Chapter 364: Mighty Power

Under the gaze of the crowd, Governor Alexander Grantham hung up the phone. Someone with sharp eyes noticed the tendons in his hand bulging as he gripped it.

The gentlemen of the Hong Kong government had endured the most unforgettable day of their lives. Until three hours ago, they had believed it was merely a small-scale protest, easily contained.

Only when calls poured in directly to the Governor's residence did they realize the full extent of Wang Yan's determination—and his madness.

The Regional Commander of the Three Services, who had previously refused to compromise, was the first to agree to a full investigation of all past military crimes. He had not approved the hanging of the two soldiers; it had been nothing but Grantham's word and a verbal promise, never processed through proper channels.

In fact, even for ordinary criminals, executing someone by hanging required a lengthy procedural process. The Governor had no authority to do so. He merely avoided escalating tensions—he wasn't foolish. A promise he couldn't keep would see him dead worse than anyone else.

But now it was different. They had convened at the Governor's residence since morning, waiting for Maxwell's report on his meeting with Wang Yan. Aside from Maxwell and a few others sent out to maintain order, by nightfall everyone was trapped inside the Governor's residence. Outside, voices roared in unison, demanding an explanation.

No one doubted that if the protesters' demands went unmet, they would be torn to pieces. "The law does not punish the multitude" applied perfectly here—they would die to no purpose and be nailed to the pillar of shame.

The constant ringing phones told them just how furious Hong Kong's people were. All government offices were surrounded; every military camp had its gates blocked; more and more people kept joining the protest. If mishandled, Maxwell's message—Wang Yan's words, "Then let there be a massacre that shocks the world"—would become reality, and they wouldn't fare any better.

Hong Kong was now completely paralyzed. These politicians were useless, incapable of doing anything. So Grantham acted decisively, calling London. He made the call at night; it was noon in London.

The matter was escalated rapidly, all the way to the Queen. The situation was simple: whether to act or not. Clearly, action was mandatory.

Just moments ago, the Queen herself had called Grantham, ordering him to quell the massive protest swiftly and prevent it from escalating into full-scale rioting. As for past crimes committed by stationed soldiers, the Queen declared a full investigation must be conducted to deliver justice to the victims.

They had no choice. If they refused and allowed the situation to fester, Hong Kong might end up demanding autonomy…

Grantham sighed. As Hong Kong's highest official, he bore responsibility for this happening during his term. He could shift blame to his subordinates and the Regional Commander, but he couldn't escape it.

He cursed under his breath, then picked up the phone and dialed Wang Yan.

"Hello?"

Grantham exhaled deeply: "Hello, dear Wang, this is Grantham."

"Oh…" came the drawn-out, mocking tone over the line: "Dear Governor, shouldn't you be dealing with those protesters outside right now? Oh, by the way, Governor, I've thought it over—I'm unfit for the position of Chief of Chinese Detectives. I take responsibility for today's events. I failed to restrain my men—they joined the protest. That's my negligence. So, please allow me to resign."

"No, Wang, you did well. This isn't your fault. It began with the crimes of our stationed soldiers. Your men stood on the side of justice." Grantham forced out the words, stifling nausea: "Wang, I just spoke with the Queen. She has ordered a full investigation into all past cases, to deliver justice to the victims. From now on, we will strictly control and manage our troops—no more such atrocities."

"Wang, you hold great prestige among the Chinese people. You are deeply respected. I believe you can persuade them—tell them our decision. It's late. Their demands have been met. Let them go home and enjoy a victory dinner. Of course, Wang, my friend, the government and I personally will not let you labor in vain. Believe me, you will receive your due reward."

"Thank you, Governor. But when will those still at large face justice?"

"Tomorrow. Trials begin tomorrow. No matter where they are, no matter their rank, they will face punishment. Tomorrow may be busy for you—I hope you understand, Wang."

"Of course I understand. I'm sure they'll be delighted. You're a good Governor, sir. Under your rule, Hong Kong will surely grow even more prosperous. I'll try to persuade them. I hope they listen to me and disperse."

"Thank you, dear Wang."

…

At the Lung Teng headquarters in Central, Wang Yan hung up the phone with a smile, looking at the man greedily eating pork lard rice: "Let's go. Do the work."

"Yes, Brother Yan." Pork Lard quickly shoveled in another bite, wiped grease from his mouth with a tissue, and stood up: "Brother Yan, after this, we're in danger. We've shown such power—they'll come after us."

"Irrelevant." Wang Yan waved his hand. "Contact the people in Kowloon and the New Territories. Tell them to disperse before ten. I'm going to the Governor's residence—to show them our strength again."

Saying this, he stepped out of his office, descended the stairs, got into the car, and headed toward the nearby Governor's residence…

It was obvious that the mastermind behind this massive protest was Wang Mou. Wang Shenghong was sent by him. The photos were taken on his orders. The newspapers were printed on his instruction. The emergency printing lines were coordinated by him. He ordered the gathering of victims' families. The leaders of every protest group were dispatched by him. All Chinese detectives had received his directives, consciously controlling the protest crowds.

His goal was simple: to align police officers with the general public, dissolve mutual hostility, and give officers a sense of belonging by involving them in a historic cause. The victims and their families were secondary—justice for them was merely an added benefit. Most crucially, it was about awakening Hong Kong's Chinese population—so they would no longer fear the foreign devils or let them rule with impunity.

After today, relations between police and civilians, among police units, and between Chinese and foreign devils would inevitably improve significantly.

In truth, he had taken considerable risk. Gathering so many people carried the danger of looting, vandalism, and casualties. Fortunately, so far, nothing bad had happened. This was thanks to the participation of Chinese police officers and Wang Yan's intimidation of the gang leaders.

The protest crowd included many petty thugs who sought to incite chaos. But the gang leaders, having received Wang Yan's warning, restrained their men. Combined with police officers under their respective detectives—some chanting in support, others maintaining order—no major disturbances occurred.

In fact, as long as events followed his planned direction, even minor unrest was negligible compared to the gains—acceptable. So far, no injuries had been reported. Control had been remarkably effective.

As for Pork Lard's talk of "danger," it meant nothing. The entire affair had nothing to do with him—he would be hailed as the hero who ended it. Any official move by the police or against Lung Teng, if the Hong Kong government or Britain wanted to preserve face, would never openly target him. Ultimately, it was their own soldiers who provoked this backlash—it was their own fault.

The only remaining threat was assassination aimed directly at him. Kill him, and the problem vanishes. But was he afraid? One or two attempts? Fine. Let them vent. But if they were foolish enough to keep trying, or if they touched Bai Bai or those kids… then we'd see. No one was that stupid—not even a national government.

The streets, once bustling with traffic, were now empty and silent. Due to the protest, all buses and ring roads had been suspended. The wealthy hid at home waiting for the protest to end. Foreign devils dared not step outside—they feared being beaten to death.

Lung Teng headquarters was not far from the Governor's residence. Under these conditions, they arrived quickly.

Still far off, the driver had to stop: "Brother Yan, it's all people—we can't get through."

Nodding, Wang Yan opened the rear door himself, stepped out, raised the loudspeaker, looked at the endless sea of people before him, gave two test "hello, hello" sounds to draw attention and check the speaker's function, then walked into the crowd while speaking: "Fellow countrymen, quiet down. I am Wang Yan. Listen to me for a moment."

"Mr. Wang! It's Mr. Wang!"

"Mr. Wang, you're Hong Kong's greatest. Please stand up for us!"

…

Those behind spotted Wang Yan. Voices buzzed chaotically. The news spread forward. Visible agitation rippled through the crowd; the ranks began to stir.

"Fellow countrymen, quiet! Quiet! Listen to me! All of you listen!" Wang Yan shouted through the loudspeaker: "The government has agreed to our demands. Starting tomorrow, all past crimes by stationed soldiers will be investigated. None will escape trial. This is the Queen's personal promise. You, through your actions, have won your own justice. I am proud of you. It's late now. Go home, eat dinner. Children are our future—don't let them go hungry."

He walked boldly into the protest crowd, shouting without fear. His past reputation, his undisputed status as the foremost Chinese figure, the living god of wealth—these guaranteed his safety. No one made a hostile move. Not even a single person dared to reach out and touch him for a bit of luck.

The crowd spontaneously parted, clearing a path straight to the Governor's residence gates.

Grantham and the high-ranking officials trapped inside heard the chanting fade. They all rushed to the windows, watching below. They stared at the figure cutting through the crowd—confident, flamboyant, arrogant—the root cause of it all. Their expressions varied, their thoughts unreadable.

"Wang Yan has tremendous prestige…"

"Wang is the voice of the Chinese. He differs from those honorary justices and merchants—he never sided with us, not even pretended to…"

Someone spoke with deep implication.

Grantham said nothing. He merely straightened his back, hands behind him, gazing down from the window at the bold, defiant figure below, his eyes glinting with cold light…

Sensing malice, Wang Yan's expression didn't change. He acted as if he felt nothing. He knew who the gaze belonged to—without even thinking. The new Governor. As Governor, failing to handle the issue promptly, letting it swell into a citywide protest, was an assault on the foundation of his rule—and his political life. To call it blood-deep enmity would not be an exaggeration.

But he feared none of that malice. After all, he had demonstrated such influence—this was still a protest, not yet a riot. Put bluntly: if he had armed the police and some protesters today, and merely stirred them a little more, every foreign devil in Hong Kong would be shot full of holes by nightfall, and autonomy would be declared tomorrow.

So who was he afraid of?

At the residence gates, a group of tense Chinese clerks pressed against the door. Behind them, foreign devils stared in terror at the sea of people before them.

In fact, many of these clerks were British nationals. They were educated intellectuals seeking better lives—becoming British citizens was a good path.

Even among police clerks, though Wang Yan had won over some, many Chinese clerks had not sided with him. They were not proud of their Chinese identity—perhaps they even despised the skin that didn't match the foreign devils'.

There was nothing to be done about it. Even the ordinary Chinese present here wanted to become British citizens but couldn't. If given a choice, most would have done the same.

The logic was simple: everyone wants to be a capitalist. When that's impossible, they side with those who oppose them. If given a choice, they'd be more capitalist than the capitalists themselves. Wanting a better life, higher status, control over more people—understandable. Nothing wrong with that.

On this stretch to the official residence's entrance, his shouts had made nearly everyone nearby aware that the colonial government had agreed to their demands, and that official action would begin tomorrow.

"If any victim has not yet found justice, come find me. Everyone knows my character, Wang Yan. Fellow countrymen, rest assured—I will see this through to the end. Everyone, go home now. Eat, care for your elders and children. Today's events are over." Wang Yan stood atop the flowerbed at the gate, holding a loudspeaker: "Lin Mingyuan!"

"Here!"

Looking at the fat officer in full riot gear maintaining order at a distance, Wang Yan said: "Organize your men to keep order, disperse the crowd peacefully, no trampling. Anyone causing trouble or stealing during the chaos—arrest them all."

"Yes, sir!"

"Alright, alright, everyone, disperse now. Go home." Wang Yan waved his hand, urging them on.

Lin Mingyuan received the order, blew his whistle, and all police officers in the crowd moved to regroup. Instantly, shrill whistles echoed throughout the official residence. They needed to assemble—the police here numbered barely a thousand, nearly all of the island's force. But the protest crowd numbered tens of thousands; this force was insufficient. They had to regroup, assign tasks, and guide the protesters to leave in orderly fashion.

Once assembled, Wang Yan stepped forward and gave a brief speech—nothing more than affirming their stand on justice, on the side of their fellow countrymen, to ease their anxieties, then sent them off to do their duty.

Watching the smiling officers maintain order, occasionally chatting with passersby about today's success, Wang Yan turned and looked up at the building, raising the loudspeaker to shout: "Governor, the situation is urgent—I won't bother reporting to you. I'm leaving now."

He owed them nothing—this was just a sudden impulse, a victor's display of triumph. These foreign devils had insisted it was impossible, had dragged their feet, only softened when surrounded, when the house was on fire, groveling like beggars. They were all just bastards who needed kicking.

After speaking, he slipped straight into a car driving against the flow of people. The engine started, and the vehicle slowly rolled onto the road. Watching the dense crowd lining the streets waving at him, he couldn't help but marvel again at the power of the people. All conspiracies, all authoritarian politics—crumbled to paper tigers before this force.

This time, he leveraged Luo Xiufen's daughter's tragic case to ignite the anger of other victims, to awaken the conscience of most after they learned the truth. With slight guidance, once a core group gathered, the rest—the onlookers—added up to create today's massive hundred-thousand-person march.

If he had to do it again, it would be nearly impossible. Without such favorable conditions, without an event that resonated deeply with the majority, it would be hard. Unless Hong Kong's workers collectively faced wage cuts that struck at their fundamental interests, it would be impossible.

Another crucial point: it was hard to disperse the crowd. Though he shouted for a while and the crowd dispersed quickly, the leaders of the march were all his men. Establishing even temporary leadership within the procession was vital. Without those people shouting from the crowd—"Wang Sheng won't lie to us!" "Wang Sheng is one of us!" "We trust Wang Sheng!"—his appearance alone would have meant nothing. After all, he had nothing special to offer.

But after this, he had something now—his personal prestige had climbed another rung, and he gained many more followers.

Wang Yan rolled down the rear window, smiling and waving back at those who waved at him, occasionally clapping hands with people to show his warmth, bridging the gap between himself and the citizens.

To live in Hong Kong and not have heard the name "Wang Sheng" was impossible. His legendary journey inspired every young person seeking success—he was living chicken soup for the soul. After all, he crossed the sea alone, became a uniformed officer at twenty, rose to top Chinese officer in the police force by twenty-nine, became Hong Kong's richest merchant—an absurdly legendary figure. The very sense of security people felt was enough to make Wang Yan a folk hero. Not to mention his vast business empire, the countless people employed in his Long Teng supply chain, his charity for orphans and widows, his aid to impoverished families—how could people not look up to, revere "Wang Sheng"?

People gazed at the living, smiling, approachable "Wang Sheng" right before them, fascinated—and in that fascination, became enthusiastic. So the journey was slow, arduous.

Finally escaping the dispersing crowd and crossing the harbor, Wang Yan was busy again. Though Zhu Youzi had already called ahead to say people were leaving, he still drove around town, occasionally stepping in to mediate minor clashes. Nothing else—he wanted to spread the name "Wang Sheng is one of us," to show they stood together.

He worked late, only returning home past midnight. Young Lady Luo wouldn't wait for him—beauty sleep was essential. The energetic little ones, though off school today, were grown enough to entertain themselves at home—they'd already fallen asleep.

So the glorious "Wang Sheng" outside returned home to an empty bed. This time, he didn't sleep on the sofa—after last time's lesson, he'd already prepared a spare room.