When Jiang Hai first bought his boat, he worried it wouldn't withstand the sea. Looking back now, that fear seems almost laughable.
Jiang Hai is greedy, lustful, and terrified of death. Of those flaws, fear of death reigns supreme.
After all, who isn't afraid of dying—especially someone like Jiang Hai, who already has money, women, and a life free of worry?
A life like his is rare. What more could one really want?
So, he doesn't care whether people call him a salted fish. What he does care about is simple: he hasn't had nearly enough of this life yet.
Even two years ago, when his boat was first built, he was already living well enough. He had insisted his inshore fishing boats be constructed to the standards of ocean-going vessels. Sturdier, stronger, larger—they far outclassed the smaller boats of ordinary fishermen.
Now, at his command, the two fishing boats rammed into a vessel just ahead that was preparing to haul in its nets. With two sharp clangs, the collisions sent the boat rocking violently, nearly toppling it and throwing several fishermen into the sea.
The attack caught them completely off guard. But fishermen are no strangers to the water—after being tossed overboard, they quickly swam away, unwilling to face Jiang Hai's heavy boats head-on.
As the aggressors, Jiang Hai's side held their ground. Their vessels shook under impact, but the damage was trivial. Regaining control, Jiang Hai and his men turned to the other fishing boats.
"Let these bastards learn a lesson," he growled.
The smaller boats, terrified, scrambled to haul in their nets. No one wanted to be struck like the two crippled ships.
Those boats were in miserable shape. Their bows were dented inward, a wound that rendered them unsafe for open seas. One strong wave could split them apart. Repairing that damage would cost tens of thousands—an entire month's work gone in an instant.
Would Jiang Hai pay? Of course not. The thought alone was laughable.
How shameless, he thought. They trespass in his waters, steal his fish, and then expect him to pay their repair bills? They must be insane. His money is his own—why should he hand it over to thieves?
It reminded him of the moral blackmail so common back in China. People love to stand on the moral high ground, demanding that the wealthy donate whenever disaster strikes. Refuse, and you're branded trash, scum, or a sinner against the nation.
At first, Jiang Hai had watched such antics with amusement. But now that he stood in the wealthy man's shoes, he asked the same question he asked himself back then: Why?
He would donate if he felt like it. If he didn't, that was still his choice. No one had the right to dictate how he spent his fortune.
Some would argue: "It's just some fish. Jiang Hai makes millions from beef every year. Why not let the fishermen share a little?"
Others might even demand that Jiang Hai return to China, publicize his use of spiritual energy, and lead the nation to rise against America and Japan.
But again—why? His money, his knowledge, his power—every bit of it was his alone. He owed nothing to anyone.
He'd proven that point once before in Winthrop, when the town tried to pressure him into hiring for a factory. He had told them plainly: he was not their servant. He was their master. If anyone tried to box him in with "the interests of the masses," he'd overturn the table—no matter what feast was on it.
That fiery defiance was Jiang Hai's true nature. And today, it was on full display.
Watching the fishing boats scatter in panic, he sneered and pointed at the largest vessel on the water.
"Hit that one!"
He recognized it instantly—the ship of Edward Anderson, president of the Boston Fishermen's Guild.
The Guild had been eyeing Jiang Hai's fishery for years. When it wasn't profitable, they ignored him. But now that it was making money, they couldn't sit still. Americans didn't farm fish the way Chinese did; to them, penned waters were an insult, a resource to be plundered. Stealing Jiang Hai's fish was inevitable.
But they hadn't expected his ties to the Coast Guard. Anyone caught stealing faced fines so crushing they outweighed the profits. Still, resentment simmered. And now, with two deaths pinned on Jiang Hai, the Guild finally had its excuse to invade.
The police stayed away—it was easier to let the fishermen push the "justice" narrative than to risk a human rights controversy.
On the Guild leader's boat, his hot-headed son raged. "They dare ram us? I'll crush them!" He grabbed a shotgun, but his father stopped him cold.
"No guns," the Guild leader said firmly. "We play tough, but not dirty."
"Why not? This sea belongs to everyone. If they think they can take it for themselves, then ramming is the least they deserve!" the son shouted back, furious.
But his father remained calm. He knew Jiang Hai's reputation—knew about the Boston thugs who'd died at his hands. To escalate would be suicide.
Instead, he gave the order.
Sailors rolled out two carts fitted with thick hoses and nozzles.
"Water cannons!" the son exclaimed, grinning.
At his father's signal, the nozzles roared to life. Twin streams of water blasted forward like dragons, slamming into Jiang Hai's bow and shoving his boats off course.
Edward Anderson fought the wheel, trying to push through, but the force was overwhelming. The closer they got, the harder the jets hit, forcing them into a retreat.
The Guild leader's son roared with laughter. "So arrogant before—what now? This is America! Go back, you bastard!"
The nearby fishing boats jeered along with him, their laughter stinging Jiang Hai like knives.
He had seen water cannons on TV before, used by navies to defend disputed waters. They were meant to intimidate without causing war. But never in his life had he expected to be on the receiving end of one.
His face darkened. "Damn it. Damn it! I'll get one of these myself and drown them all!"
Edward Anderson, usually calm, was seething too. "Dalton Green at the Ocean Temple should have some. Enough is enough."
Before Jiang Hai could respond, the roar of engines filled the air. Two Coast Guard helicopters swooped down over the scene.
(To be continued.)