Chapter 3 – Hong Kong
Hong Kong — Skyscraper Office.
In a glass-walled conference room, overlooking the neon-saturated bay, Lo Jianming presided.
Elegant, dark suit, precisely trimmed goatee, amber-tinted glasses. The reflections of advertising signs were etched onto the windows.
Discreet jewels shone on his fingers—an antique jade, a signet ring of fine gold—but his authority needed no adornment. In the business world, his name commanded respect. In the more secretive world of the Triads, it inspired fear. Leader of the West Branch of the Wujian clan, the Autumn Plague, nicknamed Zhao Gongming, Lo Jianming controlled portside financial circuits, light arms trafficking, and several shell companies.
The Wujian clan was one of the oldest in the Chinese underworld, founded according to legend during the Qing dynasty by the warlord Lo Lung Po.
Across centuries, the clan had survived wars, empires, and revolutions, reinventing itself without ever dissolving.
Its influence stretched from the docks of Shanghai to the boardrooms of Hong Kong, through the casinos of Macau and the arms markets of Southeast Asia.
The clan had built an internal system of almost monastic precision: five branches, five Pestilences, each corresponding to a season and a domain of power.
Together, they formed the invisible heart of Asia's underground economy, weaving a web of alliances, debts, and secrets that no government had ever managed to break.
One of his men approached, leaned in, and murmured a few words into his ear.
— Mr. Lo, your daughter had a collapse at her concert in Monaco. Michael is with her… she is receiving care.
Jianming didn't flinch. Under the table, his fingers tightened; a dry crack sounded. Behind his tinted lenses, his eyes burned with an icy anger.
— Continue, gentlemen, he said simply, his voice smooth, implacable.
Later, in his private office, night had swallowed Hong Kong. Thousands of lights vibrated in the bay like trapped fireflies. Lo Jianming, standing before the window, picked up his phone.
— Boss.
Michael's voice, muffled by distance, crackled on the other end.
— How is my daughter?
Michael told him everything: Émilie's poisoning, and this man, Ahsan, the only one capable of saving her, yet tied to the Baolong clan, the sworn enemies of the Wujian.
A long silence followed. Then Lo Jianming spoke, his voice sharp as glass.
— If we must involve the Wujian and Baolong clans in this matter, I must first convene the Council of the Wuwen.
— I will join you in France. In the meantime, stay by my daughter, Meiqi. I will tolerate no mistakes.
— Understood, boss.
The line went dead. Jianming remained still for a moment, contemplating the city. Beneath his feet, Hong Kong pulsed like a sick heart.
He slowly slid the cinnabar bracelet between his fingers, feeling the roughness of the character 「羅」 carved into the red material against his skin.
The contact reminded him of the weight of the oath, the ancient web he continued to weave, the one where every life, every debt, every betrayal eventually got caught.
For a moment, he stood motionless, his eyes lost in the reflections of the bay. Then he closed his hand, enclosing the red circle in his palm.
"Nothing escapes the net. Not even strength. Not even blood," he murmured.
The bracelet of dark red cinnabar beads was their symbol of recognition for the Wujian clan.
Each bead was engraved with an ancient ideogram, invisible in direct light but revealed under flame: the character 「羅」 (luó), meaning the net, the weaving, the capture.
Between the beads, a twisted black silk thread symbolized the bond of the oath.
That same night — Hong Kong, Red Spring Club.
In the private lounge of the city's most exclusive club, Wang Po, leader of the East Branch of the Wujian clan, the Spring Plague, nicknamed Zhang Yuanbo, sat enthroned in the center of the room.
The Red Spring's private lounge was a hushed jewel box of luxury.
A warm, subdued light slid over flawlessly polished black lacquer furniture, making the reflections of ancient Chinese vases, carefully placed on elegant consoles, shimmer. The walls, covered in dark panels, seemed to absorb sound, making every movement heavier, every breath more perceptible.
A faint haze of high-grade tobacco smoke floated in the air, wafting between the guests and the heavy drapes, and mingled with dark lounge music. Its muffled, almost hypnotic notes accentuated the contrast between the veiled elegance of the place and the icy tension that reigned there.
Wang Po, seated in the center of an emerald green velvet sofa, savored his oolong tea. His glacial face, marked by an old scar and a silver front tooth, clashed with the room's apparent softness. He stood nearly two meters tall, massive as a boulder. Around him, businessmen and hostesses smiled, unable to meet his gaze. Fear seeped from every guest, made more tangible by the floating smoke and the musical notes that seemed to mock their racing hearts.
— Mr. Wang… I… I assure you the delay is only technical, he said in a strained voice. The funds are blocked in Singapore. Within three days—
— You already said three days last week. You know, at this rate, spring will be over before you keep your word.
Wang Po looked up from his cup, calmly blew on the tea, a thin, joyless smile grazing his silver lips.
Shansuo tried to laugh, unsuccessfully.
— I can… negotiate with Mr. Cai, get one last extension, just a...
Wang Po set down his cup slowly. The clink of porcelain on the low table made two hostesses jump.
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping a tone.
— Negotiate? You still think you can negotiate with a man like Mr. Cai Tianming?
A thin smile split his scar as he made a discreet sign. The guards acted. The businessman was seized by the shoulders, lifted from the sofa like a puppet, and dragged behind a sliding partition.
— Your oolong tea is exquisite, Mr. Chan… murmured Wang Po.
He inhaled the steam, savoring the bitter, woody note, and added, implacably:
— But you should have doubled the poison… to hope to bring me down.
A muffled cry rose from behind the partition, followed by a dull thud. The music continued, soft and almost mocking. The guests, frozen, held their breath, trembling under the grip of fear. A cold sweat beaded on their temples. Even the discreet creak of the floorboards or the rustle of fabric seemed to resonate in the room, like a drum heralding danger.
An underling entered, head bowed, and placed a sealed envelope, adorned with the seal of the Wujian‑shi Triad. Wang Po broke the wax and read the calligraphed message:
The Spring Plague, Zhang Yuanbo, is summoned to the Secret Council of the Five Pestilences.
-Seal of the Wujian‑shi-
His thin smile stretched again. He made a hand gesture, and his guests and the hostesses were invited to leave the lounge.
— Gentlemen, we depart for the secret council, he announced to his men.
— And this time… no negotiations.