Chapter 20: Humans, Such Fragile Things

Long Biao had entered the underworld at fourteen—on his birthday, no less. After severing a rooster's head and swearing a blood oath, he presented his gang with the skull of their rival leader, completing his rite of passage a decade early.

Over twenty years, he clawed from street thug to North Hall Master of the Qinghong Gang. His rise? A cocktail of ruthlessness and betrayal. Three bosses had "retired" under his blade. Photos revealed a hawk-nosed, wolf-eyed man with a bulging occiput—the face of a kin-slayer.

Yet without him, the North Hall's dominance would crumble.

In recent years, Long Biao's empire thrived on three pillars: soldiers, cash, and vice dens. His specialty? The unholy trinity of drugs, flesh, and gambling. Even the Qinghong's patriarch couldn't dislodge him now.

But Ye Chenghuan cared little for history. His calculus was simple: How will Long Biao repay this debt?

The day unfolded mundanely. The wealthy drowned in vice; ordinary folks shopped for dinner.

At Kowloon Pond, an upscale enclave built over a drained reservoir, Ye Chenghuan parked across the river. He crossed a stone bridge, collar raised, sunglasses masking his gaze.

A boy's laughter pierced the quiet. "Daddy!"

A toddler sprinted over, clinging to Ye Chenghuan's leg. The child's features—hawkish nose, sharp eyes—mirrored Long Biao's.

"What's your surname?" Ye Chenghuan crouched.

"Long! Daddy, what's yours?"

Blood hummed in his ears. He glanced at the flustered mother. "Call me uncle."

As they parted, she mistook his shades for blindness: "Do you need help?"

He declined, quickening his pace. A loving family. How ironic.

No. 1 Villa loomed behind iron gates crowned with barbed wire. Guards patrolled the manicured grounds. A third-floor light glowed—Long Biao's sanctuary.

Ye Chenghuan cracked his knuckles.

A guard barked, "Scram!"

"Is this the Long residence?"

"I said—"

Ye Chenghuan's hand shot through the bars. Fingers vise-gripped the man's throat, yanking him face-first into the gate. Metal grille met flesh, peeling skin like overripe fruit.

"Blame your employer," he murmured.

With a wet crunch, the guard's body disintegrated into meaty chunks. Ye Chenghuan plucked keys from the carnage.

Inside, chaos unfolded poetically.

A backhanded slap liquefied a skull. A stomp flattened feet into pancakes. Bodies became projectiles, painting walls with abstract gore. By the time he reached the stairs, the foyer resembled a butcher's dumpster.

On the second floor, twelve men lunged. Ye Chenghuan's fist plunged into a chest, wrenching ribs apart like tissue paper. A palm strike cleaved a collarbone, arterial spray baptizing the chandelier.

He danced through the slaughterhouse—no wasted motion, no mercy. Heads popped underfoot; spines snapped like kindling. When silence fell, only the third floor remained.

The armored door mocked him. One kick reduced it to crumpled tin.

Long Biao sat frozen, cigar ash trembling. A family photo smiled from his desk.

Ye Chenghuan wiped bloodied hands on the drapes. "Your son has your eyes."

The gangster's throat bobbed. "Money… I'll give—"

"I'm here for a story." Ye Chenghuan lifted the photo. "About a sister sold to pay her sibling's rehab."

Recognition dawned. Long Biao reached for a drawer—

A letter opener pinned his palm to the mahogany.

"Debts," Ye Chenghuan said softly, "require interest."

The room's screams lasted precisely six minutes.

Outside, the toddler's laughter echoed. Ye Chenghuan lit a cigarette, tasting copper and karma. Some sins even hell wouldn't claim.