Chapter 55: The Crossed Pawn

At noon, in the Yang family ancestral home, the council chamber.

At either end of the redwood table, tension crackled; seventeen collateral uncles and cousins filled every seat.

Cigarette butts piled into a small mound in the gilded ashtray; the air still carried the lingering scent of gunpowder.

“Yang Wei! Itachi haven’t even grown a single hair—what right do Itachi have to sit in the main seat?”

Second Uncle Yang Kun slammed his teacup onto the table, tea dregs splattering onto the carved wood grain.

“Big brother just passed, and Itachi’re already trying to seize control of the Yang family? There are so many collateral uncles—none of them should be skipped for Itachi!”

These words stirred a hornet’s nest; Third Uncle Yang Ming immediately jumped in.

“Exactly! Yang Zhibiao’s assets must go to a seasoned leader—not some green kid who can’t even read a company ledger properly! Don’t ruin the Yang family!”

Yang Wei, seated in the main chair, remained silent. Slowly, he lifted his gaze—his youthful eyes held no fear, only ice shards.

"Second Uncle says I lack qualification?"

His voice was low, yet dripping with contempt, instantly silencing all noise.

"Then what about the two friends who helped me escort my cousin back to school last night? Do they lack qualification?"

Yang Kun’s face turned pale as paper.

Last night, his son had been blocked at the alley entrance by two men in black cloaks. They didn’t strike—just tossed him a paper bearing a blood lotus, with the words: “Advise your father to behave.”

He hadn’t dared speak of it—yet Yang Wei knew!

“Itachi… what do Itachi mean?” Yang Kun’s voice trembled; his hand involuntarily gripped the tablecloth.

Yang Wei let out a light laugh, pressing his finger lightly against the token. Two black shadows suddenly slid in from behind the corridor pillars.

On their waists, unmistakably hung bloodstained tokens. The shadows stepped into the center of the hall; their chilling aura made several uncles near the window shrink back.

“Nothing meaningful.”

Yang Wei rose, looking down upon them all.

“I haven’t yet found where my father hid the Kunpeng Spirit Core. But if anyone dares undermine me now and delay matters—”

He paused, his gaze locking onto Third Uncle Yang Ming: “Isn’t your little granddaughter just starting kindergarten? I heard that school is quite close to the abandoned factory in Chengxi.”

Yang Ming’s face drained of color. He leapt to his feet to protest, but Fourth Uncle tugged his arm.

Fourth Uncle cast a glance at the shadows and lowered his voice.

“Mingzi, don’t be reckless… when they brought back Director Zhang Cheng’s son, all ten of his fingernails were gone!”

“Even his wife is being held captive in the Yang family villa—this kid is a cold-blooded monster!”

The hall fell utterly silent; only the ticking of the wall clock echoed in every heart.

This madman had used this tactic to intimidate the board—now he dared use it on his own uncles.

Everyone knew now: Yang Zhibiao had been purged by the Cult of the Demonic God.

Yang Wei could command these people—he’d long since joined that insane sect. Who could guarantee what he’d do to his own father?

“I’m not taking this position to seize power.”

Yang Wei sat back down, tapping his fingers on the table. “I’m taking it to ensure the Yang family’s safety. Whoever agrees, start working with me today. Whoever disagrees—”

He glanced at Yang Kun, a cold smirk curling his lips: “Let’s see if Itachi, wearing shoes, fear me, the barefoot one.”

Yang Kun opened his mouth, then slumped back into his seat. The other uncles exchanged glances—no one dared speak.

After all, they feared retaliation against their families more than a junior taking control.

“Since no one objects,” Yang Wei picked up the family patriarch’s seal, “from today, I alone decide all matters of the Yang family.”

“Rest assured, uncles and elders—Zhang Cheng was an outsider. He erred, so he was punished. We’re family—I’ll still show mercy to family.”

After the meeting, Yang Wei slept at the ancestral home, then returned to the company. He slammed the patriarch’s seal onto the documents. When he looked up, dusk had deepened outside the window.

He stared at his pale reflection in the glass, then let out a low laugh—three parts self-mockery, seven parts chilling dread.

“Young Master, the Night Watchers’ branch has sent a letter demanding the Yang Group’s financial statements for the past three years by 3 PM tomorrow.”

The secretary entered, placing a leather pouch on the desk. “Also…”

“Speak.” Yang Wei spun his pen, the tip carving deep grooves into the words “Kunpeng Spirit Core.”

“Jiang Xia and Wang Teng are downstairs. They say they want to…”

“Have them come up.” Yang Wei suddenly interrupted, tapping his fingers on the desk. “And bring out the gift from the safe.”

After Old Zhang left, Yang Wei rose and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. Neon lights swirled in his eyes, reflecting a faint, mocking smile on his lips.

Moments later, the office door opened. Jiang Xia and Wang Teng entered side by side. Centered on Yang Wei’s desk lay a bloodstained dagger.

“Young Master Yang, is this a show of force?”

Wang Teng tugged his sleeve, his gaze sweeping over the dagger. “Or are Itachi trying to explain why this weapon carries the Cult of the Demonic God’s aura?”

Yang Wei turned, his fingers gently tracing the blood lotus pattern on the dagger.

"Wang Teng, I sent your family several shopping cards—with unlimited limits—as compensation for your brother's psychological trauma."

“As for this dagger…” He suddenly flung it toward Wang Teng; the blade carved a half-arc through the air.

“It’s my father’s legacy to me.”

Jiang Xia stepped in front of Wang Teng, his Sharingan flaring open. One hand caught the dagger—the red cord wrapped around the hilt stirred without wind.

Jiang Xia narrowed his eyes: the red cord was woven from some kind of talisman.

“Interesting.” Yang Wei sat back down. “How much have Itachi uncovered?”

“We found Yang Zhibiao colluded with the Cult of the Demonic God. We found the blood lotus of the Cult lingered in your private villa for half an hour last night.”

Jiang Xia’s Rinnegan glowed faintly in the shadows, scanning the room.

Yang Wei suddenly burst into wild laughter, shaking the crystal chandelier.

Jiang Xia and Wang Teng frowned at the deranged Yang Wei, who abruptly stopped laughing and pulled two envelopes from his drawer.

“I found the Kunpeng Spirit Core.” Yang Wei answered irrelevantly, sliding the envelopes forward.

“But I can’t afford to anger either the Night Watchers or the Cult of the Demonic God.” He stood. “These are invitations. In three days, I’ll put it up for auction at the Black Market Hall. Highest bidder wins.”

“I won’t keep a single coin from the auction—donate it all!”

Wang Teng suddenly gripped Yang Wei’s shoulder. “What exactly are Itachi trying to do?”

Yang Wei shook off his hand and walked to the window. “I want Shen Wenru to know who truly holds the chessboard.”

“And Itachi two… better pray Itachi’re not pawns who’ve crossed the river.”

When Jiang Xia and Wang Teng left the Yang Group with the two envelopes, night had fallen over the entire city.

Inside the car, the atmosphere was heavy. Wang Teng repeatedly rubbed the bloodstained dagger, his fingertips tracing the cold blood lotus pattern, brow furrowed.

“What the hell is Yang Wei playing at? Threatening us, then throwing out the Kunpeng Spirit Core, now announcing a public auction—doesn’t he fear being torn apart by both the Night Watchers and the Cult of the Demonic God?”