The Mark of Feng Bao

Huang Jin had never believed in loyalty. Loyalty was a myth peddled by fools who mistook fear for devotion. The Nine Dragons thrived on betrayal—it was the syndicate’s oldest tradition. So when Mei Lian’s coup erupted in gunfire and screams, Huang Jin hadn’t flinched. He’d simply turned and walked away, his gold-trimmed coat flaring like a phoenix’s wing as he vanished into the chaos.

His private jet idled on a clandestine runway, engines humming with impatience. Behind him, the council compound burned, its glass spires collapsing into ash. Huang Jin didn’t look back. Sentiment was for the doomed.

The flight to Macau was silent. No aides, no guards. Just Huang Jin and his encrypted console, its screen flickering with casualty reports and severed alliances. By the time wheels touched tarmac, Mei Lian and Luo Jian were dead, their empire already fracturing into warring shards.