Chapter 296

His biological clock woke Wang Yan early, and he went back to sleep, only getting up and pulling on pants and a shirt after hearing footsteps.

As expected, Marlena was drinking water, looking up at the second floor.

Even if she were stupid, she knew Wang Yan's perception was sharp—otherwise, there was no way to explain how perfectly timed his awakenings were every morning. She was grateful she'd never dared carry out her midnight idea to stab him to death; otherwise, she might already be meeting God.

She smiled slightly, raising an eyebrow: "Good morning, Wang. I'll prepare breakfast right away—please wait a moment."

Wang Yan grunted in response, descending the stairs step by step, glancing at the wall clock: 6:40. This time spoke volumes. Originally, Marlena had risen at this hour; after being frightened by him, it became around nine; then eight; the past two days, it was consistently around 6:30—just as it had been before he arrived. This didn't mean Marlena had accepted him; it only meant she had surrendered, resigned herself.

Perhaps over these days and nights, Marlena had imagined hundreds of tragic fates. But what left her hopeless and powerless was that none of them were avoidable—whether it was the Mafia's revenge or the town's military police and officers arresting her, she couldn't escape. Since resistance was futile, better to let things take their course. She gave up. Let it be.

Of course, she still dressed carefully, fully clothed. Wang might despise her, but she wouldn't tempt or provoke him herself—she was trying to avoid him, not chase after him.

After drinking water and washing up, Marlena began preparing breakfast.

Wang Yan went to wash up while she prepared breakfast; if she weren't so afraid, this might have been the normal scene of a warm family.

After washing up, he sat as usual, legs crossed, reading a book in the corner sofa. After Marlena's long efforts, breakfast was finally ready.

"Wang, breakfast is ready," Marlena called out, naturally.

Wang Yan set the book down on the sofa arm, stood up, sat at the table, and ate with a knife in his left hand and fork in his right. Though he disliked it, he was accustomed to it.

Watching Wang Yan eat quickly and heartily, Marlena felt strange. She had noticed long ago that this Oriental man wasn't the country bumpkin of legend. Though they rarely spoke, his every word and action revealed his uniqueness. Even now, as he devoured his food, there was an air of elegance about him. She had met Baron Bonta at the town market—one of the men who lusted after her—but as a nobleman with a title and land, she hadn't sensed any aristocratic bearing from him; instead, he was sleazy.

But on Wang, she felt it—the indescribable nobility. She believed that in the war-torn land of the East, Wang must have been a nobleman too. Something must have happened to turn him into this bloodthirsty devil he was now.

"Is something wrong?" Wang Yan suddenly spoke, breaking Marlena's reverie.

"Ah? Oh, nothing, nothing," Marlena stammered, hiding her embarrassment and lowering her head to eat.

Wang Yan looked at her in confusion, shook his head, and went back to eating. He had a clear sense of himself—he didn't imagine that after only ten days of knowing her, and as a violent thug, he could have captivated Marlena and made her infatuated. So he didn't bother thinking further. Women's thoughts—if you can understand them, fine; if not, don't guess. It's exhausting and upsetting.

He didn't know Marlena was marveling at his aristocratic aura—even if he had known, he'd have just laughed it off.

If he remembered correctly, that had been during his time in Inception, when he'd hired a British foreigner to train him—apparently someone who had once served the royal family. He'd learned it out of boredom, just to acquire a layer of disguise, and because back then he was too sharp—he needed to cultivate calmness.

Not only had he studied Western etiquette; due to his clashes with traditional Chinese scholarship, he'd also learned traditional Chinese rituals. Their greatest use was enhancing his credibility—a perfect tool for pretending to be someone else, and combined with his talent for deception, he was an excellent con artist.

Of course, he didn't always put on airs. After all, at heart, he was just a thug. He always followed his impulses—no need to deliberately act like a hoodlum, nor to pretend to be refined. It was simply the natural result of environment and habit—he, Wang Mou, was an elegant, aristocratic thug…

After eating, since he'd returned early the night before and hadn't slept, he sat back on the sofa and continued reading. Marlena cleaned the table and resumed sewing. She'd been working day and night for a week; though she'd sewn a few pairs of underwear in between, the tasks weren't difficult, and the two outfits were nearly complete.

After several more hours, Marlena admired her work, picked up the clothes, and turned to call: "Wang, the clothes are done. Want to try them on? I'll adjust anything that doesn't fit."

Wang Yan glanced at the all-black outfit, immediately began undressing—his action spoke for itself. Marlena was no longer surprised; she watched calmly as he stripped down to just his boxers. Then, she kindly helped him put on the new clothes, picking off stray threads.

Facing the mirror, Wang Yan stretched his shoulders back and forth, since the outfit included a shirt—he needed to feel whether it restricted his movements. The fabric was still good; he hadn't bought anything too expensive, fearing it might draw suspicion, but it wasn't the worst either.

Wang Yan walked to an open space, stretched his arms and legs, and practiced half a set of forms. Confirmed there were no issues, he took off the clothes as he spoke: "Marlena, your mother was a good teacher—your craftsmanship is excellent."

"Of course, I already said so," Marlena said proudly, then blinked her big eyes cautiously: "Wang, what was that cool move you just did?" She clumsily mimicked it. Her tone lacked its usual gravity—fitting for her age.

Of course, times were different now—everyone matured early. Unlike later, when twenty-somethings still sat in school, thinking up excuses to beg their parents for more spending money. This was surely societal progress, though whether good or bad was debatable.

Hearing Marlena's question, Wang Yan paused, then realized: it was June 1940. Li Zhenfan hadn't been born yet—how could the word "kungfu" exist in any foreigner's dictionary? But later, he could help Li Zhenfan. After all, there was a bond of lineage in Once Upon a Time in China—he had strongly supported his career. This time, he'd definitely go to America; offering guidance was only right.

After thinking, Wang Yan said: "It's Chinese kung fu—a form of combat."

"Chinese kung fu?" Marlena repeated awkwardly.

Wang Yan nodded, said no more, put the clothes away, and resumed his old outfit before sitting back on the sofa to read.

Seeing Wang ignore her, Marlena didn't push. She quietly gathered her sewing needles and threads, then began preparing lunch…

Night fell, as the night patrol military police's shouts marked another day's end.

Having come to terms with it, Marlena felt at ease. She grew more relaxed around the Eastern thug in her home, went upstairs to sleep early, and no longer lingered downstairs, letting her imagination scare herself.

Having slept through the afternoon and eaten a hearty dinner, Wang Yan was already fully dressed. He closed the book, stood, turned off the light, then sat quietly in the corner sofa, eyes closed, fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest—perfectly synced with the ticking of the nearby clock.

Soon, the patrol military police's laughter faded into the distance, followed by a rustling, deliberately muffled footstep. Wang Yan didn't move—he knew it was that persistent boy. Since he'd cut down the tree, and since Marlena now went to town every other day, the boy's chances of seeing his dream girl had plummeted, leaving him desperate. These past two days, he'd probably been unable to bear the itch of longing any longer, climbing the wall at night like a rock climber.

Wang Yan still ignored him. He was certain his blockade was solid—even if the boy climbed up, it wouldn't matter. If the kid was unlucky enough to see his true face, then so be it. Ignorance wasn't an excuse.

After waiting quietly a while longer, past ten o'clock, he stood, stretched his limbs, climbed out the window to avoid the climber, circled around, and arrived at yesterday's newly arranged meeting spot.

Leo wasn't a fool. He'd risen to one of the family's leaders through brute force—he'd eliminated an enemy for the former Tang and earned trust—but that didn't mean he lacked brains.

The madman said he wanted to talk with core members—he knew exactly how that talk would go. Looking at the five men drinking, smoking, and acting brazenly before him, the new Tang, he silently mourned them—they deserved no life.

"Thud, thud, thud."

Hearing the knock, without waiting for Zoltan or Magnus beside him, Leo sprang up, ran to the door, and bowed respectfully: "Mr., you've come."

Wang Yan grunted in satisfaction, patted Leo's shoulder, glanced at Zoltan and Magnus, both bowing in greeting, then stepped inside, knife in hand—he liked the humility of these three foreigners.

He plopped onto the sofa opposite the five men, removed his hat, and smiled: "Hello."

The five froze, then turned in disbelief to Leo and the others standing respectfully behind. One of them said: "Leo, you're the Tang, the family leader. Are you insane? You're bowing to some Oriental yellow-skinned monkey?"

"Leo, you're a traitor—you betrayed the Tang, betrayed our cause. You're unworthy."

One had already drawn his gun: "Hey, kid, kneel and beg for mercy—I might let you live. Hahaha…"

…………

Hearing these words, seeing the five rise to kill them, Leo and the other two behind closed their eyes in unspoken agreement.

Wang Yan smiled at the five before him, then slashed the gun-wielder's wrist tendon to secure his safety—before the others could react, he moved…

After a chorus of agonized moans, four men lay like dead dogs on the floor, one sat slumped. Wang Yan grabbed the seated man, dragged him onto the sofa: "You were the only one who didn't speak, the only one who didn't curse me. I'll give you a chance—forgive your impulse to attack me. Come, my friend, don't be afraid. Tell me—what were you thinking?"

The man stared at his four former brothers—spitting blood, unable to speak or even scream—and trembled as he looked at the Eastern man before him. He dropped to his knees: "Mr., I'll follow you. I'll do anything for you. Please don't kill me. I never disrespected you, never cursed you. I apologize for my rudeness—you can beat me, but please don't kill me."

His four comrades were already in that state—he had no doubt this man would kill them. He was young, unmarried, childless—he didn't want to die like this.

Wang Yan patted his head: "You speak well. Don't be afraid—I won't kill you. Go on. Kill them. They're not our friends. You must send them to God—actually, to Satan. They've done too much evil; God won't take them. Here, take this knife. Like this."

Wang Yan dragged the boy to the four moaning men, handed him a knife, then, amid one man's despair, the other three's dying struggles, Leo and the others lost in pleasant memories, and the boy's trembling, terrified gaze, Wang Yan gently slid the blade into the man's neck from the side, smiling, applying steady pressure, inch by inch, until the cold, blood-slicked tip emerged on the other side—piercing clean through.

"Kill them, and you're our friend. Together, we'll build a great cause—you'll be one of its glorious members. Go. Kill them."

Wang Yan slowly withdrew the knife, letting blood pool on the floor, gently stroking the head of the only one who hadn't cursed him, smiling warmly as he watched.

Without another word, he took a cigarette from the table. Leo promptly lit it for him. Zoltan swiftly fetched a fresh glass and poured a cup of fine whiskey from the former Tang's estate. Magnus glanced around, realizing he had nothing to do, and quietly stepped back, lowering his presence.

Wang Yan exhaled smoke, sipped the pure rye whiskey, and gazed coolly at the trembling, visibly nauseated strong young man beside him. Clearly, this was a thug who'd never seen blood.

"Get started. What are you waiting for? You must learn to be a man, learn to be a strong one—and now is your first step. Only then can you become our friend, join our cause."

Seeing he still showed no reaction, Wang Yan said calmly: "Magnus."

"Sir, what are your orders?" Magnus, who had been lowering his presence, hurried to Wang Yan's side, bowing low so his head did not rise above the sitting madman.

"I'll count to three. If he hasn't moved by then, you'll send him to meet God. He's a good man—he deserves to meet God."

"Yes, sir."

Wang Yan sat with supreme authority, one leg crossed over the other, revealing a long black sock, exhaled smoke, and softly opened his mouth: "One."

Magnus straightened, drew the knife tucked behind his waist, and walked to a spot just behind the man, standing still.

"Two."

The moment Wang Yan finished speaking, the boy screamed like a madman, and under his companion's resentful gaze, he wildly stabbed at the man's neck. After killing the first, blood sprayed all over him—he vomited, wept, but never stopped. He kept crying, vomiting, and stabbing, one cut after another, until he had killed the remaining two.

After finishing, he sat drenched in blood, trembling.

"Well done. Now you're our friend." Wang Yan smiled, drained his cup: "So, my friend, tell me—what's your name?"

The young man, still dazed from the blood, looked up numbly at the devil from the East, and stammered out his name: "Val Crawford."

"Good. Val. For our cause, work hard from now on. Don't disappoint me."

"... Yes, sir."

Ignoring him, Wang Yan turned to Leo: "Clean it up properly. Bring five more people tomorrow—I'll have another good talk with them."

Leo subtly twitched his lip and quickly replied, "Yes, sir."

As for the four dead, compared to watching someone's head fly off, their gruesome deaths were acceptable.

Wang Yan felt a slight annoyance: only one out of five had survived. The attrition rate was too high. At this pace, by the time he finished talking to the rest, maybe only five or six would remain. But if he relied on Leo and the other three foreigners to control others, he'd be a two-to-one ratio. After all, he was raising a band of outlaws—what if they turned on him? What if Leo and the others betrayed him? He'd have spent all that effort only to be shot in the back by his own men. That would be suicide.

He didn't need to know his subordinates by name—but they absolutely had to know who their boss was, whose bowl they ate from, whose rice they consumed. That was all there was to it.

Power too scattered harmed the organization's strength; too concentrated in a few hands bred ambition. The balance had to be carefully managed.

After a moment of thought, he found no better solution. For now, this was the way: kill once, gather a batch of obedient men, and deal with things. As for the shortage of manpower, he could simply halt expansion for now—laying a solid foundation was essential.

If absolutely necessary, let each of them recruit ten or twenty peripheral henchmen, vet them thoroughly, then bring them to him. After all, casinos, brothels—they needed people to watch over them. Collecting protection money, running loan sharking—all required hands.

He shook his head, stopped overthinking, settled the plan, gave a few final instructions, then circled back home to sleep...

Over the next week, every night Wang Yan spoke with five men. Those who vanished afterward weren't a problem—Sicilians didn't trust the police. Besides, their families knew they were mob members; aside from a brief grief, there was no fallout. They dared not report to the military police, for it would mean the death of their entire family.

Wang Yan met only five at a time because cleanup was difficult. Processing five corpses and tidying the room in one night wasn't easy. Otherwise, he could've spoken with thirty at once—no issue. But relying on just a few men to handle the aftermath in one night? Too hard.

Of the original nearly forty official members, only nine remained. They weren't fools—they knew the first five had been summoned by Don Correa for talks, yet only one appeared the next day. Though they pretended to believe the excuse that they'd been sent away on business, not one secretly believed it.

But due to mutual suspicion, they failed to organize any effective resistance against Leo. So each night, the five dared not refuse to come. This made them cautious—they never greeted Wang Yan immediately upon seeing him.

Leo and the others thought these men would survive. But Wang Yan said he disliked their eyes, their movements, their tone of voice—everything he disliked—he ordered his favored men to kill them.

After a week of hard work, they successfully turned a large organization into a small gang. Don Correa's authority and influence plummeted. They even survived an assassination attempt—and killed the attackers.

The main reason was Leo's predictable movements: he slept all day at home, then each night brought men to the house outside the compound, always accompanied by several others.

So after observing for days, a group of six men with hunting rifles arrived at the crime scene just as Wang Yan finished his talk. Naturally, that night Leo had a heavy workload.

These thugs had their merits—Wang Yan hadn't noticed their surveillance. Mostly because he only came at night and hid at home during the day. Though he always paid attention to his surroundings, occasionally, due to time and distance, he missed them. But the enemies likely hadn't noticed him either.

The night after speaking with everyone, after a passionate, half-brainwashing speech, Wang Yan set out thirteen cups, poured wine into each one, handed them out one by one, then raised the last cup: "To our cause!"

The others copied him, chanting in unison. Then, led by Wang Yan, they all tilted back their heads and drained their cups.

Wang Yan didn't expect one speech to completely hypnotize these foreigners. But the pie he painted was large, and his intimidation was overwhelming. Once resistance became impossible, they turned toward the pie and slowly sank into its allure.

That's why he disliked religious nonsense—if he'd concocted some random doctrine, the effect would've been better. Though these men were all Catholics, if he preached his doctrine even once or twice, over time they'd become fanatical believers.

But that carried too much risk. He wasn't operating in the Middle East—this nonsense served no purpose. If word leaked and he got branded a cult leader, the whole world would hunt him. That wouldn't be fun.

His core team was now in place. Time to expand and start making money. This situation—running two casinos and two brothels in Sicily, loan-sharking, collecting protection fees—was a waste. War raged everywhere; supplies were scarce. Arms, food, medicine, daily goods, other materials—get them, and you made money. But many were state-controlled, hard to acquire.

But what was he? The Mafia. The more forbidden it was, the more he'd do it—only then could he make real money.

"Who's the biggest arms dealer in Sicily?"

"Don Savage in Messina. He has a port in Palermo and partners with one of Palermo's Dons. He knows high-ranking officials and has connections in America. His power is immense." Leo glanced cautiously at Wang Yan: "Sir, our strength is too weak—we're no match for them."

Wang Yan waved his hand: "Does McDaniell have connections in America?"

"He knows a Don from the American West Coast who traffics people. He has a complete pipeline—women sent there become prostitutes. We send ours to that Don."

"Stop this business." Wang Yan found it degrading. Though it brought in good money, and he wasn't trafficking Chinese women, it damaged his prestige.

"Yes, sir." Leo didn't ask—just nodded in agreement.

"Can we get cloth? Large quantities. Cheap."

Leo nodded firmly: "The town's sheriff is related to a military supply officer up north. That man often sells supplies to merchants. McDaniell once bought a shipment and sold it for huge profit."

"Good. This ten thousand dollars, plus what we had before, is enough to buy plenty. Go ahead boldly."

"Rest assured, sir—we won't let you down."

Wang Yan nodded: "Also, find out if there are cheap textile machines—or ready-made clothing factories. We can buy them, or seize them. Understand?"

He'd asked about cloth because he wanted to make fashionable clothes—also a huge profit, just not as extreme as food, medicine, or arms. If he produced for a few months, he could send people to America to expand. Since his strength was insufficient for top-tier deals, he'd settle for legitimate business. He hadn't expected such strong connections—quite a surprise.

Production was essential—raw materials were never worth as much as finished goods. He even considered tobacco—anything that could be processed, he'd process. His costs were low, his distribution channels were all smuggling, no tariffs—every bit was profit.

Eventually, he'd have to bring in profitable ventures. Why should he be denied earnings?

"Understood, sir."

"Starting tomorrow, you nine begin recruiting new members." Wang Yan looked at the nine men who had been won over: "Promote from among your old friends, or accept newcomers. Anyone who joins us eats. There will always be people wanting to join. You must vet them—ensure they're truly reliable, as outstanding as you are."

The nine answered in unison.

"Starting tomorrow night, I'll teach you some practical skills. That's all for today. Dismissed—go rest well."

After giving a few final instructions, Wang Yan, as usual, circled a long route back to Marlena's home...