Chapter 640: Gangsters in Meeting

The main roads of the French Concession were few, and restaurants, casinos, dance halls, and other establishments clustered mostly along these few thoroughfares. The smaller shops without influence, along with other service businesses, were all tucked away in side streets and alleys.

Guangsheng Tea House, the kind of place where a gang of thugs would invite someone for a meal and beg for favors, was naturally no ordinary spot—it sat on the eastern stretch of Avenue Joffre, not far from the Avenue Joffre Police Station.

Qi Si parked the car steadily, eyeing the Qingbang members hiding in the shade around the tea house, laughing and chatting with the Chinese police officers beside them: "These guys are all from Avenue Joffre, right? I recognize a few faces—they look like Liu Yitong's men. What are they doing here?"

"Liu Yitong is Qingbang too. With so many people gathered on his turf—all of them refusing to side with the Japanese—what if someone gets killed on the street? Who gets blamed? Look at them—each one brought a whole entourage. The streets are packed with cars. And yet they still laugh at me, call me Wang Mou a coward who fears death. How ridiculous."

How did Wang Yan's reputation get ruined? It was these very people, jealous of his success, spreading rumors about him openly and behind his back. Do kids who don't know the first thing about the world make catchy rhymes? No—they just can't stand seeing him thrive. They just want to disgust him.

Yue Jingshan had been waiting at the door since early. Seeing one lone car arrive, he ran over and opened the door: "Inspector Wang, please."

Wang Yan stepped out with a smile, straightening his clothes beside the car. The weather had turned hot, so he wore little: a long-sleeved white shirt, the top three buttons undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, loose and casual. Below, classic Western trousers and leather shoes. A pistol hung conspicuously at his lower back.

He was, after all, a Shanghai celebrity—even if he'd risen from the underworld. He had to maintain his dignity. He wouldn't show up in shorts and a tank top—that was his home attire. In this day and age, dressing too casually in public was disrespectful, especially at a Qingbang meeting. Didn't you see Yue Jingshan still wearing a long gown despite the heat?

The police station did issue uniforms—shorts, half-sleeves, much like the old summer police gear from the Chasing Dragon days. Those men standing on the street, Liu Yitong's crew, wore exactly that. But Wang Yan found them uncomfortable and ugly, so he refused to wear them. After all, he was already an inspector—who cared what he wore?

After adjusting his clothes and flicking his heavy wristwatch, he followed Yue Jingshan, who stepped half a pace behind, into the tea house and up the stairs.

The scene upstairs didn't match Yue Jingshan's description. It wasn't just the few people he'd mentioned—it was dozens. Some had retired, some held power, others were merchants or bank managers. Their influence varied, but all were men of standing.

This alone showed how vast the Qingbang was: everyone here was someone whose word carried weight—not minor bosses. Just the senior bosses numbered in the dozens. Multiply that layer by layer, and the total became enormous. Yet as the saying goes: Hongmen is a broad field, Qingbang is a single thread. Though today's Qingbang had lost its rules and discipline, accepting disciples indiscriminately, the real members were few—most were just peripheral thugs.

In any case, with conditions like this, it was no wonder Shanghai was falling apart.

When Wang Yan entered, everyone seated there—except those of the "Da" and "Tong" generations—stood up, bowing to him with hands clasped, their postures humble.

Wang Yan didn't bother with formalities. He returned bows as he walked forward, then sat at the front table: "When you notified me yesterday, you didn't mention such a grand gathering. Uncles and grandfathers—what's the meaning of this?"

Feng Nairong, the one who'd sent the invitation and was in charge, should have spoken first. In his fifties, slightly plump, with a kind face, he laughed heartily: "We heard you were coming to dinner, so the other brothers all wanted to come see Inspector Wang's famed presence, get to know you a little."

Instantly, the second floor buzzed with flattery, every face beaming. Even men with massive facial scars—obviously brutal thugs in daily life—now smiled with startling sincerity.

Wang Yan laughed too: "I grew up in the alleys, rose from the streets, thrived under Qingbang, and grew rich thanks to the French. Along the way, I've had some bumps, but nothing compared to the storms you elders have weathered—I've sailed smooth as silk. Adversity builds character; ease breeds arrogance. I sit right between the two. Young men hate old rules and have no cunning or depth. I can do anything—except pretend ignorance. I've always been straightforward. This situation? I won't even be able to eat. Let's cut the pretense. What do you say?"

"Good! Straight to the point!"

Feng Nairong, effectively their representative, had already unified their stance yesterday—otherwise, they wouldn't have invited Wang Yan. Under everyone's gaze, he spoke: "Zhang Xiaolin was poisoned in Zhang's Mansion. You've heard the news, seen the photos—he died horribly. With Zhang dead, his men are in chaos. The Japanese can't send their own people to control them; even if they tried, they couldn't. They can't find anyone else with enough authority to quell that rabble. I heard the Japanese went to you last night?"

"Yes. Muramatsu from the Japanese Consulate came to me. Wanted me to abandon the French and take Zhang Xiaolin's place. Offered good terms: tariff compensation, plus direct appointment as mayor."

"You accepted?" Feng Nairong's voice trembled as he exchanged glances with the others.

Knowing the Japanese had approached Wang Yan wasn't hard. Just track his movements and recognize the faces of top Japanese officials. They'd sent the invitation right after Muramatsu left because Wang Yan had been dining with the Japanese—otherwise, Yue Jingshan would've arrived the moment Wang Yan sat down to eat.

They'd expected the Japanese to try recruiting Wang Yan, but they didn't know the exact terms. Now, hearing it from his own mouth, they realized: the Japanese held Wang Yan in such high regard they'd promised him the mayoral post. Zhang Xiaolin had been loyal to the Japanese for years and never got that. Now they were offering it to Wang Yan. Didn't that prove he was more valuable in their eyes? Even if the situation was urgent and the price inflated, it still proved his worth.

They'd thought they could fool a naive kid. Now he was about to become mayor—how could they possibly trick him?

Wang Yan understood their thoughts. He smiled and shook his head: "You don't know how cowardly I am? The mayor's position is tempting—but you need to live to enjoy it. Zhang Xiaolin just died. Even if I had eight pairs of balls, I wouldn't step forward. That's a death trap. Whoever takes it dies."

Feng Nairong's face relaxed into relief. He smiled warmly, praising Wang Yan: "To resist such a temptation takes great self-control. The most important thing in life is knowing your limits. You're young, but your character is impressive."

Such words came from elders looking down on juniors, seniors on inferiors, the strong on the weak. Normally, Wang Yan wouldn't give a damn about this condescending moralizing. But now was different—they were begging him. Begging someone and still acting like elders? And they had no real bond with him. He wouldn't tolerate their arrogance.

"Uncle Feng, and all you uncles and grandfathers—I'm not being arrogant. We're all Qingbang, all family—but you all know that's just talk. You've had little to do with me. No past conflicts, no past cooperation. Don't put on airs. 'Uncle' and 'grandfather' are just titles, not proof you've got authority over me. I answer to no one. Am I right, Uncle Feng?"

Feng Nairong's face darkened. Yue Jingshan, sitting nearby, stood up: "Inspector Wang, the Qingbang code clearly forbids disrespecting elders and disregarding hierarchy. You must show proper respect to senior members."

"Laughable. A huge joke. What century are we in, still quoting the code? What did Du Yong do when he fled to Hong Kong? What did Zhang Xiaolin do? You don't know? The code also forbids adultery, theft, evil ways, bullying the elderly, women, children—who follows that? Murder, arson, forcing women into prostitution, lending to the poor until they lose everything and sell their children, running opium dens, running unions that don't defend workers, running companies that ignore contracts, exploiting common folk—weren't these your deeds? Talking to me about elders and hierarchy? Whoever has the most guns, the most money, the most power—that's who's big, that's who's respected!"

Wang Yan grinned as he ranted, then instantly dropped the smile, his face turning cold and grim: "I'm speaking to Uncle Feng. Did you ask for permission to interrupt? Who the hell are you? Qi Si!"

Far away, Qi Si, idly leaning against the window smoking, heard Wang Yan's call. He tossed his cigarette aside and trotted over: "Brother Yan!"

"Hit him!" Wang Yan pointed at Yue Jingshan.

"Got it." Qi Si grinned, eyes gleaming. He looked at Yue Jingshan—fists clenched, jaw tight, cheeks puffed, face flushed, frozen in place—and gave a half-hearted bow: "Sorry, brother."

Then he sprinted forward and launched a powerful flying kick. Yue Jingshan crossed his arms to block it—the impact sent him stumbling backward, knocking over a table. Luckily, the people at that table had already moved away.

Qi Si wasn't surprised his attack was blocked. He pressed forward with a flurry of sharp, tricky strikes. But since he was young and still growing, his strength was low despite his technique.

Yue Jingshan was a trained fighter—tall and broad—but he dared not retaliate, only defend against Qi Si's onslaught. At this moment, he desperately hoped Feng Nairong or someone else would speak up. But no one said a word. Everyone watched Wang Yan, calmly sipping tea with a smile, and Feng Nairong, face dark as iron.

No one here was a fool. Was Wang Yan really hitting Yue Jingshan? No. He was hitting Feng Nairong. Hitting the faces of the "Da" and "Tong" elders. Hitting all of them.

They knew Wang Yan knew why they'd invited him. Wang Yan knew they knew why he'd come. Everyone understood.

He'd sat down, said nothing for two sentences, declared he couldn't pretend ignorance, that he was straightforward—then Feng Nairong had barely begun flattering him when Wang Yan seized on his words and struck back. He'd seized the initiative. Before they'd even voiced their demand, he'd slapped them in the face.

If Feng Nairong or anyone else spoke now, it would mean directly challenging Wang Yan. But they'd come to beg him to step forward—that was clear to all, agreed upon. If someone spoke up now and Wang Yan ignored them, what then? And in raw power, they weren't his match. Many of their gambling, opium, and brothel businesses were in the French Concession—he could shut them all down and destroy them.

Because of all this, the Qingbang bosses—men who'd killed without blinking—remained silent.

For a moment, the large second floor echoed only with Qi Si's grunts of effort, Yue Jingshan's muffled groans, and the thuds of fists and kicks landing on his body.

As the saying goes: prolonged defense must fail. And Qi Si struck with brutal precision, targeting vital points. He only lost because of his youth and underdeveloped frame—if not, Yue Jingshan would've been dead already. Still, after endless defense, he finally slipped—Qi Si landed a palm strike to his chest. The defense shattered. Yue Jingshan could only take the beating.

Now it was easy. Soon, the big, strong man was beaten into a bloody, swollen mess, lying on the floor like mud, gasping blood.

That's how it should be. A gang meeting needs the look of a gang meeting. Men who once slashed with knives shouldn't pretend to be refined by sticking scallions up their noses.

"Enough." Wang Yan waved his hand. Panting, Qi Si stepped back. Wang Yan called out: "Send two men to take him to the hospital. Kids don't know their own strength—don't let him end up crippled. That'd be bad."

As Yue Jingshan was carried out, Wang Yan turned back to Feng Nairong: "Uncle Feng, your man was rude. I, as a junior, helped you discipline him. You don't mind, do you?"

Feng Nairong knew his face was ruined today. He burned with rage, but forced a smile, waving his hand: "Inspector Wang, don't joke. My men are foolish—they deserve beating. Without punishment, how do they learn? Now he's been taught. Let's get back to business?"

Wang Yan shook his head with a smile, sipped tea, and spoke slowly: "At this point, let's stop pretending. When I arrived, I said I can't pretend ignorance. Let's be direct. You want me to stand up, hold off the Japanese, control Zhang Xiaolin's men, and keep the current order. That's good. Personally, I'm willing. If Shanghai falls into chaos, no one benefits. I have too many businesses, too many workers—I'd lose heavily. And as a Chinese police inspector responsible for order, chaos would only bring me trouble."

"But I'm terrified of the Japanese—and you know I have decent relations with them. As long as I don't provoke them, they won't touch me. As for Zhang Xiaolin's rabble, they can't trouble me. Even if you all riot, I'll be affected, but I can still protect myself. The question is—what can you give me? What will make me step forward, become the target, risk becoming everyone's thorn and enemy?"

Feng Nairong paused, then said: "Just like when Zhang Xiaolin was alive—we all follow you, obey your orders. We'll rewrite some rules to better manage our businesses and stabilize Shanghai. If chaos erupts, we'll face pressure from other elites and foreigners—none of us will benefit. Also, we'll give you five percent of each of our monthly net profits. You're richer than all of us, your businesses are bigger—but together, our combined share isn't small."

His words opened the floodgates. Others chimed in, all urging Wang Yan to accept, saying the offer was generous, showing great sincerity—he needn't do anything but mediate relations with the Japanese and Zhang Xiaolin's men. He could do that with a single word. It was like picking up money for free, plus he'd command everyone present. How good could it get?

Wang Yan said nothing. He quietly sipped tea. After a moment, the buzzing stopped. They looked at each other, unsure what to do. Wang Yan didn't speak—they couldn't continue. If they weren't satisfied, at least counteroffer.

After a tense silence, an old man beside Feng Nairong couldn't hold back: "Inspector Wang, are you dissatisfied with our offer?"

"You still don't understand your situation," Wang Yan set down his teacup and shook his head. "I know many of you here have cozy ties with the Japanese. That's normal—I do too. But unlike you, I'm stronger, more valuable—that's why you came to me. In truth, you have no other choice. Even if you surrender to the Japanese, are you all just dogs? Is one dog higher than another? Do you think the Japanese care about your feud with Zhang Xiaolin's men?"

From ancient times to now, the rule has never changed: strength decides survival. Most of you will be eliminated in this struggle, thrown into the Huangpu River to feed fish. Only if I step forward can we all coexist. Don't you get it? Talking about obeying me, giving me five percent? When I give orders, you'll just collude, gang up on me, never follow me. And the five percent? A joke. I know how much you earn. I send my accountant over—will you agree? You'll just say whatever you want. Do you really think I'm a naive kid you can fool?"

Feng Nairong frowned: "Then what do you want?"

Wang Yan chuckled, stood, hands behind his back, scanning the room. He paced slowly to the center and stopped: "I'm a businessman—I think you all agree. I've lived in Shanghai for years, always kept my word. That's something merchants understand better than you. So my demand is simple: let's partner up. Let's get rich together."

Don't rush, hear me out. The way to get rich is simple too—we all pool our money together to set up a bank. How profitable banks are, I don't need to spell it out, right? When the time comes, we'll set up a board of directors, and I'll be the chairman. When you need money, you just borrow from your own bank—much more convenient for cash flow. Those with money put up money, those without put up manpower. All the grand-uncles and great-uncles here are senior figures; you also know plenty of high-ups in both parties, and some of them are even your own disciples. Our bank can quickly open branches in the Soviet area, the Nationalist area, and the Japanese-occupied area. Just think how much money we'll make then.

And through the bank's cooperation, we can merge and streamline some of our other industries. Everyone knows their own shareholding, so we can absolutely concentrate our strength to make money together. In fact, if we grow powerful enough, we can even do cross-border trade. You all know I have good relations with foreigners, and I know quite a few Americans too, so we have the conditions for it. Think about it—what kind of situation will it be by then?

"How much does each family need to put up? What's the minimum to get in? Are shares divided by money or by strength? And what about the bank's management?"

"Strength? Money is strength! As for the management you mentioned, I'm the chairman, so of course I have the final say. As shareholders, you can get priority loans at low interest, enjoy year-end dividends, and arrange people to audit the accounts. Whatever other banks do, we'll do the same."

Wang Yan said, "But you all know my situation—I've become the laughingstock of the Shanghai Bund lately. There's the big expenditure on building the factory, so I don't have much cash on hand. As for me, I'll put up one hundred thousand U. S. dollars. Counting this time stepping forward to resolve the problem, a twenty-percent share isn't too much, right? The remaining eighty percent, you all put up the money. No matter how much each person puts in, it'll be distributed according to contribution ratio in the end. This is a deal that only profits and never loses, benefiting your children and grandchildren. You should put up more money. Do you understand what I mean?

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But I won't force anyone. The money is in your hands, take it or leave it. That's my only demand. That's it, discuss it among yourselves, and come find me once you've figured it out. Oh right, you'd better hurry—it's best to have a detailed breakdown of how much each person is putting up. I'm afraid Zhang Xiaolin's men won't wait and will strike first. When that happens, the demands might change. A Si, let's go."

A group of people just stood there wide-eyed, watching Wang Yan leave the building behind Qi Si.

"You all discuss it. He's a Chinese detective inspector, and I'm on decent terms with him. Go have a proper talk with him and get a clear picture."

Liu Yitong, who had been sitting there without a word, stood up and said this, then jogged after them and left. All that remained was a bunch of big and small gang leaders staring blankly at each other, momentarily at a loss...