Chapter 107: with translation of chapter title

Morning sunlight fell on the streets of the French Concession. An ordinary black sedan stopped in front of the Jinling Hotel.

"Mr. Zhou, your room is on the sixth floor," the attendant said respectfully.

The middle-aged man nodded, took off his dark sunglasses, revealing a face with no distinguishing features. If someone observed closely, they would notice that the facial features seemed to have been carefully "designed," making them forgettable at a glance.

This "Mr. Zhou" was precisely the imperial envoy who had arrived in Shen City the previous night. Unlike his mysterious, low‑key appearance the night before, he now blended perfectly into the French Concession's surroundings, like an utterly ordinary merchant.

Standing by the floor‑to‑ceiling window on the sixth floor, he quietly watched the street scene. In the distance lay the Security Command Headquarters building; nearby bustled a crowded market. The prosperity of the French Concession contrasted sharply with the people's hardship, prompting him to recall the admonition of that person in the capital.

"Shen City is a powder keg," he murmured to himself.

The telegram machine on the table suddenly rang; he walked over quickly and skillfully decoded the cipher:

"The Jiangnan Four Young Masters have made direct contact with Lin Yu. There may be a change within the Security Army. Investigate the key points immediately."

After reading it, the envoy immediately destroyed the telegram, his gaze turning deep. This time the imperial court sent him to Shen City ostensibly to investigate the situation, but in fact there was another motive.

"Lin Yu…" he walked back to the window, his gaze toward the direction of the Fourth Bureau in the distance, "this young supervisory commissioner."

He took out a notebook from his pocket, quickly flipping to one page. It was densely filled with all of Lin Yu's information: from his appearance in Shen City as a supervisory commissioner, to the annihilation of the Ninth Division, to his strong‑armed extortion of the Security Command Headquarters. Each matter seemed like a riddle.

"The court clearly never dispatched such a supervisory commissioner," he muttered, "yet his identity is undeniable. Exactly which senior official is pulling the strings behind the scenes?"

This is what the court truly cares about. The open and covert struggles of the Jiangnan Four Great Families, the internal strife of the Security Army—these are not the focus. What truly makes the court wary is this suddenly appearing mysterious supervisory commissioner.

Where does his power come from? How could he seize control of Shen City's entire underground world in such a short time? And why does he dare to annihilate the foreigners' ace division so recklessly?

"Interesting." He closed the notebook, a faint smile touching his lips. As a senior agent of the Imperial Secret Service, he was all too familiar with such tangled circumstances.

But this time even he had to admit: the waters of Shen City run deeper than he had imagined.

The sunlight outside grew brighter, the crowds on the street thickening. The envoy stood at the window, his gaze sweeping back and forth between the Security Command Headquarters, the Fourth Bureau, and Bailemen. These three places were his next priorities for close attention.

In Shen City's largest teahouse, the Gathering Virtue Teahouse, a lively bustle filled the air. On the third‑floor stage, they were performing "Jade Hall Spring"; the female lead's voice was sweet and moving, drawing continual applause from the audience below.

The envoy changed into a gray‑cloth long robe, put on round‑frame glasses, looking the picture of a frail scholar. He held his teacup, observing the surrounding patrons without changing expression.

Near the stage sat ordinary folk—some alone, some in groups of three or five, sipping tea while commenting on the performance. Yet among them one could occasionally see gentlemen in fine attire; though their manners seemed natural, their eyes continually swept the surroundings.

"Informants of the gangs." The envoy silently noted it in his mind.

In the private rooms on the second floor, the clack of mahjong tiles and hearty laughter could be heard at times. Through the carved wooden windows, a few figures in Western‑style suits—comprador types—could be seen. They spoke fluent Shanghai pidgin, their bearing tinged with arrogance.

"Representatives of the concession powers." The envoy made another mental note.

In the most conspicuous spot of the first‑floor lobby sat several people who looked like officers. Though dressed in civilian clothes, their straight posture and alert gaze gave them away. They from time to time leaned in to whisper, apparently discussing some confidential matter.

"Members of the Security Army." The envoy took a slight sip of tea.

At that moment his gaze locked onto a table in the corner. There sat a man about fifty, wearing a brocade long robe, his visage kindly yet shrewd. Flanking him stood two bodyguards in Western formal wear, poised but with sharp eyes.

"Huang Genrong…" the envoy murmured the name to himself.

As one of the French Concession's Chinese directors, he was a figure who could call the wind and summon the rain in Shen City. His enterprises spread throughout the concession and beyond, with countless ties to all factions. Recently, because of Lin Yu's rise, his situation has become somewhat delicate.

Huang Genrong sipped his tea elegantly, occasionally nodding to nearby patrons who greeted him. Yet the envoy noticed that his gaze continually drifted toward the doorway, as if he were waiting for someone.

The teahouse's clamor, the drumming on the stage, the rising and falling laughter—all faded in the envoy's ears. His attention focused entirely on that corner.

The seat beside Huang Genrong was empty, and from his occasional glances toward the door it was clear that the person he awaited was no ordinary individual. As a Chinese director of the French Concession, only someone of importance would merit his personal wait.

"Interesting." The envoy set down his teacup, a glint flashing in his eyes. This seemingly ordinary teahouse might be a key point in unlocking the game of Shen City.

The actress on stage reached the most moving passage of "Jade Hall Spring," but the envoy had no mind to appreciate it. He was waiting, waiting to see whom Huang Genrong was expecting. That person might well be a crucial clue to untangling Shen City's tangled situation.

Huang Genrong's hand, lifting his teacup, suddenly paused. As a veteran of Shen City's underworld for decades, he possessed an almost instinctive sense of danger.

That faint, lingering gaze was too intent.

He feigned adjusting his cuffs, his peripheral vision sweeping toward the spectacled "scholar." The man's posture was natural, his bearing proper—but… too proper.

"Old Zhang." Huang Genrong softly summoned his attendant.

"Director." Old Zhang leaned in.

"Go find out when that gentleman arrived." Huang Genrong lifted his teacup, masking the movement of his mouth.

Old Zhang understood and left without a sound. Huang Genrong continued sipping his tea, occasionally greeting acquaintances, but his attention never left that "scholar."

His sitting posture was too perfect—even when relaxed, his spine remained ramrod straight. Such a habit usually belongs to someone who has long worked in special circumstances.

More importantly, while he appeared to be enjoying the opera, his gaze swept the hall in a regular pattern—a vigilant instinct that no ordinary scholar would possess.

"Director," Old Zhang returned, "that guest arrived this morning, claiming to be a merchant from Suzhou."

Huang Genrong nodded slightly, a flicker of deep thought in his eyes. Suzhou? Lately no special caravan has come from Suzhou to Shen City.

Just then the "scholar" rose suddenly, as if heading to the tea room. His motion looked natural, yet Huang Genrong noticed that his steps were feather‑light, almost soundless.

Such skill…

Huang Genrong's heart suddenly sank. Having wandered Shen City for years and seen all sorts of people, he felt that this "scholar" before him was distinctly different.

That bearing, that demeanor, that alertness…

"He's from Yanjing," Huang Genrong thought to himself. He suddenly realized that the waters of Shen City were about to get even murkier.

The actress on stage continued her melodious rendition, the teahouse patrons still chatting and laughing. Yet Huang Genrong knew that a figure capable of shattering Shen City's existing balance had quietly taken the stage.