outside.

Now—it was time for business.

Fat Seven wiped his mouth with a napkin. Beneath the table, his hand reached—and found a pistol taped in place with transparent adhesive.

He had never intended reconciliation. His Hesheng Society had operated in Kowloon for over a decade—deep-rooted and powerful. Xia Liuyi, a mere upstart whose beard had yet to grow, dared challenge him. With Inspector Hua nearing retirement, his influence waning, Fat Seven resolved to act decisively—tear off all pretense, eliminate both Xia Liuyi and Hua, and pin the blame on Xia Liuyi.

He had bribed the steward beforehand. The gun beneath the left seat held six bullets—more than enough. Another gun lay hidden in a trash bin outside for his guards. On the rooftop and in the garden, his men lay in ambush, armed not only with guns but gasoline and torches—to burn the entire house and destroy all evidence.

His eyes flicked to the wine glass on the table. The signal had been agreed: once he smashed the glass, his men would storm in—inside and out working in tandem. Xia Liuyi would be lucky to leave behind a corpse.

At that moment, Inspector Hua lit a cigar and began speaking at length, analyzing the broader situation.

“You both know about the legislative changes. Hong Kong is no longer what it once was. In a few years, the lease will expire—Beijing has already put forward many conditions. Among them, the demolition of Jiaolong Walled City. As for my successor, I was meant to choose—but the higher-ups have stalled it. O Bureau has already taken Third Brother Sha, and the ICAC has been making moves. So many eyes are watching—on me, and on you. At such a time, instead of uniting, you fight amongst yourselves.”

Fat Seven scoffed. “Brother Hua, when have my Hesheng Society and his Xiaoqi Hall ever shared the same ‘nest’? Ten years ago, the He clan swore brotherhood, paid respects to Heaven and ancestors—by rank and seniority, his Xiaoqi Hall wouldn’t even cross the threshold! Even Qinglong dared not provoke me! Yet this brat Xia dares cross into my territory—what kind of logic is that?”

“Times change, and heroes are made by circumstance,” Xia Liuyi replied coolly. “Hong Kong is but this small—an open market. Whoever has ability speaks. You claim it’s your territory—did you carve your name into it?”

“Xia Xiao Liu!” Fat Seven roared, seizing the chance—he grabbed his wine glass, ready to smash it.

But Inspector Hua swiftly caught his wrist. “Old Seven, speak properly! Why lose your temper?”

With surprising strength, the aging inspector forced his hand back down, pulling the glass free and setting it in the center of the table.

“If you continue like this, this old man won’t be able to hold you down. If the ‘Old Shopkeeper’ is alarmed, neither side will fare well.”

At that name, both men’s expressions tightened.

The “Old Shopkeeper” was a shadowy figure—heard of but never seen—whose influence permeated both the underworld and the upper echelons of society. All factions paid tribute upward, while he manipulated events from the shadows, tipping the balance between black and white. Those he favored rose to prominence; those he opposed declined into ruin. Advancement or downfall—all lay upon the invisible scale in his hands.

Over the years, Fat Seven had paid tribute through Inspector Hua, yet never once laid eyes upon the man himself. Now, fearing Xia Liuyi might have secured his favor, he hesitated slightly.

“Brother Hua… does the Old Shopkeeper already know of this matter? Did he send you to warn us?”

Inspector Hua chuckled lightly. “He has no time for the likes of you. But if this continues… I cannot say.”

Seeing their hostility ease somewhat, he turned to Xia Liuyi. “Xiao Liu, truth be told, you did cross the line. Old Seven is your senior—you should give him face. We’re all trying to make a living. Each yield a step, and the sea becomes vast. Would it not be better to prosper together?”

That remark struck a nerve. Xia Liuyi sneered. “Prosper together? He did suggest that once. He approached Qinglong for cooperation—wanted Xiaoqi Hall’s ‘goods’ to pass through his fishing docks, taking a share of profits. Qinglong refused. So he incited Xu Ying to seize power—to murder Qinglong!”

At this, Inspector Hua’s expression flickered—just for an instant—before he frowned sternly at Fat Seven. “Old Seven—is this true?!”

“Of course not!” Fat Seven protested loudly, even as his hand once more crept toward the wine glass.

“Xia Xiao Liu, you’re now a boss yourself. If you make accusations, show evidence,” he declared righteously. “Not everyone is tied to your ‘A-Da’s’ death. I say you’ve lost your wits from grief!”

Emphasizing the words “A-Da,” he lifted his glass with one hand, while beneath the table, his other tore at the tape binding the gun. His tone turned mocking.

“I’ve heard—since Qinglong’s death, you’ve never touched a woman. Instead, you’ve been entangled with some male university student. What is it—can’t perform, or do you prefer the ‘back door’? Could it be that you and Qinglong—”

Before he could finish—

“Bang!!”

Blood sprayed as Xia Liuyi seized an ashtray and smashed it violently into his head!

With a dull thud, Fat Seven toppled from his chair. The wine glass fell onto the table once more, rolling slightly before being stopped by a dish. The tape on the gun remained only half-torn, dangling uselessly beneath the table.

Fat Seven collapsed, clutching his split forehead, groaning. Xia Liuyi strode forward, picked up the bloodied ashtray, and smashed it again into his face—blinding one eye outright!

“Xiao Liu!” Inspector Hua shouted.

Xia Liuyi ignored him completely. Grabbing Fat Seven by the hair, he brought the ashtray down once more!

This blow nearly flattened Fat Seven’s nose. The once-dominant brute whimpered like a beast, limbs flailing, blood covering his face as he struggled to rise.

Crouching before him, Xia Liuyi watched with a cold smile as he writhed. Fat Seven convulsed on the ground, groping wildly—one trembling hand reaching toward the underside of the table, grasping for the dangling pistol.

Xia Liuyi rose and stomped on the back of his neck, bending to snatch up the gun. He lifted it, waving it toward Inspector Hua.

“This—?!” the old inspector exclaimed.

“You should change your steward,” Xia Liuyi sneered.

At that very moment, beneath his foot, Fat Seven gathered his last strength—grabbing the table leg and shaking it violently!

At last, one wine glass rolled to the edge—

Crash!

From outside the door, gunfire erupted in response!

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