Chapter 1: Two Kings of the Coast
Beihai, Early 1993.
The dawn over Cape Road was swallowed by a fog so thick it felt like a burial shroud. The air here was a permanent, suffocating cocktail of salty brine, rotting fish, and the heavy stench of low-grade diesel from the smuggling trawlers docked at Dijiao Pier.
Atop a derelict, half-finished building near the shore, Lu Changfeng pushed open a creaking wooden window. He adjusted the gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose. His crisp, starched white shirt looked jarringly out of place against the decay of his surroundings. In this rough neighborhood, he was the rare "scholar"—soft-spoken and deliberate. But behind those lenses, his eyes were as cold and bottomless as the midnight sea.
Below, near a cluster of idling motorcycles, his younger brother Lu Changhai crouched on the ground. Stripped to the waist, a jagged scar ran across his chest, looking particularly predatory in the morning light. He was leading a pack of desperate men recruited from the West District, expertly checking hardware wrapped in oilcloth: sawed-off shotguns with lethal spreads and bundles of crude, homemade explosives.
"Brother, they're still not budging," Changhai said, spitting out a blade of grass, his eyes flashing with a murderous glint. "Zhao Zhenfeng from the Yinhai Gang put the word out. He says from now on, our Haicheng Gang won't touch a single leaf of smuggled tobacco at the pier. He wants to drown us like stray dogs."
Changhai didn't turn around. He looked down the long street leading toward the Furihua Hotel. In those years, that was the most decadent spot in Beihai—and it was Zhao Zhenfeng's fortress.
"Changhai, business is about 'purity,'" Lu Changfeng said slowly, removing his glasses to wipe them with a silk cloth. "If we want to sit at the table and eat, we have to realize the table is only so big. Too many guests mean everyone goes hungry. Since Mr. Zhao wants to close the door on us, we'll just have to teach him how a door is properly opened."
He flicked away a glowing cigarette butt. It cut a sharp, fiery arc through the darkness of the ruined building.
That night, the wind howled and the rain turned vicious.
The red carpet in front of the Furihua Hotel was soaked, turning a dark, bruised crimson under the downpour. Zhao Zhenfeng stepped out of the lobby, flanked by bodyguards in loud floral shirts, barking orders at his driver with arrogant flair.
Suddenly, the streetlights at the end of the block flickered twice. A dozen motorcycles roared out of the shadows of the narrow alleys. Changhai led the charge, the muzzle of his shotgun spitting tongues of fire.
"Zhao Zhenfeng! Your shift is over!"
The gunshots were muffled thuds against the torrential rain. Zhao didn't even have time to reach for the shiv at his waist before the precision ambush cut off his retreat. In five minutes, the glamorous hotel entrance was transformed into a slaughterhouse. By the time the sirens wailed in the distance, the shadows had already vanished into the labyrinthine alleys of the Old Town.
That night, the name of the Haicheng Gang echoed through every corner of Beihai. In teahouses and backrooms, people whispered about the refined elder Lu brother and his feral, tiger-like younger sibling.
Lu Changfeng stood in the darkness, looking toward the Furihua Hotel, and slid his gold-rimmed glasses back into place. He knew that from this day forward, the western side of this sea belonged only to the Lu family.