The Fiery Blossom Hairstyle

The 2006 Toyota Prado 2700 Middle East edition, known for its rugged reliability, had never let Yin Bingsong down. It was his pride and joy. Yet today, it had almost become his final resting place—one slight misstep earlier, and it would have turned into an iron coffin.

Yin Bingsong was familiar with such plots. This was a car bomb: ignite the engine, and it detonates. Just a few dozen grams of explosive could easily blow the vehicle apart. Thankfully, his usual caution had saved his life this time.

Yin Bingsong had too many enemies. In a brief moment of reflection, he could think of seven or eight people with motives to kill him.

Although anger surged within him, his first instinct was to call the police—after all, his background in the security department had trained him to leverage public institutions to solve private matters. But this time, it seemed unwise. Explosives were a serious crime. If someone exploited this incident to escalate the situation and attract higher-level attention, it might unearth some of his past misdeeds—a risk he couldn't afford.

In the end, he decided to handle the matter privately. He called one of his trusted men, a specialist nicknamed "Electric Cannon King", a former miner experienced in handling explosives. Ten minutes later, the Electric Cannon King arrived, carrying a leather bag full of tools.

After a series of professional maneuvers, he held up the extracted explosive—a chunk of grayish-yellow material—with wires already cut.

"False alarm, Brother Song," the Electric Cannon King said, weighing the explosive in his hand. "It's pretty heavy—about half a kilo, I'd say."

"What type is it?" Yin Bingsong asked.

"Not quite the same as what I used to handle in the mines—looks like C4, military-grade stuff. Way more powerful. This one chunk alone could…"

"Enough," Yin Bingsong cut him off before he could finish the sentence. He reached into his crocodile leather bag, pulled out two packs of Soft Zhonghua cigarettes, and handed them over. "Cannon, this stays between us. Don't mention it to anyone."

"I get it. I didn't see or hear anything," the Electric Cannon King replied, taking the cigarettes and handing over the explosives. He then excused himself, claiming he had other matters to attend to.

After dismissing him, Yin Bingsong placed the explosives, wires, and detonators into a bag and continued inspecting the car. He was genuinely shaken. Even after checking the vehicle inside and out eight times, he still didn't feel at ease. Finally, he called another subordinate, handed him the keys, and instructed him to take the car to a repair shop for a thorough inspection.

Finding the culprit was the priority. Yin Bingsong headed to the security office of the Binhai Business Building to retrieve surveillance footage. He requested all recordings from the time he parked his car last night until this morning when he discovered the bomb. The security captain burned the footage onto a USB drive for him to review at home.

Fortunately, Yin Bingsong had an old white Jetta to fall back on. Without informing anyone, he drove out to a familiar rural farmhouse inn to lay low. He was convinced someone was targeting him, and he needed to stay off the radar for a while.

In the farmhouse's guest room, Yin Bingsong opened his laptop and carefully reviewed the surveillance footage. Nine hours of video footage took its toll on him, leaving his head spinning. Despite his meticulous scrutiny, he saw no one approach his Prado, let alone lift the hood to plant a bomb.

This didn't make sense. The only explanation was that the surveillance system had been hacked, a plot straight out of a spy movie. But this level of sophistication wasn't something an average criminal could achieve—it was Mission Impossible-level expertise. The sheer effort involved in targeting him left Yin Bingsong feeling both terrified and oddly flattered.

Who could be behind this? Was it Er Long from the port district? Or Brother Caustic Soda from the city center? Both men hated him to the core, their conflicts simmering for years. He needed to find a way to diffuse these tensions.

In any case, Yin Bingsong decided to keep a low profile for the next two weeks.

His phone rang—it was his wife. She said their daughter was insisting on being discharged from the hospital, and she couldn't persuade her otherwise. "Where are you?"

"I'm out of town on business. Don't call me unless it's urgent," Yin Bingsong replied curtly before hanging up.

The phone rang again, this time from one of his men. "The guy to deal with Mr. Huang has been arranged. Just one person, though."

"One person is enough," Yin Bingsong said. "Stab him and leave. No one will find him. How much is it? Get him a phone or something."

Meanwhile, at the Shipyard Hospital, Yin Weiran lay in bed with her leg in a cast, suspended in traction. Forget about going to school—she couldn't even get out of bed. The doctor had warned that she needed at least a week of rest before attempting to walk with crutches. Disobedience could result in a shortened leg, leaving her permanently disabled. Terrified, Yin Weiran no longer dared to ask about being discharged.

In a different ward, the doctors discovered a patient missing during rounds. The boy, Zhang Cong, an 18-year-old admitted after a fire, had vanished. His family hadn't paid the hospital fees, meaning he had likely skipped out.

Zhang Cong had been the last person rescued by Yi Leng during the Juyou Internet Cafe fire, nearly suffocating from smoke inhalation. Thanks to his youth and good health, he recovered quickly after just two days. Without money to pay the bill, he slipped away in the middle of the night. Now, he was in another internet cafe, playing League of Legends, with cigarettes and cola at his side.

A man approached Zhang Cong, pressed a hand on his shoulder, and led him to a deserted hallway. After a whispered conversation, Zhang Cong nodded. The man handed him a rolled-up newspaper containing something before leaving.

Back in the kitchen of the restaurant, Yi Leng was preparing a nutritious lunch for his daughter. Behind him, an old cabinet held items like car putty, laundry soap, wires, pliers, and screwdrivers. With limited time and resources, making a real bomb was too difficult, but crafting a fake bomb was simple enough.

Yi Leng intentionally left a clue for Yin Bingsong to discover as a warning. Hopefully, this would keep things quiet for a while.

He prepared two meals: one for his daughter and one for his boss, Ali. His daughter's meal included beef, shrimp, chicken thighs, king oyster mushrooms, rice, yogurt, and an apple. Ali's meal was a low-fat diet consisting of avocado, corn kernels, soft-boiled eggs, broccoli, and chicken breast—all in small portions.

Ali wouldn't arrive at the restaurant until the afternoon after finishing her classes, but she insisted on paying for her meals. Each lunch cost fifty yuan.

Yi Leng delivered the meals to the school's gatekeeper, asking him to pass them along to the respective classrooms. Such arrangements would inevitably expose his identity, but Yi Leng didn't mind. He hadn't been actively hiding; he knew father and daughter would have to reunite eventually.

Returning to the restaurant, Rou Mingrui sat inside, smoking a cigarette and looking every bit like a protection racketeer. The recent clash with Yin Bingsong had brought Rou Mingrui and Old Huang closer together. Today, Rou Mingrui had brought a significant gift for Master Huang.

"I know you fancy classy things, so I thought you'd appreciate this," Rou Mingrui said, presenting a string of beads like a prized treasure.

The beads weren't the typical round variety but shaped like lotus flowers, with alternating red and white hues. Nine beads were strung together, accented by a centerpiece of red agate, giving the string an air of sophistication.

Everyone has their blind spots. Yi Leng, for one, couldn't discern the value of the item. After examining it briefly, he humbly asked, "What's so special about this treasure?"

Rou Mingrui beamed with pride. "These are Blood Lotus Beads, made from golden-thread oxblood red lotus bodhi seeds. They're incredibly rare—you couldn't buy them even if you had the money. What do you think?"

"Impressive," Yi Leng responded with a thumbs-up.

"Take it. It's yours," Rou Mingrui said.

"A gentleman doesn't take what others value highly. I couldn't possibly accept," Yi Leng said politely.

"Don't be modest. You dislocated Yin Bingsong's arm for me, giving me a much-needed release of frustration. This is the least I can do. I don't have much else to offer, and I know you'll appreciate this."

At that moment, Xiao Hong, overhearing their conversation, approached and gave the beads a glance. Her lips curled into a smirk, clearly preparing to make a snide remark.

Yi Leng saw this and immediately changed the subject, saying, "Xiao Hong, go check if the stewed intestines are ready."

"I've got something to take care of around noon, so I won't be staying to eat. See you later." With that, Rou Mingrui picked up his bag and left.

Shortly after, Xiao Hong emerged from the kitchen and commented, "This thing here is just the seed of a wild pineapple. Back in my hometown, we use it to feed pigs."

"Xiao Hong, if you don't speak, no one will mistake you for a mute," retorted Wu Yumei with a sharp tone.

Yi Leng slipped the Blood Lotus Bracelet onto his wrist, lit a cigarette, and stretched lazily as he walked out the store's door. Just then, he noticed a seductive woman wearing knee-high boots stepping out of the shop two doors down. She greeted him with a playful wave: "Brother, you're done for the day? Why not come over and have a seat?"

The shop she emerged from was a beauty and hair salon. It didn't have a proper name; instead, the glass door was plastered with services like beauty treatments, haircuts, back massages, and styling. At night, its pink neon lights cast a suggestive glow.

Yi Leng had never spoken to this woman before, but given they were neighbors in the same district, it didn't seem appropriate to completely ignore her. A little small talk wouldn't hurt.

"No, I've got things to do," Yi Leng replied.

"Come by when you're free," the woman teased, splashing a basin of water onto the sidewalk as she swayed her hips back into the shop. Her exaggerated movements nearly caused an elderly man riding an electric bike to crash into someone.

That afternoon, Yi Leng was busy preparing ingredients when he heard a commotion nearby. Wiping his hands, he stepped outside to see what was going on.

Out in front of the hair salon, the woman was locked in a struggle with a drunk man. She was desperately pushing him away, while he stubbornly tried to force his way inside, yelling, "I've got money! Let me 'relax' in there!"

"Go home and let your wife give you a massage!" she shouted back, resolute in her refusal.

A small crowd of idle onlookers had quickly gathered on the sidewalk, smoking cigarettes and watching the spectacle unfold, but none of them stepped forward to help.

Yi Leng couldn't stand it any longer. He walked up and intervened with a stern shout, commanding the drunk to back off.

Despite his drunken appearance, the man was just putting on an act. His mind was sharp enough, and seeing another man step in, he reluctantly backed down and left. With that, the crowd dispersed as well.

"Thank you, Brother," the woman said gratefully.

"It's nothing. We're neighbors after all," Yi Leng replied.

"Brother, come in and sit for a while. I'd feel bad otherwise," she insisted, grabbing his hand and refusing to let go. Afraid of drawing more attention, Yi Leng reluctantly agreed to her request.

Inside the salon, Yi Leng glanced around. Unlike what he had assumed, this place actually had legitimate hair styling tools, including scissors and even perm machines. He realized he might've misjudged the shop.

"Brother, have a cigarette," the woman said, pulling out a pack. Yi Leng reached to take one, but she lit the cigarette herself and handed it to him, the gesture oddly theatrical.

"Brother, my name's Yan Aihua. My QQ nickname is 'Fiery Blossom'—you know, the one from 'The Fiery Blossom Grows Cold.' You can call me Hua Hua, Yan Yan, or Little Yan," she introduced herself with a sly smile.

"Well, fate's a funny thing. My name's Huang Pitiger," Yi Leng replied.

Yan Aihua leaned in, taking the cigarette from his lips and taking two slow puffs herself—a bold and teasing move. Yi Leng chuckled and walked over to the door, pretending to pull down the shutter.

"What are you doing, Brother Huang?" she exclaimed, stomping her foot and pouting.

Sitting back in the chair, Yi Leng said, "Sister, why don't you design a hairstyle for me?"

Yan Aihua's eyes lit up. "Brother Huang, you'd look great with a layered 'Fiery Blossom Perm.' With your mature and steady aura, a perm would make you look more fun, rebellious, and younger."

"Well, say no more. Let's do it," Yi Leng said decisively.

Thus began the transformation. Shampooing, trimming, and then wrapping his head with many tiny wires padded with purple and red cotton—Yan Aihua went to work.

Perms took time, and fortunately, the salon didn't have other customers that afternoon. Halfway through, Wu Yumei sent Xiao Hong over to find him. Seeing Yi Leng mid-perm, Xiao Hong gleefully ran back to report.

Soon, Wu Yumei's voice echoed loudly from the restaurant: "Old Huang! Old Huang, where did you disappear to?"

But Yi Leng remained unfazed, pretending not to hear.

When the perm was finally complete, Yi Leng admired his newly voluminous, wavy hair in the mirror, turning his head side to side. His greasy aura had intensified tenfold.

"How much do I owe you?" Yi Leng asked.

"Talking money is so impersonal. Just take me out for a meal," Yan Aihua said with a playful laugh, clearly hinting at ulterior motives.

Back at the restaurant, Yi Leng endured a series of sharp glares from Wu Yumei but handed her a package, saying: "Your delivery arrived. It's the pants I bought for you. Try them on."

Opening the package, Wu Yumei found a pair of black leather pants. Upon touching them, they didn't seem to be genuine leather.

"Do you really think I'd wear pants this flashy? They don't suit me," Yi Leng said skeptically.

"Why not? They go perfectly with your new hairstyle," Wu Yumei replied.

Reluctantly, Yi Leng took the pants to the back kitchen to try them on.

Just as he finished putting them on, he heard a noise outside the back door. Walking over, he spotted someone lurking behind a van—the notorious Wuling Zhiguang.

Before Yi Leng could react, the person punctured the van's tire with a knife.

"Don't you dare run!" Yi Leng shouted.

But instead of running, the culprit turned to face him, brandishing the knife with a menacing glare. It was a cheap fruit knife from the nearby grocery store, its handle wrapped in tape. From the way he gripped it—a direct, amateurish forward hold—it was clear he was an inexperienced fighter.

The would-be attacker looked no older than twenty, sporting a Fiery Blossom Perm remarkably similar to Yi Leng's. To top it off, he was also wearing black leather pants, making the two of them appear oddly matched.

Just as Yi Leng opened his mouth to speak, the young man charged forward, lunging at him with the knife.

[--------------------------------------------]

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