Chapter 363

After briefly outlining the situation, Wang Yan picked up his briefcase, pulled out the three documents, and placed them before William, then continued eating his lunch and sipping his wine. The cause and sequence had been explained—now he wanted results.

William didn't touch the three documents, because there was no need; he merely stared at Wang Yan, who was leisurely enjoying his lunch, and frowned: "Wang, what are you implying?"

"What am I implying?" Wang Yan looked up, his gaze as still as a deep well, fixed on him: "William, the facts are clear: those two soldiers committed crimes. Not only did senior military officers shield them, they also beat the Chinese detective who came to demand justice, leaving him seriously injured and now lying in hospital. The crimes they committed—I believe your God will not forgive them, and there's no reason they should be exempt on this land."

"As leaders of the police force responsible for Hong Kong's public order, you, William, and Maxwell are in charge—you must give Hong Kong's citizens an accounting. As leader of all Chinese police officers, I must also give other detectives and ordinary officers an accounting. William, yes, this is a colony, and yes, you hold power—but you cannot go too far. Over the years, I don't believe you were unaware of the military's offenses, nor that the Governor was unaware."

"That girl was only fourteen—it was truly monstrous. I know this story will spread soon, and I can't suppress it. You must act quickly, William. Everyone needs an accounting."

William's face was grim. He wasn't a fool—the only one demanding an accounting was Wang Yan. This kind of incident was minor; with Wang Yan's status and position, he could easily bury it. But now, Wang Yan hadn't buried it—he came here demanding an accounting. It was obvious: this was Wang Yan's scheme.

And what benefit did Wang Yan gain by antagonizing them? Clearly, he aimed to unite the Chinese community and become their true representative. Though they dismissed the lower classes, they couldn't deny their immense power. If they compromised now, Wang Yan's influence across Hong Kong and Kowloon would reach unimaginable heights.

But compromise wasn't easy. In his view, it was better for everyone to get along—he had a few years left before returning home, and Maxwell's term ended next year. They didn't want trouble now. But involving the military made it difficult. Though the Governor held great power, the Regional Commander of the three armed forces, while nominally under the Governor's authority, belonged to a separate system with no direct subordination. Even if the Governor wanted to compromise, the military's stance remained uncertain—it was hard to handle.

"Wang, you know this isn't easy. Perhaps you could share your other thoughts—we could discuss them?"

Wang Yan shook his head, swallowed the last bite of steak, raised his glass in a gesture, drained it, and stood: "I'll wait for your decision. I have other matters—I'm leaving."

Watching Wang Yan's tall figure disappear, William idly flipped through the three documents, cursed under his breath, downed his wine, grabbed the papers, and hurried out. He had to report to Maxwell—there had to be a solution.

Because Wang Yan wasn't like others: he commanded all Chinese officers in the police force's operational units, and he employed tens of thousands of workers, wielding terrifying influence across industries. Even the largest gangs, numbering thousands or tens of thousands, obeyed him. Wang Yan's demeanor made it clear—he was determined to demand justice. If not handled properly, this would ignite a massive storm.

As a superior, he understood: with Wang Yan's status and position, once decided, there was no turning back. His role didn't permit retreat—even if he wanted to, those behind him would push him forward.

Soon, William returned to headquarters and found Maxwell, who had just come back. He reported the situation. Since it was secondhand information, Maxwell pondered, then called Wang Yan directly at Long Teng headquarters, spoke briefly, and probed his intentions.

"Damn Wang Yan, always causing us trouble." Maxwell slammed down the phone, calmed his fury, then dialed the Governor to schedule a meeting. He turned to William, who looked somewhat relaxed: "Keep an eye on Wang Yan's movements. Don't let him escalate this. I'll go see the Governor."

"Yes, sir!" William snapped to attention, then followed Maxwell out of the office.

He wasn't the primary responsible party—he had some connection, but not much. He had a connection because Wang Yan was his subordinate; he had no real connection because they couldn't stop Wang Yan's rise. This incident was a conflict between the military and police, between the Chinese and the British—no matter which conflict, he wasn't the one who'd be blamed.

When Wang Yan first told him, he'd been angry too. But his anger was at Wang Yan for blowing it out of proportion—there was no need to make a fuss over some ordinary man. Why not just get rich together, peacefully?

Maxwell didn't know what William thought, but he could guess. He'd be stepping down as Commissioner next year, returning home; William's promotion to Senior Assistant Commissioner was certain—already settled, supposedly with Wang Yan's support. Of course, just a rumor. But he believed it—Wang Yan had money, and the necessity was real.

Stepping outside, Maxwell got into his car and headed to the Governor's residence on Aberdeen Road, on the mid-slope of Central.

Having received the appointment call, the newly appointed Governor, Sir Alexander Grantham—balding, thin, and in his study—received Maxwell.

With urgency, Maxwell skipped small talk and handed Grantham the three documents, explaining the entire incident and Wang Yan's stance.

"It sounds like Hong Kong's richest man is dissatisfied with us…" Grantham murmured, looking at Maxwell: "I've had little contact with Wang Yan—only met him once at the inauguration banquet. I don't know him well. He's your subordinate—what's your view?"

"Sir, all Chinese officers in the police force's operational units, and even some clerical staff, strongly support him, because their families work for him, earning Hong Kong's—and indeed Asia's—highest salaries, enjoying the best benefits. His enterprises span every industry; his influence cannot be ignored."

Maxwell said this to remind the new Governor of Wang Yan's power. Seeing Grantham's "I know this already" expression, he continued: "Moreover, our soldiers acted outrageously—a fourteen-year-old girl? That's a sin that sends you to hell, sir. And it's not just this one incident. Over the years, our soldiers have committed countless unforgivable acts. Every police station has piles of archived cases—all done by our soldiers."

"Though the detective is Chinese, he's still part of the police force. He was investigating suspects—lawfully exercising his duty. But what did that lieutenant do? He injured a police detective, even fired a gun. If superiors behave like this, how reckless are the soldiers now? Sir, this issue demands our serious attention."

Grantham nodded. He understood: Maxwell was telling him to give Wang Yan face—punish the two perpetrators and the arrogant lieutenant.

There was tension between police and military—years of accumulated offenses. It looked like the police were cleaning up the military's mess. Even the Marine Police and the Navy had minor frictions. To say there was no resentment was impossible.

They were fellow countrymen—he knew exactly what they were like. This was a colony; now they talked about human rights and considered the situation to the north, but in reality, to them, the locals were merely subjects. As subjects, what right did they have to demand conditions, to demand justice?

As Maxwell said, similar incidents had happened before—perhaps not as monstrous as this one, but always illegal. Didn't they all get buried? Didn't they all get suppressed? Even when the impact was terrible, it was always "raise high, land lightly." So why now—why must they take it seriously?

All of this, because the one raising the issue was Wang Yan.

Clearly, Maxwell feared Wang Yan deeply. After thinking, Grantham issued direct orders: summon senior officials and the three-service commanders for a meeting—to discuss how to handle this.

The Governor held both legislative and executive power—immense authority. If problems arose, he'd bear the blame. But he'd just taken office, still learning—considering his subordinates' opinions was what he should do.

These men wouldn't produce anything remarkable in their meeting—only three viewpoints.

First: absolutely no compromise. Who the hell is Wang Yan? What right does he have to demand justice? When did Hong Kong's Chinese get to ride over our heads? Who gave him the nerve to order detectives to demand suspects outside military camps? That was the Regional Commander's view.

Second: give Wang Yan face. Consider his influence, and the fact that our soldiers were indeed at fault—punish them accordingly. Also, the military must enforce discipline and restrain soldiers.

Third: fence-sitters. Suggest symbolic punishment for the two soldiers, a serious self-criticism from the lieutenant, and some monetary compensation to the victim. Like before—just go through the motions.

But since the military refused to yield, the other two sides' arguments were useless. Back and forth, hours passed with no resolution.

While they argued, a mid-tier newspaper in Hong Kong rushed out an emergency edition—and, contrary to its capacity, printed and delivered copies to every subscriber's home before dinner.

Front-page headline, bold letters: "Military Lieutenant Beats Chinese Detective, Leaves Him Seriously Injured and Hospitalized." Below were two photos—one of a foreigner kicking, one of a foreigner drawing a gun. Followed by thousands of words detailing the entire incident. The cause wasn't mentioned—they claimed they "didn't know," and promised follow-up reporting. But they did suggest it might relate to a previous case of military misconduct.

People seeing the detective beaten didn't care much. Though Chinese officers' reputation had improved, the old bad impressions remained. Improved reputation didn't mean anything.

Reputation and credibility were easy to destroy, hard to rebuild. Wang Yan had spent years building a good image for Chinese officers, constructing a harmonious, stable city where police and citizens were one.

But when people read the reporter's speculation, though they muttered "idiots," they couldn't help feeling some respect for the detective beaten to hospital—no such Chinese man had appeared in years, let alone a Chinese detective.

Hong Kong's population was under three million, the military under twenty thousand, and the population was concentrated. Over the years, who hadn't heard from friends, colleagues, or relatives about those horrific incidents?

The colonial government knew about the newspaper, but still hadn't decided what to do. The Regional Commander was stubborn, refusing to yield. If he wouldn't bow, no one could force him—not even Grantham.

Especially since the photos clearly looked staged—obviously Wang Yan's deliberate provocation. They didn't want to yield—or rather, they resented being pressured by Wang Yan.

Even Grantham said nothing. His impression of Wang Yan was poor—he'd just taken office, and now Wang Yan was causing trouble, forcing him. How could it be otherwise? And he didn't believe Wang Yan would make a big move—he'd always been conventional, skilled at using rules, and strictly obeyed them.

Maxwell, William, and others who knew the situation all called him, urging him to wait for higher-ups' decisions, not to act rashly and do something unforgivable.

That was a slight against Wang Yan—was he afraid of being unforgiven?

So the next morning's papers—several major newspapers and many smaller ones—all reprinted yesterday's news, adding the painstakingly gathered details from overnight investigations. "Fourteen-year-old girl" was bolded, glaringly publicizing the two foreigners' crimes.

The power of public opinion was terrifying. Though it hadn't fully erupted, everyone knew: the Chinese people, especially those who'd suffered persecution in recent years, were furious.

Wang Yan received word: people were already organizing victims, preparing for a march.

Only now did the colonial government truly grasp the severity. When public opinion fully fermented, when someone raised a cry, and with Wang Yan's covert actions behind the scenes, this would become a march larger than the last riot—if mishandled, it would turn into a riot, an absolute century-scale scandal.

In a private pavilion in Kowloon Tong, Wang Yan looked at Maxwell across from him and said calmly: "Commissioner, I've already said—I didn't do this, and I can't stop it. This isn't something that happened overnight. They truly suffered persecution, and the perpetrators still walk free. Perhaps they're drinking now, listening to music, or playing cards, or courting beautiful Irish girls. Isn't that unfair? Now there's a spark—they've spontaneously united to seek justice. Do you think I can stop them?"

Maxwell's anger was tightly restrained, his gentlemanly composure barely maintained. He stared fixedly at the man exhaling smoke rings: "Wang, what will it take for you to stop? You know—if it explodes, if it spirals out of control—it will be a catastrophe. For you, for the colonial government, for the victims—no good will come of it."

"No, Commissioner, let me reiterate: it's not me who must stop. I cannot prevent bad things from happening." Wang Yan shook his head. "But I can tell you a way to solve this."

"Good, Wang—tell me your method. If it truly resolves the crisis we face, believe me, Wang—the colonial government, the police force, the Governor, and I personally—we will all thank you."

"There's only one solution: publicly try every past case involving military soldiers' crimes, punish the guilty, and make them apologize and pay fair compensation to the families."

"No, Wang—you know that's impossible."

"Then let there be a massacre that shocks the world, Commissioner." Wang Yan gave him a cold look, turned, and walked into the room: "Time for breakfast. I suppose Chinese breakfast won't suit your taste. Please leave, Commissioner."

Watching him coldly shut the door, Maxwell's face flushed red with suppressed rage. Wang Yan, a Chief Superintendent, a man whose rank stood alone above all other police officers, had thrown him—head of the police force—out into the street without a second thought. This was a profound humiliation.

Of course, humiliation was humiliation—but given Wang Yan's current status, he truly could do nothing. The top Chinese officer in the police force and Hong Kong's richest merchant—these two identities reinforced each other: the former ensured no one dared touch his interests, the latter guaranteed the former's power—a perfect closed loop. Even if he could issue a single document to dismiss Wang Yan from the police force, it would be useless. Wang Yan's influence was too great; such an act might trigger a police mutiny. Not only did he dare not do it—even the Governor, the most powerful man in Hong Kong, dared not.

Moreover, he had only one year left in office before he left. Let the humiliation stand—he would swallow this anger. Back in his hometown, he would be nothing but a retired old man, a powerless outsider. If he angered Wang Yan, given the man's current madness, he had no doubt he would die in his homeland—from a heart attack.

Maxwell returned and conveyed Wang Yan's message. As expected, Wang Yan was showered with curses. Some even threatened to kill them—among them, the voice of the military commander was the loudest.

He hadn't expected events to unfold so quickly, so far beyond their control. His refusal to compromise had one simple goal: he was the boss, and he had to protect his men. He didn't know whether agreeing to the fence-sitters' proposal yesterday might have worked. Now, there was no "what if." Now, they had to reopen old cases. Now, they had to try them all. He knew what his soldiers were like—if they were tried, it might spark mutiny. If they weren't tried, it would inevitably trigger a massive riot across Hong Kong.

For now, they could not decide. But time did not wait. They had to give the public an immediate response. So at ten a. m., the Hong Kong government and the military issued a joint statement: the two soldiers who raped the girls would be hanged; the lieutenant would be demoted to second lieutenant and transferred off Hong Kong Island, sent back to his hometown. Over a hundred vehicles crisscrossed Hong Kong Island, Kowloon, and the New Territories, broadcasting this announcement, hoping to calm the angry crowds who had already begun gathering on the streets.

But both the government and the military were wrong. Perhaps if they had decisively given Wang Mou a face yesterday, the situation might have been better. But now, instead of calming the people, they had only inflamed them further.

Because for the crowds who had gathered, dragging along aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends to lend support, this was not justice—it was a concession. It was the government afraid of their collective power.

And the core of this first wave of protesters were all families or victims who had suffered persecution. If this case could be tried—and even carried the death penalty—why were the soldiers who had harmed them allowed to walk free? Why couldn't they be tried too? Why couldn't they be given justice? So they ignored those who tried to dissuade them, and disregarded the Chinese police lining the streets to maintain order. Some even cursed the Chinese police as incompetent, only brave at home, only siding with those who oppressed their own people—dogs of the foreign devils.

Suddenly, despite being cursed to the point of grinding their teeth, the Chinese police, under the leadership of a few junior officers, broke formation and scattered, spreading through every alley and street, pulling more compatriots into their ranks to demand justice.

They only wanted justice…

The foreign devils could not give it. Wang Yan had.

He had never intended to handle only Luo Xiufen's daughter's case. He had never intended to bury the matter. From the start, he meant to make it explode. So no matter how the government or military responded to Luo Xiufen's daughter's case, the march was inevitable—it would swell into a massive protest involving tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands.

As the first victims' families began marching, chanting their demands, major newspapers rushed emergency extra editions at noon. These papers contained nothing else—every page, from start to finish, detailed the atrocities committed by the British garrison since Hong Kong's founding, highlighting several horrifying cases from recent years.

After the furious newspaper deliverymen joined the march, handing out the papers, more and more people poured into the streets. Schools closed. Factories shut down. Crowds flooded the roads, joining the protest.

All Chinese police had been deployed to maintain order—and now they had learned the bloody history compiled from these reports. Facing the protesters' accusations, they could no longer bear the pressure. Under the leadership of each Chief Superintendent, they joined the march themselves.

Once enough people gathered, their target became clear: they blocked the entrances to every military camp and government building. Since the Chinese population was larger in Kowloon and the New Territories, Hong Kong Island remained relatively safer.

Even so, the Governor's residence was surrounded by the crowd.

They had no solution. The Chinese officers meant to maintain order had all joined the protest. Their own troops were trapped inside the barracks, too afraid to emerge. For the first time, they witnessed the boundless power of the people—and they finally panicked.

This day was June 25, 1958—the Great March of Hong Kong Island…