Chapter 632

This matter never escalated widely; the French Concession's Municipal Council summoned senior officials from the Public Concession's Municipal Council, who met together with senior Japanese consulate officials that afternoon for negotiations.

This was undoubtedly a wise choice, given the terrifying ambitions of the Japanese. These were not Chinese people seeking to win over their own, but Japanese disguised as Chinese, with the highest among them already seated in the position of Chief Inspector. Such a situation could not possibly exist only in the French Concession—both systems were nearly identical, except that the French Concession's Municipal Council was more centralized and far stronger. The Public Concession, too, had a large number of Chinese police, relying on these Chinese to maintain their rule.

Combining the situation in the French Concession with Yoshimura Kenji's confession, it was obvious that the Public Concession also harbored the same conditions—counting hidden Japanese, bribed Chinese, and various foreign elites, the entire hierarchy had been thoroughly infiltrated.

So the French had no qualms about revealing this scandal to them; everyone was in the same boat, none could mock the other. Moreover, they held multiple concessions in China—was this kind of thing unique to Shanghai? Was it unique to China? Southeast Asia's vast colonies, inhabited entirely by Asians, had no Japanese infiltration? Of course not. So the French brought in the British and Americans; all three together applied greater pressure on the Japanese to secure greater gains.

The Japanese indeed felt immense pressure; this was not merely a repeat of previous cargo seizures, but a direct attack on the roots of Britain, France, and America. After the Shanghai incident was settled, a wave of anti-Japanese espionage crackdowns would inevitably sweep through other concessions and colonies—a major headache for Japan.

But strictly speaking, this could be a problem—or not. Though it still had to be laid at Wang Yan's feet, to blame him entirely would be deeply unjust. After all, nations had always covertly dispatched spies to infiltrate one another—a matter of mutual understanding. Each country's counterintelligence agencies had long been actively working and clashing. It was merely that this incident brought all of it out into the open.

During the four-way negotiations, though the Japanese remained firm, Britain, France, and America stood united in an even firmer stance, so the Japanese hardened for just a moment before yielding. The most visible sign was Japan's withdrawal of its wild operatives from both the Public and French Concessions, ceasing all further tests of British, French, and American limits. Additionally, Japanese vessels were forbidden from intercepting, inspecting, or arbitrarily seizing overseas cargo; outbound goods must not be maliciously obstructed. Furthermore, tariffs must be lowered further from the levels agreed upon in the previous cargo seizure incident.

Thus, Britain, France, and America could restore customs duties to pre-war levels—or even higher, since wartime inflation had drastically increased the value of the same goods. These men profited from China's war, colluding with traitors to plunder China's wealth.

Of course, international negotiations were never this simple; there were other messy clauses. But whether these mattered? They truly did matter—if ignored, they were mere paper, and what mattered most was whether both sides honored them.

During negotiations, Britain, France, and America demanded Japan provide lists and withdraw its hidden agents and spies—but obviously, the Japanese would not do so. If they hadn't caught them, then they didn't exist; this was merely a negotiating ploy.

Beyond official negotiations, senior British, French, and American officials also received lavish gifts from the Japanese—everyone was pleased. As always: the Public and French Concessions existed to make money. Catching spies and turncoats in the act was a minor matter. If this incident could bring even greater profits, satisfy superiors, and benefit themselves, it was a perfect resolution.

Clearly, this was perfect—the negotiations ended that very afternoon, and everyone was satisfied.

Mitchell's rank was not low, but such matters were clearly beyond his direct involvement. So Mitchell, too, cared about the outcome, inquired everywhere, and finally learned the news, which he then casually revealed to Wang Yan, the party involved.

Wang Yan was not surprised by this outcome; Britain, France, and America could never let things spiral beyond control, especially since they were surrounded by Japanese forces, with reinforcements from their homelands too distant and too costly. Both sides understood the need to stop while ahead.

With matters on that side perfectly resolved, the trouble that had been coming to Wang Yan himself could no longer be avoided.

The bright daytime sky suddenly turned overcast as evening approached; fine, slanting rain fell upon the earth, washing away the sins of Shanghai's Bund. Horse-drawn rickshaws lined up one after another; people hurried along under umbrellas. Those without umbrellas dashed quickly, shielding their heads with newspapers, bags, or whatever else they could find, terrified the rain would grow heavy and prevent them from returning home—or worse, cause them to catch cold and miss work. Homeless vagrants and beggars also ran off in disappointment, for tonight they might go hungry. And with the damp, rainy night making sleep impossible, it would be another torturous night.

This was a restaurant in the Public Concession, grandly named Sifang Building, its architecture not Western but Jiang Nan-style pavilions. In truth, even the Public and French Concessions were not entirely Western-style; old buildings still remained, and Sifang Building was one of them. It specialized in Huaiyang cuisine, highly skilled and well-known throughout Shanghai.

On a normal evening dinner hour, such a restaurant would be bustling with guests—but tonight was different. On the first floor, aside from a few individuals in Western suits and a blend of Eastern-Western attire, nearly everyone wore silk or cotton short robes; some wore top hats, others nylon caps. All were smoking—some rolled their own tobacco, some smoked Western cigarettes, others used pipes, filling the restaurant with thick, acrid smoke. Their demeanor made it clear: these were Qingbang thugs.

The waiters endured the chaotic environment, weaving through the crowd to serve tea and water to these thugs with careful deference.

Just then, a car pulled up to the restaurant's entrance. Qi Si stopped the engine, turned his head to observe the interior: "Brother Yan, should I have Shi Ge bring men over?"

"Bring men over for what? Stand outside in the rain and get soaked? There won't be a fight—it's them giving me a warning. Kid, you scared?"

"Scared of them?" Seeing someone approaching to open Wang Yan's door, Qi Si sneered, opened the car door, and stepped out.

Wang Yan shook his head with a smile, stepped out through the already-opened door, and immediately two men flanked him, holding umbrellas over his head—while the two men holding the umbrellas stood fully exposed, letting heavy rain pour down on them.

He glanced at them, adjusted his stance, his leather shoes crunching on the ground, smoothed the wrinkles in his trousers and long gown, straightened his collar, then slowly entered the restaurant, followed by Qi Si—who held his own umbrella, smirking at the soaked men like a drowned rat.

Inside, a young man in a Western suit, wearing glasses and exuding scholarly air, stepped forward: "Mr. Wang, your uncle is waiting for you upstairs."

Wang Yan grunted and followed the young man upstairs.

"What's the meaning of this?"

At that moment, Qi Si's dissatisfied voice rang out behind them, accompanied by the sound of physical contact.

Wang Yan halted and turned back, realizing Qi Si, still holding his umbrella, had tried to follow him upstairs. Two massive, intimidating men blocked the staircase, and Qi Si, angered by their obstruction, forcefully brushed aside their arms, pointing the iron tip of his umbrella at one thug's neck.

Qi Si was only sixteen, his body still undeveloped; though he had trained in martial arts for years and built a lean, muscular frame, he stood barely one meter seventy. Against the two broad-shouldered, thick-waisted giants, he looked especially slight. But his aura was undiminished—his fierce gaze radiated lethal intent, ready to strike and kill at any moment, showing no trace of fear despite the physical disparity.

This was perfectly normal. Qi Si had grown up on the streets, trained in martial arts for years, protecting a gang of homeless beggars from bullying. Over the years, he had killed countless youths—or even much older—vagrants and petty thugs. In truth, those two giants might look fiercer, but in matters of killing and taking lives, they certainly lacked Qi Si's experience—he was a true old hand.

Wang Yan smiled as he watched the two giants suppressing their rage, ready to strike, then turned to the young guide: "What's the meaning of this?"

The young man smiled apologetically: "Mr. Wang, upstairs, only Uncle Zhang and two other senior elders of the gang, plus a few attendants, are present—no one else. For safety, this young brother should remain downstairs. Rest assured, we know he's been blessed by eight generations of fortune to serve you—we won't neglect him. The kitchen has been instructed to prepare a separate meal for him."

"Making decisions for me?" Wang Yan smiled at the young man who kept saying "I dare not" and bowed his head: "Who the hell are you? Ah Si, give each of them a slap."

Qi Si responded instantly, swung his arms, and slapped both men hard—two sharp cracks rang out. Then he stepped forward, stood before Wang Yan, bared his white teeth, and delivered a full-force slap to the young man's face.

The young man's glasses flew off and landed on the floor; blood trickled from his lip, his cheek flushed crimson from mouth to ear. He made no other reaction—bent down quickly, picked up his glasses, put them on, wiped his lip with his thumb, saw the blood, smiled gently at Qi Si, then turned to Wang Yan: "I apologize, Mr. Wang. I was rash. Please proceed."

Qi Si sneered, shaking his numb hand, regretting he hadn't knocked out the brat's teeth—he despised such pretenders. Damn it, you're a thug, why pretend to be a scholar? Acting like a foreign devil—disgusting. He shoved the young man aside.

Wang Yan glanced at the young man, then swept his gaze across the silent, watchful thugs on the first floor, turned, and led the way up the stairs: "Bring his meal up."

The young man responded, exhaled deeply, did not follow upstairs, but went to speak with the restaurant owner. He couldn't help cursing Wang Yan inside—but that was all. The gap was too great; he had no voice…

Upstairs, Wang Yan immediately noticed a round table placed centrally, away from the window; all other tables had been moved aside to clear a space. Three old men sat around it—the two on the sides were insignificant; only the one in the middle mattered.

He was thin, his skin sagging with age, crisscrossed with wrinkles and dotted with age spots; his inch-long hair was entirely white. His eyebrows were sparse, his cheekbones high, his mouth wide, his nose hooked like an eagle's, and his eyes were triangular—though nearing death, he looked anything but benevolent; instead, he radiated cruel malice.

This cruel old bastard was Zhang Xiaolin, the undisputed leader of the Qingbang, who had poured out both men and money to ally with the Japanese, dominating Shanghai with immense power and fame. Huang Jinrong had grown old and retired into seclusion; Du Yü had fled to Hong Kong due to his collaboration with the Kuomintang and involvement in forming the Loyalty and Salvation Army. With two of the three famed Shanghai tycoons gone, Zhang Xiaolin—the one once ranked lowest—had naturally risen to the top.

He waved his hand, signaling Qi Si to find his own place. Wang Yan laughed heartily, bowed forward: "Uncle Zhang, I'm sorry I'm late—business at the police station has been busy. You've waited long."

Zhang Xiaolin smiled warmly: "I know you're busy—you're young and strong, capable men shoulder more. Unlike us old men, nearly in our graves, we're idle, time means nothing. Sit, sit and talk."

Though he looked fearsome, time was indeed a great thing—it concealed too much. Zhang Xiaolin was sixty-one; the wrinkles of age, paired with his gentle smile, made his triangular eyes seem less menacing, his whole demeanor less aggressive.

Wang Yan nodded and sat opposite Zhang Xiaolin. A young thug poured tea for him; he sipped and said: "Uncle Zhang, you've put on quite a show today. When I saw the car parked outside, I actually thought about running. So many men—and my only companion is this half-grown boy. My heart was pounding."

"Among the younger generation, you, Wang Yan, have the biggest guts. Haven't you seen bigger scenes when you were out on the streets? What's this?"

"You said it yourself—that was the past. Now, everyone in Shanghai knows Wang Mou is the most cowardly. I used to risk my life with just a kitchen knife—I had nothing. Now I have power and money—I can't afford to die."

Zhang Xiaolin sighed deeply, nodded in agreement, and continued: "Yes, the older you get, the less useful you become, the more you fear death. Don't overthink it—I called so many here not to intimidate you, but to guard against assassins. You know the Kuomintang and the Communists hate me dead. The Military Intelligence Bureau already tried once. Better to be cautious—I still want to live a few more years. You're so free—you're the French Concession's Chief Inspector, dealing with both parties as their boss, never offending the Japanese, and you only bring one half-grown boy—you go anywhere. I envy you."

"Uncle Zhang flatters me. I'm just a small fry, nothing compared to your glory. You once called Chiang Zhongzheng brother—who in Shanghai doesn't know your power? You've earned the Japanese's trust, entrusted with great responsibilities. In today's Shanghai, Uncle Zhang, you're the one."

As he spoke, Wang Yan raised his thumb, still smiling: "You're well-informed—don't mock me. I've just offended the Japanese, stirred up trouble, and made a mess of things."

Zhang Xiaolin nodded with a smile—he already knew the full story and outcome, otherwise why invite this young upstart tonight?

"You're just too cautious, making a mountain out of a molehill—now look what happened."

"Uncle Zhang, I'll be honest: even if today hadn't happened, I'd have found an excuse to kill him soon. How else can I gain real power? A Chief Inspector whose word means nothing isn't a Chief Inspector—he's a joke. You've weathered countless storms—you understand this better than anyone."

Hearing the topic had turned here, Zhang Xiaolin shook his head with a smile, mocking Wang Yan's youth and lack of depth. He had brought two trusted men along for this very reason. Normally, he'd have played along, endured the meal and wine, patiently wearing each other down until one cracked first—winning the psychological edge before even speaking.

He said: "Since we're talking about this… I heard you arrested Gao Yunchang's entire family?"

Wang Yan clearly understood Zhang Xiaolin's intent—he simply didn't want to waste time with this old man's games. If they truly played this out, it would take hours—no real talk, only nonsense. He'd rather be home, reading, writing, even if he wasn't going to the dance hall tonight.

"Yes. Gao Yunchang was the adoptive father of my squad leader—he threatened me with him. You know my style: I always eradicate roots. To avoid future trouble, I struck first. Sorry, Uncle Zhang—I knew he was yours, always supported you, but I didn't have time to consult you before acting. My mistake. Please understand."

"I understand. If I were you, I'd have done the same."

Zhang Xiaolin nodded repeatedly—he understood nothing. But Gao Yunchang was in Wang Yan's hands, his life and death controlled by him; he had no choice. He now felt a deep sadness. Before the Japanese came, when the Qingbang's three tycoons ruled, they held real power—truly dominating both legal and illegal worlds, controlling everything. Back then, Wang Yan, though powerful—already making money for the French—was merely barely worth noticing, not an equal.

But now that the Japanese had come, he had sided with them and was forced to accommodate Wang Yan. Though Wang Yan kept addressing him as "Uncle Grandpa" and "Your Honor," the way he sat back in his chair, legs crossed, utterly relaxed, made it clear Wang Yan didn't take him seriously at all.

Mostly, it was because Wang Yan's status had risen too rapidly over the past two years—he held power, and he had the right to wield it. Yonghua Industries had expanded explosively due to the war, earning even greater trust from the French, making him more vital to them. Moreover, though Wang Yan didn't have many men under him, he knew there were certainly a thousand or so, all utterly loyal. And over ten thousand workers employed under Yonghua Industries were also a force that could be leveraged. This point had been demonstrated repeatedly in Shanghai by the Red Party.

Most crucially, Wang Yan had good relations with the French and access to smuggling weapons. With his strength, he could truly arm a thousand-man force. Though its combat effectiveness might lag behind regular troops, it was still nothing a gang of thugs could match.

He couldn't touch Wang Yan—French attitudes were one reason, but the other was this raw power. If Wang Yan died, Shi Changxing would take over as boss. By tradition, the successor inherited the grudges, so everyone would be obligated to avenge Wang Yan. Though loyalty and honor had vanished in this era, one still had to consider reputation externally and the opinions of one's men internally—so one had no choice but to act.

Of course, only Wang Yan mattered. The other inspectors in the French Concession, he didn't care about. But having just Wang Yan was even more irritating, because Du Yong had once been the same—starting lower in status, then surpassing him, even overtaking Huang Jinrong to become the true Qingbang elder. Now Wang Yan was even younger, essentially the top figure among the younger generation. Of course, this excluded those in the military or government. If he continued to live, he might well become the next Qingbang elder.

After all, the Qingbang wasn't a centralized iron bloc—it was a loose organization, a general term. Beyond direct lineages, no one was required to obey another. Though he now held the Qingbang's reins, he only commanded a portion of it. After all, Wang Yan was also a Qingbang member, properly initiated into the Wu character generation—yet he hadn't obeyed his orders, instead becoming a Japanese lackey.

His thoughts flashed like lightning, and Zhang Xiaolin continued: "But this Gao Yunchang has followed me for so many years, and he's old now—his circle has shrunk drastically. I can't just watch him suffer without helping. Besides, this matter has nothing to do with him—he's an innocent victim. Wang Yan, for my sake, let's just drop this whole thing…"

Wang Yan didn't answer. He sipped his tea, then murmured: "Uncle Grandpa Zhang, you're working for the Japanese. Didn't you know the Japanese came to see me this afternoon?"

"Of course. One was the intelligence chief of the Tokumu-ku; the other was the consul from the consulate, a high-ranking official handling municipal affairs. For him to come see you personally shows the Japanese take you seriously."

"Then do you know what price I paid to sit here drinking tea with you?"

Zhang Xiaolin frowned. "I've heard about your affairs. When Lin Hongyuan was alive, he introduced you to the Japanese—that was the same intelligence chief who came to you. Later, there was that spying scandal, which looked terrible. And you never gave them any useful intelligence—just a nominal cooperation. I assume this time, you'll actually hand over some key intelligence?"

"I never get involved with those things—how would I know any key intelligence? But I'll have to figure something out soon, or I won't be able to explain myself. Still, this time, I paid out—twenty whole American dollars." Wang Yan's face twisted in anguish, regret etched deep: "My heart still bleeds. Every penny was hard-earned sweat and blood—gone so easily…"

Zhang Xiaolin now understood. Wang Yan was signaling: the man wasn't beyond release, but the financial gap had to be made up. Damn, such greed.

Zhang Xiaolin smiled. "Easy enough. Gao Yunchang has his own company, casinos, opium dens—he still has some assets, though not much. I'll take responsibility: twenty-five ten-thousand-dollar bills. I'll issue you a check now to cover his debt. Let's call it settled. Gao Yunchang is old, with over ten family members. Letting them go is an act of virtue."

"Since you've said so, what can this junior say? I'll follow your lead."

Wang Yan nodded promptly, agreeing to the price. Though twenty-five ten-thousand-dollar bills were far less than what he could have extracted directly from Gao Yunchang, Zhang Xiaolin had his pride—he had to be given his due.

As Zhang Xiaolin said, Gao Yunchang had followed him for years, always supported him—he had to be saved. Otherwise, what would others think? How would his authority be maintained? How could he lead his men in the future?

That old fool Gao Yunchang, snatched without even showing his face, his whole family marked for death—he was truly an innocent victim. But the old bastard wasn't good either. Had Zhang Xiaolin not spoken up, Wang Yan would've stripped him down to the bone, then dumped him in the river to feed the fish.

The matter settled, Zhang Xiaolin signed the check on the spot and handed it to Wang Yan: "Where is he? I'll send someone to fetch him."

Wang Yan glanced at the check, drained his teacup, and stood. "Since the matter's settled, I'll take my leave. No need to trouble you with the release—I'll call downstairs and have them respectfully escort Gao Yunchang's family home. That's all, Uncle Grandpa. Your humble servant takes his leave."

"Stay for dinner," Zhang Xiaolin said, feigning displeasure. "We haven't sat together in ages. Can't we talk properly? Don't you look down on this old bone?"

Seeing Zhang Xiaolin's apparent irritation, Wang Yan shook his head. "You just mentioned the assassination attempt—it's got me nervous. I'd rather not dine with you. I fear the Military Intelligence might go mad and strike you unexpectedly right now—wouldn't that drag me in too? Better not. Uncle Grandpa, take care."

Seeing Wang Yan's caution was genuine, Zhang Xiaolin shook his head, pointing vaguely with a finger, half-laughing, half-sighing: "You… really are… Fine. I won't keep you. Next time you have time, come to my home—we'll talk then."

Wang Yan bowed slightly, then descended the stairs with Qi Si. The three men who had been beaten earlier, though grinding their teeth, still bowed deeply to see Wang Yan off. The umbrella bearer still held the umbrella over Wang Yan.

Qi Si started the car and spoke: "I get it now, Brother Yan—weren't you planning all along to trade Gao Yunchang for money?"

"Twenty American dollars isn't small change. We just happened to catch Gao Yunchang, a rich old bastard. If we didn't peel a layer off him, wouldn't that be a waste?"

"Now we're not just breaking even—we've made five ten-thousand-dollar bills profit. Good job catching Gao Yunchang."

Wang Yan grinned. "I ask you—if we hadn't caught Gao Yunchang, where would our money come from?"

Qi Si didn't hesitate: "We'd find an excuse to fight him. If Gao Yunchang won't do, there's Li Yunchang, Zhang Yunchang—no matter what, we can't pay out of our own pockets."

"Exactly. Ruzike Sect." Wang Yan slapped Qi Si's nape, silencing his protest: "Let's go to that hot pot place. It's raining—eat something hot."

"Got it…"