So after school…
What followed would become the first true turning point of my life in Japan.
If certain moments can alter the course of one's destiny, then this was a full-blown typhoon—ripping me clean off my original path and hurling me into uncharted waters.
The four of us arrived at a derelict alleyway—gray, crumbling walls; overgrown weeds; scattered cardboard boxes; rusted steel beams jutting out like broken bones. We stood in silence, glancing around, wondering why they hadn't shown up yet.
Truth be told, my heart was hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears. Back in China, I wouldn't have flinched—plenty of brothers, plenty of backup. But here? Just the four of us against who-knows-how-many? The uncertainty gnawed at me.
Then—roar!
Not just a few engines this time. This was a thunderous wave of motorcycles—deafening, relentless. From the far end of the alley, a cloud of exhaust billowed as bike after bike emerged.
One… two… three…
…fourteen… fifteen…
…twenty… twenty-one.
Twenty-one riders.
I nearly laughed out loud. Even Hong Kong gangster films didn't stage fights like this. This wasn't a challenge—it was outright humiliation.
The bikes circled us slowly, engines growling like caged beasts. Li Hao, Liu Qi, and Zhao Zhixin instinctively formed a triangle around me, shielding me in the center.
But I wasn't some damsel.
I stepped out from Li Hao's right side and said flatly, "I don't need protecting. And honestly, guys… this looks bad."
Li Hao just smiled—no words.
The bikes stopped.
The leader wasn't Okamoto Yoshi.
It was a man—early twenties, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five—dressed head-to-toe in black biker gear, radiating authority. Okamoto trailed behind him like a smug lapdog, whispering in his ear while pointing at us with a sneer.
Okamoto strutted forward, puffing his chest. "Listen up, you Shina pigs," he spat. "This is my older brother, Ikuma. If you want to walk out of here alive, you've got one chance: kneel down, call us 'grandpa,' lick his boots—and," he grinned wickedly, "introduce your sister Jixiang to me for a little… fun. Do that, and maybe I'll let you live."
Rage boiled in my veins. Beside me, I heard Li Hao's knuckles crack.
The so-called "Ikuma" stepped forward.
As he approached, Li Hao calmly unslung his schoolbag and set it on the ground. Then—slowly, deliberately—he began to bow.
Ikuma's lips curled into a triumphant smirk.
But just as his head dipped low, Li Hao hissed in Mandarin, voice ice-cold:
"Kneel? Go fuck yourself."
And with a brutal upward surge, he drove a devastating uppercut straight into Ikuma's jaw.
The human jaw is fragile. A solid strike sends the head snapping back—unless the force is so great it launches the whole body.
That's exactly what happened.
Ikuma flew backward like a ragdoll, crashed to the ground, and lay motionless—knocked out cold.
Okamoto shrieked, "ANIUE!" (Big brother!)
Instantly, all twenty remaining thugs charged.
Zhao Zhixin roared like a bear, planted his feet, and barreled straight into five attackers—knocking them down like bowling pins with sheer mass and momentum.
Liu Qi? Don't let his size fool you. He darted between swings like a shadow, impossibly agile. At one point, he vanished behind a pile of crates—then reappeared wielding a steel pipe, cracking skulls with surgical precision.
Li Hao fought like a demon. His shirt tore during the brawl, revealing a massive tattoo across his back: a roaring tiger descending a mountain. On his forearm—a bold, stylized "F"—not English, but the emblem of something far deeper.
I held my own, blocking, countering—but when Ikuma revived and launched a flying kick at me, I raised my guard… only for Okamoto to exploit the opening and sweep my legs.
I hit the ground hard.
Before Okamoto could finish me, Li Hao was there. One punch to the back of the punk's neck—and Okamoto crumpled like wet paper.
We regrouped.
Of the twenty-one, only Ikuma remained standing—shaking, wide-eyed.
As we advanced, he stumbled backward… until he saw Li Hao's forearm tattoo.
His face went pale.
He stammered something in a strange, guttural dialect of Japanese—nothing like standard Tokyo speech.
Li Hao answered in the same tongue.
I didn't understand a word—but the effect was immediate.
Ikuma dropped to his knees, trembling. "Gomen nasai, Aihara Hiro-kun! I didn't know you were from the Dai-fuku-kai! Please forgive our ignorance!"
Li Hao smirked. "An unaffiliated street gang like yours dares throw its weight around? How embarrassing."
He picked up his dusty schoolbag, gave us a nod—and walked away. Liu Qi, ever the showman, delivered a final kick to Okamoto's ribs for good measure.
Later, I learned that the "strange dialect" was yakuza argot—a coded underworld language passed down through generations, much like old Chinese secret society chants ("Heaven above, dragon below…"). In Japan, such codes are real, binding, and respected—even by rival gangs.
We were bruised, bloody, clothes torn—but aside from Zhao Zhixin's split lip, all injuries were superficial. Li Hao took us to a nearby department store, bought us fresh clothes, and sent us home before anyone noticed.
Back at Third Uncle's house, I snuck into my room and examined myself in the mirror—carefully covering every scrape and bruise. Third Aunt was kind to a fault; if she saw even a scratch, she'd fuss for hours.
Once I was presentable, I joined dinner.
But the name "Dai-fuku-kai"—the Great Fortune Society—kept echoing in my mind.
Finally, I couldn't hold back. I set down my chopsticks and asked cautiously, "Third Uncle… do you know a group called the 'Dai-fuku-kai'?"
Third Uncle froze mid-bite.
He slowly lowered his bowl, eyes sharp. "How do you know that name?"
Third Aunt looked startled.
"I—I heard classmates talking about it," I stammered. "They said it's powerful."
Third Uncle nodded slowly. "It is. One of the most prominent Chinese-Japanese syndicates in the country." He resumed eating—but his tone had changed.
After dinner, he summoned me to his study again.
My stomach twisted. Please don't kick me again…
This time, no tea. No ceremony.
He cut straight to the chase: "Did you have a run-in with the Dai-fuku-kai?"
"No! Not at all!" I rushed to explain. "It was those bōsōzoku punks again—21 of them! We fought them off. Then their leader saw Li Hao's tattoo, spoke some weird yakuza slang, and suddenly bowed, calling him 'Aihara Hiro' and begging forgiveness. That's how I learned the name."
"Twenty-one against four?" Third Uncle raised an eyebrow. "And you won?"
"We did! Li Hao, Liu Qi, Zhao Zhixin—they're insane fighters!"
He snorted. "Of course they are. If they're from the Dai-fuku-kai and studying abroad under false names, they're almost certainly children of high-ranking members. All from Fujian, I assume?"
"Yes," I confirmed.
Third Uncle leaned back, a faint, disdainful smile on his lips. "Don't mistake Japan's underworld for the petty street gangs back in mainland China. Our organizations operate like multinational corporations—strict hierarchy, iron discipline. We control real estate, gambling, entertainment, even aviation. And yes, even loan-sharking—which is legal here, by the way."
I absorbed this in stunned silence.
"But then…" I ventured, "why do punks like Okamoto still dare harass us?"
Third Uncle fixed me with a cold stare. "Do you think men like me concern ourselves with schoolyard squabbles? They don't know who I am. And more importantly—this is Japan, not China. I won't coddle you. As long as you're not dead or in mortal danger, I won't intervene. I told you before: rely on no one but yourself."
I swallowed hard. "...Understood."
"One last thing," he added, voice softening slightly. "Be more careful from now on."
And with that, I left the study—my mind racing, my world forever changed.
The lines between student, fighter, and underworld heirloom had begun to blur.
And summer break hadn't even started yet.