Chapter 14

That day, news came from the mainland: some matters were beyond the capabilities of his subordinates and required his personal intervention. So he boarded a flight to Jingcheng.

Wang Yan didn’t know that the translator he’d hired from the Russians, after taking Wang Yan’s money, had turned the whole affair into a bizarre anecdote and told it to his friends. After all, in this era, anyone who could make a living as a translator was hardly unskilled—and one of those friends happened to be a People’s Police officer.

The officer’s sense of duty needed no explanation—he immediately reported it upward. Though it wasn’t his official duty, he treated it as a major matter. And indeed, it was.

As the report climbed layer by layer, it finally reached the desk of senior leadership. For a figure of that stature, investigating a single person was trivial—less than an hour later, Wang Yan’s full dossier lay before the leader.

In fact, Wang Yan had already drawn their attention. Back when he turned the prison into a casino, he’d already entered their field of vision. Had Wang Yan done nothing, he would’ve been crushed without fail. But Wang Yan’s conduct on his own turf—including the series of companies he’d launched—had changed their attitude toward him.

After all, Hong Kong would return in just a few years, and stability outweighed everything else. And Wang Yan could provide stability.

After landing, Wang Yan hadn’t even left the airport when he was surrounded by five or six men, with over twenty others scattered around. They had his detailed file and knew his combat capabilities. Dozens more waited outside, just in case he tried to run.

He showed no panic, no confusion—he’d anticipated this. He didn’t know if the translator had betrayed him, but he knew this was the capital, and a dangerous figure like himself was bound to be on record. He felt honored that dozens had been dispatched to apprehend him—it was, in its own way, recognition of his strength. But Wang Yan wasn’t that invincible. Even these men—any Qiba of them together could’ve taken him down. These were elite operatives.

Wang Yan was shoved into a car, a hood thrown over his head, then driven through a maze of lefts and rights.

When the hood was removed, he looked around—he was locked in a small room, guarded outside.

After waiting patiently for a while, footsteps approached, and a middle-aged man in his forties entered.

The man extended his hand to shake Wang Yan’s, but before he could speak, Wang Yan cut him off: “No need for introductions. I’ve got a rough idea.”

Then he asked: “How should I address you?”

The man paused, then said: “I’m surnamed Zhang.”

“Then I’ll call you Old Zhang,” Wang Yan said. “Tell me—did you bring me here because of Hong Kong or the Soviet Union?”

Wang Yan’s casual familiarity, his pragmatism, and his fluent Mandarin surprised Old Zhang: “Both.”

Wang Yan thought for a moment, then said firmly: “I can ensure Hong Kong’s stability.” His tone was confident, unquestionable. He didn’t want to elaborate—words meant nothing. No nation would believe a man based on promises alone.

“The Soviets bought weapons because they’re cheap and good, Old Zhang. I want to expand—Hong Kong’s too small.” Wang Yan spoke plainly. Whether Old Zhang believed him or not, he didn’t care.

Old Zhang fell silent for a long while, then said: “Is there anything we can help you with?” His main purpose in coming was to gauge Wang Yan’s attitude—that mattered. He didn’t care whether Wang Yan told the truth; words were useless. Actions spoke. It was precisely because Wang Yan had shown awareness of the bigger picture, understood timing, and avoided harming innocents that he was being treated so leniently.

“Of course. You know what I’ve been up to lately. I’ve spent over twenty years in Hong Kong without killing anyone—until now. After I did, you can feel it: my state is unstable. I assume you understand this kind of thing. Is there any solution?”

Old Zhang paused, then said: “It’s a psychological issue. Or a philosophical one. Or a realm issue.”

“Do you understand what I mean?”

Hearing that, Wang Yan understood. He’d never thought about it before, but now, with a nudge, everything clicked.

Our culture has been passed down for millennia—it’s seeped into our bones. Confucianism preaches moderation; Daoism preaches non-action. Wang Yan hadn’t studied these things, but he’d gone through nine years of compulsory education—he knew a little.

Thinking of moderation and non-action, Wang Yan suddenly saw it all.

Martial arts, when pushed to a certain level, become about realm—the same “Three Threes” theory Gu Yunshen spoke of, or Li Xiaolong’s concept of “interception.” That’s why martial masters always seem eccentric—they’ve reached a higher realm. Even if they had no culture at all, their words could make you ponder for hours.

Of course, poverty breeds scholarship, wealth breeds martial skill. How could a martial artist lack culture? Wang Yan’s entire skill set wasn’t built with sweat—it was bought with money.

In essence, Wang Yan had rushed his four physical attributes to peak, but lacked the corresponding cultivation and realm. He lacked the spiritual will forged through constant breaking of physical limits.

The line from “The Grandmaster” could explain Wang Yan’s current state.

“The true meaning of the blade isn’t killing—it’s concealment.”

“The old ape hangs his coat and looks back—the barrier isn’t in hanging the coat, but in turning back.”

Without considering context, Wang Yan was exactly like that—he could unleash, but couldn’t hold back.

The solution was clear: go home and read more. Previously, Wang Yan had only read technical books—he’d never touched traditional Chinese scholarship.

Otherwise, he’d truly worried about returning to the real world—he’d be too embarrassed to go out. After all, scaring children wasn’t a good feeling.

Then Wang Yan and Old Zhang exchanged contact information, and Wang Yan expressed that he could be reached in Hong Kong if needed, before being escorted out.

Wang Yan handled the mainland matters and made some plans—nothing major remained.

During this time, the Russians’ weapons took a while to reach Hong Kong—they were contraband, hard to smuggle in. But anything solvable with money wasn’t a problem. After spending a fortune, the goods arrived safely on his turf.

It was May 1992.

Wang Yan’s forces expanded rapidly—changing daily. Now he commanded over a thousand men, all handpicked fighters, each fearless and relentless. His logistics company and shoe factory were booming. Just his men’s families numbered five to six thousand. One joined Long Teng, the whole family was honored.

To his delight, the MPEG technology he’d acquired had been fully developed—VCDs were nearly ready. In two months, they’d be finalized and ready for mass production. A golden road stretched before Wang Yan.

Wang Yan immediately had his lawyers register every possible company—Long Teng Technology, Long Teng Pictures, Long Teng VCD, and all associated trademarks—and frantically registered them globally.

He sent several subordinates to the mainland to invest in factories in Shenzhen, set up production lines, and recruit workers. The reasons were simple: lower costs, favorable policies, boosting regional economies, earning foreign exchange—benefits galore. Most importantly, he had to sit straight and show the right attitude. Old Zhang and his people knew exactly where his money came from. A junior had to know how to behave.

Wang Yan’s power was now sufficient—he no longer wanted to waste time on useless things.

He found a vacant plot nearby and gathered his thousand subordinates. Watching them all in sharp suits, sharp-eyed and vigorous, Wang Yan delivered an inspiring speech.

Though their families already worked for Long Teng, Wang Yan still needed to reprogram them. An organization without goals or faith couldn’t last.

He spoke at length. In summary: “Just follow me.”

After the fiery speech, Wang Yan stood on stage, commanding: “Brothers, Tunmen belongs to Long Teng—and only to Long Teng.”

The subordinates erupted. They’d long wanted to expand. Sure, other gangs had tens of thousands, but how many actual fighters could they muster? Unclear.

Wang Yan’s men were elite guhuozai—they understood this perfectly. They’d been itching to fight. Without battle, how could they prove themselves? Without opportunity, how could they rise?

Wang Yan wasted no time—he issued orders. Overnight, Tunmen was swept clean.

The news of Tunmen’s overnight change of hands shook Hong Kong’s underworld to its core.

There was no way around it: traditional gangs had always dominated the underworld. Independent factions were rare—and even rarer were those who rose to prominence. So Hong Kong’s underworld had always been the same few gangs playing among themselves.

Though Wang Yan’s generous pay had cost them dearly, they’d never taken him seriously. Just another tough fighter—what difference did it make? A single bullet could end him. They thought he was just a fool with too much money.

This time was different. They’d all heard the news. Wang Yan had sent over a thousand fighters at once. Suddenly, every boss took notice.

Guhuozai fought only when the odds were in their favor—just chasing heads. How many truly dared to die? Wang Yan’s men were fighters desperate to rise—unafraid of death, ruthless in action. Each promotion brought rapid rewards, benefiting their families too.

Their families worked in logistics, shoe factories, and other companies—all filled with other subordinates’ kin. Idle chatter among them made low rank feel weak. Competition was everywhere. Circles mattered.

This time, the bosses who’d grown soft in peace finally felt the threat. This was the underworld—they no longer fought fiercely, no longer fought to rise. They’d indulged in wine, women, and luxury. Comfort had nearly killed them.

Each boss was gathering intelligence, trying to understand Wang Yan’s true intentions before deciding how to respond.

Ni Yongxiao called Wang Yan the moment he heard the news, offering congratulations. He knew exactly how ruthless Wang Yan was. Even when Wang Yan repaid his debt, Ni had sent men to secretly track and investigate him—he knew how far Wang Yan had gone beyond Hong Kong. So his call was extremely polite. He knew things weren’t what they used to be. Back then, he could have manipulated Wang Yan. Now, frankly, Wang Yan could crush him like an ant.

Wang Yan accepted the praise without comment—he was busy tallying the aftermath.

Injured men received compensation and hospital care. He also reviewed each subordinate’s battlefield achievements—promotions and rewards were handed out accordingly.

Wang Yan had already opened a law firm, staffed with capable elite lawyers. Uninjured subordinates led the lawyers street by street to sign contracts. Income figures would take time to compile.

The main goal was to reward and punish—bosses must give subordinates a path upward. Who’d follow a leader with no future?

He also had to prepare for the inevitable counterattack and crackdown.

Tunmen wasn’t unclaimed land—it had been Dong Xing’s territory. Now, without warning, Wang Yan had seized it. He’d face Dong Xing’s retaliation.

Wang Yan had to consider the police response.

When the police heard Wang Yan had mobilized a thousand men, they went into chaos—working all night.

Before the police could come to him, Wang Yan led a group of subordinates, over a dozen cars, straight to the Tunmen Police Station.

The officers saw Wang Yan’s group arrive and flew into rage. You caused this massive incident—and now you dare come to the station to show off? We can’t take this.

Led by a senior inspector, dozens of police surrounded them, guns raised, facing off against Wang Yan’s men.

Wang Yan stepped forward, pushing through the crowd.

“Gentlemen, please lower your weapons. Don’t be so tense.”

“The police and the people are like fish and water. You risk your lives to protect us. I’ve come to show my appreciation.”

He turned to his men: “Bring the supplies up.”

Seeing this, the senior inspector waved his hand. The police lowered their guns, all curious about what Wang Yan had brought.

Two cargo trucks rolled up. His men opened the doors. Wang Yan said to the inspector: “Sir, these are some milk teas and cold drinks, plus meals from major restaurants. You’ve worked all night—you probably haven’t eaten. This is my small token of appreciation.”

He ordered his men: “Come on, brothers—distribute these to every officer on duty and inside the station.”

The subordinates moved swiftly—two per team, one carrying piles of meals, the other bags of cold drinks, heading straight into the station.

They didn’t care who they were. Their boss said: deliver to every single officer. So they didn’t care if you were an inspector, a superintendent, working in the lobby or in an office. Whoever was empty-handed got a meal and a drink shoved into their hands.

The officers inside were stunned. A group of sharp-suited giants stormed through the station.

The police didn’t move. They didn’t know what was happening—so they just watched as the group delivered food and drinks floor by floor.

Wang Yan, carrying a meal himself, was led by the senior inspector straight to the station chief’s office.