Chapter Twenty-Two: The Hong Sect

After a long conversation with Gu Jing, I brought up the events in Xi’an, especially mentioning the scientists who had been killed. This made Gu Jing’s brow furrow deeply, and when I spoke of the chrysanthemum petals, his lips twitched ever so slightly. He said, “Chrysanthemum—could it be the Nine Chrysanthemum?”

Hearing the name Nine Chrysanthemum, a heavy gloom settled in my heart, and I replied in a low voice, “Let’s hope it isn’t them.” It seemed I really needed to look into this matter further.

Not many people know about the Nine Chrysanthemum—much like the Dragon Fang organization, which is also shrouded in secrecy. Nine Chrysanthemum, formally known as the Nine Chrysanthemum Sect, is the most mysterious department of Japan’s right-wing organizations. It’s similar to our own secret group, Dragon Fang. The most famous department in Japanese right-wing circles is the Yamaguchi-gumi, but compared to the Nine Chrysanthemum Sect, Yamaguchi-gumi is but a child playing at adult games.

Dragon Fang nurtures those born with supernatural abilities, drawing out their inherent powers and training them to unlock even greater strength. Nine Chrysanthemum operates similarly in that regard, but what makes them even more forbidding is that they cultivate not only those with innate abilities, but also ordinary people. Around the Tang Dynasty, a disciple of the Maoshan Sect journeyed to Japan to spread the teachings; the Nine Chrysanthemum Sect was born at that time, making it, in a way, a branch of Maoshan. However, its practices have become so twisted that its members are not only gifted with powers but also versed in esoteric arts. No one wishes to tangle with them. Even America’s counterterrorism units, if they encounter someone from the Nine Chrysanthemum, will avoid a confrontation at all costs.

So, hearing mention of this sect, I wanted nothing to do with them. I hoped it wasn’t their doing—otherwise, another fierce battle would be inevitable.

At least I had gained a few leads. I called Old Ren and told him about the Nine Chrysanthemum, asking him to have Interpol investigate any information on the sect. After a long silence, Old Ren finally said, “If it really is the Nine Chrysanthemum Sect, even if it costs us everything, we cannot let them run rampant in our country.”

I couldn’t help but admire his words; I had grown to truly respect Old Ren. Since he dared to speak so boldly, I was determined not to fall behind. It’s just a Japanese sect—a branch of Maoshan, after all—and here I am, a direct disciple of Maoshan. Why should I fear them?

Time was short, and I couldn’t linger with Gu Jing any longer. I said my farewells, needing to press on with my investigation into Tang Xin’s affairs before nightfall made things more difficult. Gu Jing, busy himself, bid me goodbye, and Ma Junfeng drove me back downtown.

Six o’clock was the busiest hour, the time when all of China seemed most alive. Workers heading home, shoppers buying groceries, and those bustling through the night markets—all preoccupied with their own lives.

I found refuge in a KFC near Tianhegang Top, settling into a quieter corner to savor my dinner. People say McDonald’s and KFC are junk food, but the aroma of fried chicken is irresistible. Even if it’s junk, few Chinese fast food places can match the fragrance of KFC’s fried chicken. For someone tired from days of work, even junk food tastes like a delicacy.

Wang Tingting called to ask where I was, and I told her I was at KFC with a family bucket. Hanging up, she arrived in less than ten minutes—her efficiency rivaled even the police, despite the city’s notorious traffic jams.

The real trouble was that I’d barely eaten two pieces of chicken before she arrived and devoured most of the rest without a hint of restraint. She tackled the meal with both hands, munching on wings and sipping cola through a straw. The pretty girl behind the counter, who had been eyeing me, stared in astonishment at Wang Tingting’s voracious appetite. We ordered another bucket and finally felt satisfied.

After wiping the grease from her lips, she even ordered an ice cream cone. I couldn’t help but question if she was really a girl, blurting out, “With an appetite like yours, who would dare marry you?”

“None of your business,” she shot back with a mocking glare. “There’s some progress on Tang Xin’s case, but the timeline means I only managed to find partial information.”

“Oh,” I replied, somewhat embarrassed. After all, she’d been running around to help me, so it wouldn’t do to complain about her eating. Yet I couldn’t show too much concern, or she’d become smug.

Feigning indifference, I sipped my cola, which made her anxious. “Don’t you want to know about him?”

I took a slow drink and said lightly, “Tang Xin is my student. I probably know more about him than you do, but go ahead—tell me what you found, maybe you’ll have something I don’t.”

No sooner had I finished speaking than Wang Tingting slapped the table, pointed at my nose, and fumed, “You’re too much! You had information and didn’t tell me—I’ve been running all over for this!”

“Shh, keep it down.” I glanced around; the nearby tables were all watching us. I smiled apologetically and shrugged helplessly. A gentleman whispered to his companion, “Looks like a couple quarrel—he’s the type afraid of his wife. He’s in for it tonight.”

Though whispered, his comment reached my ears. I was thick-skinned and felt no embarrassment; instead, I chuckled and stared at Wang Tingting.

She must have heard too, for her face flushed crimson all the way down her neck. But she handled it better this time, swallowing her anger instead of making a scene. I secretly rejoiced—if we’d been alone, I might have laughed out loud.

To cover her embarrassment, she deliberately switched the topic to Tang Xin, which suited me just fine.

According to Wang Tingting’s findings, Tang Xin’s family is from a place called Xia’ang Town in Huzhou, Zhejiang. I’d heard of Xia’ang—it’s about 13.6 kilometers south of Huzhou, on the east bank of the East Tiaoxi River, a classic Jiangnan water town and a rising community since the reforms. The town is famous for its aquaculture.

Tang Xin’s family is considered moderately well-off, but he had an aunt who doted on him since childhood. When she accompanied him to school during his high school years, she inexplicably developed what doctors call “madness.” Tang Xin felt guilty, as if her illness was somehow his fault. At the time, reports suggested that those with schizophrenia should seek treatment from psychologists. Four years ago, Tang Xin entered university and chose psychology as his major—perhaps for this reason.

Though Tang Xin hadn’t graduated, his performance in school surpassed many so-called psychologists.

He was popular at school and had a cheerful, though not overly lively, personality—steady and sensible. He managed relationships well and was well-liked.

According to Wang Tingting, Tang Xin returned home last week, and when he came back, he seemed slightly off but emotionally stable. The day before the incident, his roommate noticed Tang Xin read a news article, then called someone and left. He never returned—this was when the incident happened.

Wang Tingting was thorough—she even managed to track down the number Tang Xin had called. With her background, it was hardly surprising; her father is the president of Shengmin Pharmaceuticals, worth nearly a billion, and her uncle is the chief of Guangdong’s Public Security Bureau. No one is better suited to dig up such information.

When she handed me the number, it looked oddly familiar, but I couldn’t place it. The simplest solution was to call and ask, but if Tang Xin’s disappearance was linked to this person, calling would alert them.

After explaining her findings, Wang Tingting pressed me, “That’s all I found—how does it compare to what you know?”

Truth be told, most of what I knew about Tang Xin was just what she’d said. I feigned composure, laughed awkwardly, and hurried to say, “About the same, about the same.” Seeing her looking aggrieved, I softened and praised her, “You’re amazing—your information is much more detailed than mine.”

Her expression finally brightened a little.

It was six thirty, two hours before nightfall. Guangzhou had entered summer, and darkness came late.

With two hours left, I needed help from someone. Without asking, I pulled Wang Tingting outside and hailed a taxi, heading for Shangxiajiu Commercial Street. She didn’t ask where we were going—she knew she’d find out soon enough, so she just followed.

It took nearly twenty minutes to reach Shangxiajiu. To guard against any mishaps, I called Gu Jing and asked him, if necessary, to perform a soul-summoning ritual to save Tang Xin.

The cab had barely started when my phone rang. The caller ID showed it was District Weiye. He asked me to come over urgently—he needed my help. For someone of his stature and power to seek help from others was unusual. Fortunately, his place was close, less than ten minutes away, so I told the driver to change course.

District Weiye’s empire was vast; most criminal organizations infiltrate all levels of society, but few reach his level. I used to joke that he majored in “organized crime” at university—how else could he thrive in this industry?

He laughed and told me the secret to his gang’s strength.

China is the birthplace of organized crime. From ancient times, it was all about violence—those who were ruthless ruled. But now, those days are gone. Our country strictly cracks down on organized crime, at every level. The term “organized crime” exists because these groups engage in illegal activities—prostitution, gambling, drugs, brawls, profiteering, smuggling, all of which disrupt social stability and progress.

District Weiye said, if a criminal organization could legalize its operations so the government couldn’t find any faults, wouldn’t that be ideal?

Could organized crime be legalized? No. But District Weiye was clever—he made his gang’s business legitimate. Except for drugs, his Hongmen group operated nightclubs, bars, tea houses, internet cafes—all cleaned up. The prostitutes were moved underground, making the venues themselves respectable, though the business continued below the surface. Without the girls, customers wouldn’t come. District Weiye managed it so the girls were controlled in secret, separate from the venues; customers had to find them themselves, and the gang took a cut.

For gambling, he used a franchise system—whoever was skilled could run the business, but profits were taxed, and if trouble arose, the individual bore responsibility, with the gang supporting their family afterward.

He even invoked the phrase, “Guilt is not placed on the multitude.” He partnered with real estate companies and top computer distributors in Guangdong to run legitimate businesses, and they performed exceptionally well. Gang members didn’t understand why they needed to invest in white-collar enterprises, but as the business grew—expanding to cover drinking water and food industries across the province—they realized if the government targeted Hongmen, the impact would ripple through society, causing unrest.

District Weiye was immensely proud, laughing, “Now those officials wish they could swallow me whole, but even if I let them, they wouldn’t dare. Without me, society would be chaos. They hate me, but they’re eager to protect me, lest something happens. Besides, their bonuses each month—aren’t they funded by my taxes? Some even say, privately, they want peaceful coexistence and hope I stay out of trouble.”

It was clear—he was no ordinary man.

Not just extraordinary—he was truly remarkable. And now, he faced a problem he couldn’t solve.