Chapter Eighteen: Returning to Guangzhou
Escaping the scene, I breathed a gentle sigh of relief. I called Gu Jing, who was far away in Guangzhou, to let him know I would arrive that evening. Unable to leave his commitments, Gu Jing instructed his one and only disciple, Ma Junfeng, to meet me at the airport. I had never heard he had a disciple, but if someone could claim that title, he must be exceptional.
The Dragon Fang organization has always been an enigma I could never shake off.
Since childhood, I’ve felt that someone was secretly watching me, deliberately placing people around me during my school years to instill certain ideas. These ideas weren’t corrupt or sinister, but wherever I went, these people shadowed me relentlessly. This bred resistance, even rebellion, within me.
At fourteen, I discovered I possessed the ability to completely hide my own “aura” and blend in as an ordinary person—a skill that eventually fooled even those observing me. After nearly six years of monitoring, these people saw my abilities vanish and departed in disappointment. But I knew—if ever they learned I still possessed powers, and that I had deliberately concealed them as a child, they would never let me go; measures would be taken.
Since the Ming Dynasty, there have been covert efforts to cultivate those with supernatural abilities—the most notorious being the “Blood Linglong” assassins of the Eastern Depot. Most members possessed unique powers, but under eunuch rule, these men became terrifying killing machines, causing untold suffering.
In the early days of the new republic, the nation invested heavily in cultivating loyal secret departments whose duties involved the most confidential state affairs. Whether protecting leaders or handling secret research, these individuals played crucial roles.
The two most famous secret departments are Dragon Fang and Blade.
Blade’s members are elite among elites, selected from special forces with unmatched skill and intelligence—the special forces of special forces. Each member embodies the nation’s military prowess; few in number, but every one formidable.
Dragon Fang, rivaling Blade in reputation, is shrouded in even greater mystery. No one truly knows its members, but it’s said that even Blade agents retreat when encountering Dragon Fang, though they’ve never truly clashed.
The policy is clear: anyone with the qualifications to join Dragon Fang cannot be recruited elsewhere; they must be bound, lest enemy nations exploit them.
After intentionally concealing my abilities, those monitoring me left disappointed. But after a “shadow incident” in university forced me to use my powers for the greater good, attention on me resumed. Thankfully, I met Gu Jing then—his presence helped me escape a crisis.
I never want to be entangled with Dragon Fang again. Seeing Li Baoguo, I yearned to stay far away and never meet him again. Fortunately, I’d left myself an escape—Old Ren gave me an Interpol identity, allowing me to join the investigation so that even Dragon Fang would struggle to trace me.
Wang, on the other hand, misunderstood my urgency to leave, teasing, “So it turns out someone’s afraid their old romantic escapades will be exposed.”
I didn’t want to argue; I simply urged her to leave. Back at my lodgings, I packed the essentials and my documents, leaving even my suitcase behind. Returning to Guangzhou served two purposes: to avoid Dragon Fang and to check on Tang Xin.
Old Ren’s subordinate, Huang Feng—the slender young man—drove us to the airport. Though Old Ren couldn’t see me off, as I boarded the car, he sent a text: “Li is eager to treat you to dinner. Don’t worry, inviting a distinguished Interpol officer must mean a sumptuous feast. We shouldn’t miss it.”
Reading this, my appreciation for Old Ren grew. He’d understood my predicament—the text seemed ordinary, but subtly indicated that Dragon Fang was very interested in me, while assuring that he would give me a plausible identity to put their suspicions to rest.
Old Ren’s gesture deeply moved me. Thinking back to our first meeting, when I’d treated him with little courtesy, I now felt a pang of shame.
On the way, Wang was unusually well-behaved, sensing my thoughts and not disturbing me. She instead chatted merrily with Huang Feng, whose spirits soared with her presence—his gaze never left her, making me worry about his driving.
Arriving at the airport near noon, we hadn’t eaten yet, so after securing first-class tickets—several times pricier than economy, paid for with Old Ren’s bank card—I felt no guilt; after all, wool comes from the sheep.
Inside the airport restaurant, prices were double those of other high-end establishments, but I didn’t mind. I ordered a bottle of ’72 vintage wine and several “luxurious” dishes—the Dragon Silk Shark Fin Platter alone cost over six thousand. Even a millionaire would blanch at such extravagance, especially after ordering a bottle of ’72 French red; the serving girl regarded me with new respect.
Wang was astonished at my first-class indulgence, unable to believe her eyes. With admiration, she said, “Chang Feng, even if your salary were ten times higher, you’d never splurge like this at work. Today, you’re acting like a nouveau riche.”
I smiled, enjoying the chance to surprise her: “With such a beautiful lady by my side, even if I were penniless I’d play the part of a wealthy suitor. Otherwise, how could I win your heart? I’m sacrificing my future savings, so you’d better eat your fill.”
Wang’s cheeks reddened—unexpectedly, the normally fierce girl now showed a ladylike demeanor, captivating me. My playful words felt genuine and heartfelt.
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Wang, seeing my mesmerized expression, glanced around nervously. With only a waitress nearby, she relaxed and joked, “Where’s this beauty you mentioned? I don’t see her.” To cover her embarrassment, she fixed her gaze on the waitress, intending to make her the scapegoat.
But the waitress, a clever young woman, sensed the situation. Seeing the expensive dishes I’d ordered, she deduced I must be someone important—a wealthy patron or high official. Naturally, her attention was heightened; after all, it’d be the gentleman paying, and a complaint could cost her dearly.
Having overheard our exchange, the waitress smiled and replied, “Miss, the beauty the gentleman referred to is you. In this entire airport, only you deserve that title.”
Her words nearly caused Wang to choke in embarrassment, while I quietly enjoyed her discomfort.
Even aboard the flight to Guangzhou, Wang suddenly saw through me, exclaiming, “So you dared to spend like that because it wasn’t your money—it was Old Liu’s or Ren Changfeng’s!”
I nodded with a smile, “You finally figured it out.”
Her loud cry startled the flight attendants and air marshals, who thought something was amiss. Several passengers glanced over, leaving us somewhat embarrassed until we explained and calm returned.
Wang, hiding behind a newspaper to avoid attention, whispered, “If you have some spare cash, accompany me shopping later—I want some perks, too.”
I agreed and urged her not to pester me, silently mourning the card balance before closing my eyes for a brief rest.
First-class passengers are generally people of status; otherwise, they wouldn’t waste money on such luxury. As I rested, I overheard a whispered conversation two rows behind—a group of passengers discussing “Yamaguchi-gumi,” which caught my attention.
A burly man in his thirties quietly asked, “Mr. Li, should we intervene in Guangzhou’s market? I hear Yamaguchi-gumi has a branch here; I’m concerned they might discover our presence and cause trouble.”
“No need to worry, Brother Long. Xinghua Society’s Brother Huang has already arranged for people at the airport. With them around, Yamaguchi-gumi is nothing. We’re here to break through Tonghai’s defenses and set their back door ablaze—divert their attention, trap Pike and Inuyama in Japan’s rice market so they can’t focus on stocks. Even if Tonghai had ten arms, they wouldn’t dare share information with Inuyama now.”
The three praised the plan and continued their low discussion.
I stopped listening, but the fact that they dismissed “Yamaguchi-gumi” so easily suggested they were no ordinary men.
Yamaguchi-gumi is Japan’s right-wing assassin group, powerful and involved not only in organized crime but also in economics and politics. Wherever there are Chinese communities, Yamaguchi-gumi stirs trouble. Inuyama is a prominent right-wing leader; with the Inuyama and Morita families, they control ninety percent of Japan’s right-wing power.
Morita Mitsuteru, head of Morita Corporation, reportedly jumped to his death after a failed investment in China half a year ago—leaving the Inuyama family with unrivaled influence.
Anyone connected to Xinghua Society must be an insider—and its president, Brother Huang, is my sworn brother, though he rarely returns from America.
Curiosity about these young men grew, prompting me to observe them more closely. Wang noticed and mimicked my actions, though she couldn’t discern anything special.
Our attention made the trio wary. The man addressed as “Brother Long” watched us like a hawk, clearly Mr. Li’s bodyguard. Our actions sparked their suspicion.
Two hours later, the plane began its descent. Upon landing, everyone rushed out, but Wang and I waited, letting others go first.
The trio behind us, sensing our caution, also remained seated. Brother Long’s gaze never left me.
Realizing their suspicion, I smiled and stood to exit. Brother Long moved instantly, shielding Mr. Li behind him—a testament to his professionalism.
Wang, seeing the situation, covered her mouth and giggled, then made faces at the trio, making me both amused and exasperated. I hurried her along, and the trio visibly relaxed once we left.
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Fate, it seems, wasn’t done with us. As the airport shuttle delivered us to the exit, we encountered the trio again—this time, they were on a different shuttle, trailing behind.
Being among the last to exit, few greeters remained. At the gate, a pale young man waved at me—it was Ma Junfeng, Gu Jing’s disciple. Despite his sickly appearance, he was strikingly handsome, his dimples charming as he greeted me respectfully, “Uncle Master.”
Given my close friendship with Gu Jing, this address was fitting. I introduced Ma Junfeng to Wang, who was miffed that he called her “Miss Wang,” feeling as though it placed her a generation below me. Hands on hips, she demanded he try again.
Ma Junfeng scratched his head awkwardly, unsure of Wang’s relationship to me. Wang’s questioning flustered him, and eventually, believing Wang to be my partner, he foolishly called her “Aunt Master.”
Wang was delighted, praising Ma Junfeng as a good child and laughing heartily, oblivious to the implication. After the laughter, she realized the meaning and glared at me, as if she wanted to devour me in revenge.
Ma Junfeng, sensing Wang’s temper, wisely stayed silent and hurried to carry our things, leading us out.
As we exited, we again encountered the trio from the plane—but now their group had grown to eight, all greeted by five men in tailored suits, exuding a cinematic underworld aura.
Our repeated encounters heightened Brother Long’s vigilance. He shielded Mr. Li, signaling two companions to approach us.
One was gaunt, the other tall; their steps measured, carrying a martial rhythm that only comes from profound training. Their ordinary appearances belied their skills.
Assuming we were threats to Mr. Li, they moved to seize Wang and me. I wanted to see who Mr. Li was, to warrant such skilled protection. Brother Long and Mr. Li watched intently.
Before Ma Junfeng could react, the two drew near. Sensing danger, Wang launched a flying kick at the tall man, her fists striking the gaunt one—a fierce double attack.
The tall man, caught off guard by Wang’s sudden assault, remained calm. Forced to withdraw his hands, he absorbed Wang’s kicks with his bare palms, retreating several steps with a muffled grunt—a clear sign he’d suffered a minor setback.
The gaunt man dodged Wang’s punches, refraining from attacking me.
Wang landed gracefully, wary of the gaunt man’s next move. Advancing a step, she spun and delivered a powerful back kick at his chin—a move so flawless and forceful that even I, five meters away, could sense its power.
A stunning kick, brutal in strength; no wonder Wang dared challenge a Japanese karate dojo during her studies in Singapore.
The two bodyguards, though skilled, were no match for Wang. The gaunt man, his face shifting, bent backward to evade the kick, then countered with a hand-chop aimed at Wang’s leg.
Ma Junfeng, now understanding, saw the hand-chop targeting Wang. The tall man behind her produced a yellow paper from his pocket, crushing it into powder. Before anyone could see his movements, the two assailants inexplicably collapsed.
I signaled Ma Junfeng not to harm them further.
With just a few moves, Wang and Ma Junfeng subdued the pair, causing the remaining six to tense up, shielding Mr. Li.
Mr. Li, however, remained composed, gently pushing aside his protectors and calmly praised, “Impressive skills. Remarkable talent.”
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