Chapter 211

In the western district of Shen City, deep inside a rundown lane.

The exterior of this two‑story old house is mottled, its wooden stairs long faded, each step creaking with an unsettling sound. Inside, the furnishings are almost shabby: a wooden table, two old chairs, a single bed in the corner with cheap blue‑white striped sheets.

The only thing out of place in this slum‑like environment is the few detailed maps spread on the table and a neat stack of documents.

Lu Xuan was bent over under the dim yellow desk lamp, studying something, his expression focused and grave. Beside the table sat an opened bottle of white liquor, only a small half‑cup poured, hardly touched.

From outside the window came the familiar clamor of the market: vendors' cries, tricycle bells, shouts from the mahjong parlor, and the distant whistle of the dock.

These noisy sounds wove together into a vast net that enveloped the unremarkable house.

Lu Xuan's gaze lingered for a moment on a point on the map, about to note something on the document, when suddenly his hand froze in mid‑air.

Footsteps.

The urgent, uniform thud of military boots approached from afar like a sudden downpour, instantly surrounding the residence. Lu Xuan sprang to his feet, his right hand already pressing on the pistol at his waist.

Bang!

Ah!

Thud!

From the perimeter came brief sounds of scuffling, followed by a few muffled grunts and the sharp clink of metal striking metal. The three hidden sentries he had posted around the area were clearly subdued in an instant. The whole affair took no more than a minute or two, clean and swift enough to be chilling.

Deathly silence.

Then——

Bang!

The door burst open with a deafening bang, wood chips flying like rain. In the smoke and dust, a figure stood firmly in the doorway.

Feng An.

He pointed his Browning pistol at the interior, his eyes cold as ice. Behind him, dozens of uniformly dressed black‑clad soldiers filed in, all armed with submachine guns, their dark muzzles levelled in unison at Lu Xuan standing in the center of the room.

The air inside seemed to freeze in an instant.

Outside, the market clamor continued as before, yet it only made the atmosphere inside feel more oppressive. Lu Xuan watched the defensive net he had meticulously set up be destroyed in just a few minutes, watched these well‑trained elite soldiers encircle him—an unavoidable confrontation was about to begin.

The storm is gathering.

The cold gleam of the gun barrels flickered in the yellow lamplight, the air thick with the smell of gunpowder and killing intent.

Yet amid this tense standoff, Lu Xuan seemed detached. He remained seated in the old wooden chair, his right hand lightly holding the nearly untouched cup of white liquor, his left index finger resting on a certain spot of the map on the table.

His posture was relaxed, as if the black muzzles at the doorway were nothing more than a few irrelevant evening breezes.

Feng An narrowed his eyes, his footsteps echoing on the aged wooden floor as he stepped closer, until the barrel of his Browning pistol pressed against Lu Xuan's forehead.

The icy metal touched his skin, yet it failed to stir even a ripple on Lu Xuan's face.

"The eldest son of the Lu family, the Young Commander of Nanjiang," Feng An's voice dripped with obvious mockery, "You have the Governor's mansion to live in, yet you sneak into Shen City unseen and condescend to stay in a place like this?" He glanced around the shabby house, "Really surprising."

Lu Xuan then slowly lifted his head, his calm gaze passing over the barrel to meet Feng An's eyes. Those eyes were deep as an ancient well, tranquil enough to be startling. Even the corner of his mouth twitched with a faint, almost imperceptible smile, as if he had long anticipated this moment.

As expected, nothing escapes Commander Lin's eyes and ears.

Lu Xuan's voice was unhurried, carrying an innate composure. He carefully set the wine cup back on the table, his movement graceful as if sipping tea in an upscale lounge. Then he rose, unhurriedly smoothing the slight wrinkles in his shirt, and casually picked up the dark coat draped over the chair back.

"Take me to see him," he said while pulling on the coat, "I think Commander Lin would also like to meet me."

This unexpected composure subtly shifted the atmosphere that had been thick with violence and oppression. Feng An's gun still pointed at Lu Xuan, yet he realized he had unconsciously retreated half a step. The armed soldiers still held their defensive stance, but a hint of confusion had entered their eyes.

Lu Xuan straightened his collar, standing in the dim light, his whole bearing exuding an ineffable aristocratic air. That air formed a stark contrast with the shabby surroundings, yet seemed perfectly natural. At this moment, it was the armed Feng An and his men who looked somewhat ill at ease.

Feng An furrowed his brows, for the first time feeling a waver in his judgment—was this seemingly trapped prey truly as helpless as it appeared? What schemes lay behind those excessively calm eyes?

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The reception hall of Lin Gong Guan was magnificent, crystal chandeliers on the ceiling scattering brilliant light, Persian carpets embroidered with intricate patterns, walls adorned with valuable calligraphy and paintings. Fully armed guards stood outside, yet inside lingered a suffocating silence.

Lin Yu lounged lazily on an Italian‑imported genuine leather sofa, idly turning a bronze ancient seal in his hand. When Lu Xuan entered under Feng An's "escort," he merely lifted his eyelids slightly, his gaze sharp as a sword.

This was his first formal meeting with the Young Commander of Nanjiang.

He had a crew cut, stood about 1.8 meters tall, and even in civilian clothes could not hide his military bearing. His stature was straight as a pine, his steps steady and powerful, his features firm and upright, his brow betraying the resilience forged by military life, his jawline defined, exuding an aura of unspoken authority.

But most striking were his eyes, calm to an almost uncanny degree.

They were deep, unfathomable eyes, like a mountain spring pool—still and waveless, yet hiding unfathomable currents beneath.

Lin Yu continued to play with the ancient seal in his hand, remaining seated, his tone laced with deliberate nonchalance and mockery: "Lord Lu, you honor Shen City with your presence, yet you didn't even send a word ahead?" His lips curled in a half‑smile, "It also lets me, Lin, do my best as host."

The ancient seal turned in his long fingers, flashing a cold gleam. Suddenly his tone shifted, zeroing in on the crux: "As far as I know, Lord Lu, this trip of yours seems..." He deliberately drew out the syllables, "... to have not brought the two‑million‑dollar ransom your father promised."

Lin Yu gently set the ancient seal on the coffee table, where it gave a clear chime, "It seems Governor Lu, this 'iron rooster,' doesn't value his beloved son's life all that much."

Before his words had even faded, the air in the reception hall seemed to freeze. Feng An, standing behind Lu Xuan, instinctively tensed his body, hand on his sidearm. Yet Lu Xuan remained ramrod straight, facing Lin Yu's naked threat and mockery without a flicker, as if he had merely heard an ordinary greeting.

The gazes of the two young men met in the air—one lazy yet sharp, the other calm yet profound. The first round of their clash thus began.