A series of carefully planned moves, intertwined with several coincidences that seemed almost ordained, brought everyone together on this rainy night at Linwan Pier 5. The situation had grown treacherous and unpredictable, an arrow already drawn to the string and ready to fly at the slightest touch.
Ling He was soaked through as well. At that moment, he looked no more presentable than Yan Xiaodao had when he first crawled out of the river.
Almost as though he were doing it deliberately, Ling He sat beneath the roofed section of the dock, yet left most of his body and both long legs exposed to the pounding wind and cold rain. Somewhere in the not particularly broad or warm depths of his heart, he considered this a kind of loyalty—a way of sharing the same wind and rain, the same hardship, as Yan Xiaodao.
Loyalty was another sentiment Ling He had learned from Xiaodao. In his mind, he pictured Yan Xiaodao running somewhere through the darkness. Even though he could neither see nor touch him, that did not stop Ling He from sending the tiny measure of warmth and tenderness he possessed toward the other man from afar.
A nimble black-clad figure slipped quietly up behind him. “Boss Ling, are you seriously planning to sit here getting rained on all night? I’ve still got an umbrella. Want it?”
Ling He was stubborn. “No.”
“Come on, Boss Ling!” The black-clad kid rubbed his forehead helplessly. “That Mr. Yan should’ve climbed out of the river ages ago!”
Ling He whipped around and glared at his subordinate, his expression plainly asking what Yan Xiaodao had to do with any of this.
“Who do you think you’re fooling? Tch~~~” The smaller black-clad bodyguard deliberately dragged out the sound. Even that unfiltered, mocking way of speaking was true to Boss Ling’s own style. Neither of them had any right to blame the other.
Ling He said nothing. He gazed toward the horizon, fixing his eyes on the brightest star that even the heavy clouds could not hide. He stared at it for a long time without looking away.
The black-clad kid shook his head helplessly, then turned to the other companions lying in ambush behind them and started a collective complaint session. “That’s what you call bringing it on yourself, right? I told you we should hurry down there and fish that Yan guy out, but none of you listened!… What if he got hurt, or his brain was starved of oxygen and he turned stupid? How do you know for sure he could come back up within three minutes? Can he actually swim? What if he hit his head and passed out when he fell?!…”
Some distance from the pier, several cargo ships of ten thousand tons or more were anchored in the deepwater harbor.
Their masts and triangular signal flags were only vague silhouettes against the indigo darkness. Among them was a large gray vessel with a steel skeleton, bearing the insignia of Watanabe Ocean Machinery Heavy Industries.
Ling He’s sharp eyes suddenly locked onto a group coming down the gangway of that ship and followed their movements.
On a stormy night like this, people were still going up and down the vessel, then deliberately taking a patrol boat toward the pier. Sneaking around in the dark like this was anything but normal.
The actual port patrol staff would all be inside at this hour, drinking tea, playing cards, and watching television. Who would come out in weather like this to make rounds?
Ling He narrowed his phoenix eyes with the precision of someone lining up a shot. The instant he recognized the person, he abruptly leaned back and let out a soft “Ah.” Now this was interesting.
Was this simply a coincidence, or had someone delivered himself straight into the trap?
The approaching group was large, bodyguards packed around them on all sides. The person seated in the center was obviously unable to move freely. He had come straight down from the ship in a wheelchair and been carried onto the patrol boat like a sedan chair, while men on both sides held umbrellas over him. Who else could it be but the sack of rotten potatoes who had suffered a heart attack aboard the Cloudtop? In the past two years, Boss Watanabe’s wealth and influence had declined by the day, branch companies closing one after another until his finances were extremely tight. The rotten potatoes were practically sprouting and growing mold, yet he still could not give up the pomp of his entrances and exits. Even on a little patrol boat, he probably wished he could line the stern with a whole circle of dancers from the Mount Fuji Song-and-Dance Troupe to make the occasion suitably grand.
“That’s right, Pier 5! The You family’s large warehouse for valuable goods is here.”
“Our people seize the warehouse first. Then we negotiate with that You bastard… Their family is finished and could collapse at any moment. We don’t need to be afraid he won’t give in and hand over the benefits.”
Watanabe Yangshan and his subordinates kept pointing ahead as they discussed their strategy. Methods like these were hardly uncommon in ports, shipping routes, and even customs operations where management was lax and backroom deals flourished. Whoever occupied a shipment controlled the bargaining chip and could profit by kicking a man while he was down. Business rules were made by people anyway; in the jianghu, whoever was more ruthless and powerful got the final say.
Boss Watanabe had presumably heard rumors from mainland circles that arrests were coming. Tonight he had brought enough men to take advantage of the You family’s collapse and was determined to get what he wanted. Seated on the large patrol boat as it drew closer to the pier, he happened to raise his head and had the vague impression that he had spotted an enemy.
It really was an “enemy.” Unless Boss Watanabe’s aging eyes had failed him, the young man sitting upright in the wind and rain with his hair tied into a ponytail was Young Master Ling, looking for all the world as though he had been waiting for Watanabe to arrive by boat.
Ling He’s face was not one that was easy to mistake, even though he looked unusually bedraggled at the moment. A lock of wet hair hung beside his face, dripping water. Several rivulets ran along his collarbones and down the center of his chest beneath the pale linen shirt. Ling He rarely showed much skin; a man blessed with a face that beautiful had no need to rely on such tricks to draw attention. Yet the damp sea air had made his clothing almost translucent against his body, faintly outlining the lines of his upper torso, while his trousers clung tightly to his long legs.
From across the water, Watanabe Yangshan saw something else as well: astonishingly, Young Master Ling was sitting in a wheelchair just as he was.
The old man instantly seemed to summon several strands of vigorous life back into his half-dead shell. His chest swelled with renewed confidence. As long as Ling He was still as crippled and miserable as he was—no matter how arrogant or capable the man might be, he was still a useless cripple who could not stand—Watanabe felt enormously relieved.
Watanabe snatched the patrol boat’s standard megaphone from beside the driver and shouted, “You brat surnamed Ling! I’ll give you three minutes to get out of here and run! I pity you for having crippled legs at such a young age, so today I won’t sic sharks on you!”
Ling He grew even more striking in the cold rain, his pale skin flushed faintly red from the chill. He sneered. “Mr. Watanabe, apparently you didn’t die thoroughly enough last time. Want to die once more today?”
Watanabe was wary beneath his bluster. “Get out of the way. I didn’t come here looking for trouble with you!”
Ling He tipped his face up and laughed. “Old pig-dog. But I came looking for trouble with you.”
The breath nearly shot sideways out of Watanabe’s ears. Of everyone he had met in his life, this Ling brat was the person whose very existence clashed most violently with his fate, a walking calamity star. Watanabe had never recovered from the terrible humiliation he had suffered aboard the cruise ship. He had gone nearly mad with frustration, repeatedly missing opportunities to get rid of Ling He.
Today might well be Boss Watanabe’s last chance.
His lips trembled lightly as he whispered an order to the bodyguard beside him. “Go ashore. Catch that Ling brat. He’s a wheelchair-bound cripple; he can’t run… Take him alive. I’ll sell him to a brothel in Yokohama and make another profit off him before I finish him off…”
Watanabe had originally come only to plunder and profit, flying the banner of a shipping magnate while behaving like a pirate dividing spoils. He had never intended to run into Ling He.
Ling He, for his part, had originally come only to bait the You father and son into his trap. He had never intended to get in the way of that old coffin-board’s business.
Tonight, Ling He truly had only meant to invite the You father and son to go to the police station and surrender. It was a fallback solution, but a comparatively satisfactory one. You Jinglian was already a turtle in the jar; whether he was caught an hour earlier or later made little difference. Ling He’s board already had chariots, horses, cannons, elephants, advisors, generals, and marshals—every piece he needed. The only thing it did not have was any place for that useless Watanabe. If Watanabe wanted to play the sapper and cross the river, Ling He would have rejected him as a worthless piece.
Yet that stubborn “sapper,” apparently still refusing to accept old age, had now crossed the sea with an oxygen tank and delivered himself right to Ling He’s doorstep.
Ling He maintained his elegant, leisurely seated posture and did not turn around. Only his vocal cords moved slightly as he gave a quiet order. “Watanabe brought quite a few people. We’ll have to move ahead of schedule.”
Naturally, Ling He had forces of his own that he had spent years preparing. Behind him, one capable man after another was half-hidden in corners around the pier.
The black-clad kid sounded completely calm and confident. “Don’t worry, Boss Ling.”
Ling He had long since grown accustomed to being mocked by these people and actually sounded mild in response. Still not entirely reassured, he reminded them, “This is a mainland port, not overseas. Don’t hit too hard.”
The black-clad kid grumbled sullenly, “We even have to hold back when fighting! If I’d known this would happen, I would’ve ripped off his oxygen mask on the Cloudtop and let him die then. We wouldn’t have this trouble now!”
Back aboard the Cloudtop, Young Master Ling had appeared to be alone, trapped in danger with his life hanging by a thread. Who knew how many people he had secretly planted on that ship? Two of them had even happened to be staying next door to the economy cabin Yan Xiaodao had booked. Ling He had pretended to be crippled yet unyielding, aloof and proud. In the end, what he had been plotting for was Yan Xiaodao himself… By now, though, he no longer had any need to disguise himself as weak.
Someone aboard the patrol boat gave a low command. Before the boat had even properly reached the dock, seven or eight fierce-looking, agile figures suddenly burst into motion, stretching out ape-like arms as they leapt onto the deck one after another. Their combined weight nearly punched a crater into the plank decking. The whole group came in ferociously, charging straight toward Ling He’s position.
The lead attacker’s claw-like hand was only a few meters from Ling He, who still sat calmly in the wheelchair, when a leg suddenly shot out of the darkness and kicked him. The defender planted both palms against the ground and launched himself upside down in an uncanny movement, sending the attacker flying more than ten meters.
In an instant, the troops hidden in the darkness all sprang out. In front of Young Master Ling they formed a protective line like a coiling serpent, and the two sides collided head-on.
Both groups wore mostly black. An outsider watching the scene would not have been able to tell which men belonged to which side. Both sides also possessed the professional discipline of experienced fighters: no one shouted, no one wasted time with greetings, and there was none of the ceremonial fist-saluting nonsense seen in movies. The fighting began the moment they met.
An experienced eye, however, could still distinguish the two styles. The attackers came in with savage force, unconcerned about killing, their strikes falling like a violent storm without restraint. The defending side moved under strict command, its layers of attack, defense, advance, and retreat clearly organized. They deliberately held back from lethal moves, so on the surface they seemed to be yielding ground little by little, almost as though they were about to lose the line.
In the darkness there were only dull impacts of fists and legs colliding and the faint movement of shadows. No challenges were shouted, no uproar rose. For the moment, no one elsewhere on the relatively deserted rain-soaked pier realized that a full-scale battle was already unfolding here.
Ling He studied the attackers with mild surprise and silently evaluated them. The men Boss Watanabe had brought this time were no ordinary thugs. Their punches and kicks followed strange, elusive patterns, mixed with evasive footwork and shifting techniques resembling Japanese ninjutsu. They were particularly suited to fighting at night in confusion—and some of them even used concealed weapons with vicious cunning.
Ling He knew this was going to take some effort.
Boss Watanabe had apparently learned from his previous loss and, at the last minute, found himself a handful of ragtag but troublesome Japanese fighters.
Ling He still had enough leisure to pick up the thermos by his feet. A young master needed a few sips of warm water to soothe his throat before fighting. Then he popped a throat lozenge into his mouth and crushed it between his teeth, leaving behind the cool, fresh taste of chrysanthemum, rock sugar, and mint to counter the smell of blood that might soon irritate his throat.
The patrol boat had reached the pier. Seeing that his side appeared to have the advantage, Watanabe confidently ordered his men to carry him onto the deck. His bloodshot eyes gleamed with excitement as he signaled one of his closest bodyguards.
Watanabe Yangshan knew nothing about Ling He’s recent condition. Naturally, Yan Xiaodao’s men were hardly going to send Watanabe a notice saying, Our Young Master Ling can walk.
Insisting on crowding right into the middle of a fight—now that was taking a shortcut straight to your own death, Ling He grumbled inwardly. He let out a breath, gripped both sides of the wheelchair, and began to exert strength through his legs…
A Japanese fighter carrying a bizarre concealed weapon had already forced his way close. Just as Ling He was about to rise, he suddenly felt a rush of air behind his head.
Someone was attacking from behind, moving toward him with astonishing speed. Until that instant, the attacker’s steps had been deliberately concealed, light as someone skimming over water, and the rain itself had masked them completely. Ling He suddenly found himself caught between enemies in front and behind, neither of whose true methods he yet understood—and both were already within arm’s reach.
With Ling He’s usual overwhelming confidence, hesitation was never part of his way of fighting. As the Japanese fighter nearly released the tiny, razor-edged concealed weapon, Ling He abruptly surged upward. His eyes were viciously precise and the strength in his fingers formidable. Two fingers caught the toothed edge of the weapon with astonishing accuracy, then drove it straight back into the attacker’s palm.
The opponent cried out in pain. At the same time, Ling He completely lost his balance and fell out of the wheelchair. Once he committed to the attack, there was no longer any way to evade the strike coming from behind; all he could do was let himself fall toward the slick deck.
Ling He had already prepared himself to take the heavy blow across his back. Yet when he turned his head, he collided with a profile scarcely two inches from his own and froze in shock.
Ling He was also someone who preferred to keep everything firmly under his control, the sort of man accustomed to holding other people as chess pieces between his fingers. He did not like surprises in the slightest. Yet now he found himself swept into the protective curve of this person’s arm. The face he was obsessed with was equally murderous at that moment, carrying the baleful aura of an Asura. A soaked shirt outlined every taut muscle in the man’s arm, while a cold flash of steel cut through the rain.
The person Ling He saw was Yan Xiaodao.
Yan Xiaodao was the man who had attacked from behind. With a sweep of his right hand, he pushed Ling He out of the immediate danger zone and entered the battle like an unexpected reinforcement. A point of cold light circled the Japanese fighter’s right shoulder. The movement was too fast to follow. The man shuddered violently, then staggered backward, his feet tangling as his heavy steps failed to keep pace with his instinct to survive.
It had happened in an instant. The slender Asura blade in Yan Xiaodao’s hand had stripped the man’s right side of its fighting strength. He had not gone too far; tendons and bones remained intact, the force calibrated with perfect precision. Blood began welling from the man’s shoulder.
Yan Xiaodao turned and looked deeply at Ling He to make sure he was safe, then wheeled back around to meet another fighter rushing in to rescue his companion—Henchman No. 2.
Ling He stood in the rain on the dock, his body straight and faintly rigid, his empty gaze apparently fixed somewhere far away. Yet if someone had taken a close-up of his face at that moment, the only thing darting and spinning through his jade-green irises would have been Yan Xiaodao’s figure.
Around him, the entire background dissolved into a blur of nothingness in the rain mist. In his eyes, there had only ever been Yan Xiaodao.