Honbu Takeshi held the microphone and openly asked, “What happened?”
His coarse, hoarse voice was amplified layer by layer through a high-quality speaker, becoming so unpleasant it made people’s hearts tremble.
The sturdy man, nicknamed “Golden Tiger,” quickly gave Honbu Takeshi a grin upon hearing the question. “It’s nothing, nothing, Hong-ge. Just a bit of personal grievance, that’s all.”
Honbu Takeshi put down the microphone and sat up straight. “I’m very interested to hear about it.”
Golden Tiger suppressed his overwhelming hatred and, with a bright, spring-like smile, explained the whole story to his employer.
Right now, Golden Tiger was the second-in-command of a small mercenary team.
But in the past, he had been the boss of a gang.
His organization, “Gale,” had an unspeakable grudge and old feud with “Haina.”
In the beginning, “Gale” mainly operated in the Chang’an District.
Before “Haina” arrived, Chang’an District wasn’t really “Chang’an”—it was a rather chaotic area.
Golden Tiger’s daily job was to lead a bunch of tall, strong underlings with matching tiger-head tattoos, swaggering through the streets, demanding protection money from ordinary vendors.
Anyone who dared refuse would get a beating straight to the head.
But Golden Tiger didn’t consider himself an ordinary low-tier gangster.
He saw himself as a visionary.
After collecting large sums of money, he would spend part of it on his brothers, and the bulk of it was offered to the HR department of Ruiteng Corporation.
He would even take the initiative to lead his brothers in doing voluntary work for Ruiteng—like helping maintain order.
Golden Tiger called this long-term investment.
As long as they clung to the big leg and caught the eye of a large corporation, becoming part of its underground forces, then this scattered gang would have a stable, long-term source of income. They’d no longer have to wander the streets dealing with peddlers, racking their brains to squeeze money out of them.
Golden Tiger was doing this with ease and was about to accomplish something big.
Until one day, a young man arrived in Chang’an District.
That day, Golden Tiger took two of his underlings to collect protection fees.
When Golden Tiger grabbed the ear of a deaf woman selling grilled tofu at a stall and lecherously reached into her pocket, someone lightly patted his shoulder from behind.
At that moment, Golden Tiger was feeling pleased with himself.
He knew there were many small vendors watching nearby, most of them with faces full of suppressed anger and fear.
He didn’t care at all.
These people had long been frightened by him and wouldn’t dare stand up!
So Golden Tiger turned his face without any caution.
Then—he got slapped across the face, hard!
The slap came too suddenly and too forcefully. Golden Tiger was spun around on the spot, his ears ringing, and the mix of shame and hot blood rushed to the top of his head.
His eyes, bloodshot from the slap, took a long moment to refocus and see clearly who had hit him.
It was a very striking young man.
As for his two useless underlings—one had landed head-down, feet-up inside a large metal trash can, wrestling with garbage; the other was lying on the roadside curb, clutching his chest, groaning and playing dead.
Golden Tiger opened his mouth dazedly and immediately tasted the rusty bitterness of nosebleed. “You motherf—”
He barely started speaking when he got another solid roundhouse kick to the face, his whole body flying uncontrollably, crashing into a streetlamp.
The man strode over with long legs, stepped on his face with his shoe to keep him still, then fished out the payment device from Golden Tiger’s chest. He grabbed Golden Tiger’s hand and forced a fingerprint unlock, transferring all the just-collected “protection fees” back.
Amid the deafening ringing in his ears, Golden Tiger heard a cold and clear voice: “You take money but don’t do the job? You can’t even protect yourself—how are you going to protect others?”
That slap and that kick erased all the prestige and ferocious reputation Golden Tiger had built in the Chang’an District over the years.
Later, after many inquiries, Golden Tiger found out the man’s name was Ning Zhuo, and he belonged to an obscure mercenary group called “Haina.”
Recently, a few people claiming to be from “Haina” had been wandering around the Chang’an District making purchases—likely intending to set up base there and compete with him for territory.
That was a serious offense.
Golden Tiger was furious. Without waiting for the swelling on his face to go down, he immediately gathered a group of men, planning to teach Ning Zhuo a lesson about seniority and the rule that a strong outsider can’t suppress a local boss.
But to his surprise, Ning Zhuo had no intention of avoiding him.
When Golden Tiger charged at him aggressively, Ning Zhuo was sitting by the roadside, legs stretched out, silently chewing on a free skewer of grilled tofu.
When he saw Golden Tiger charging over with his men, Ning Zhuo tossed the skewer and silently stepped up to meet them.
Ning Zhuo traded severe hand injuries for another brutal beating of Golden Tiger.
From then on, Ning Zhuo had it out for Golden Tiger.
In every head-on clash, no matter who led the attack, it was always Golden Tiger who got hurt the worst.
If a little underling was going to get kicked in the stomach, Golden Tiger would surely break a rib.
After two or three beatings in a row, Golden Tiger considered stepping back and only sending his men to search for Ning Zhuo.
But whenever he was alone, he would run into the elusive Ning Zhuo at some street corner and get beaten up again.
Ning Zhuo’s demand was simple: I’m in Chang’an District now. I don’t want to see you. Get lost.
He wasn’t in a rush to beat Golden Tiger to death. Instead, he attacked again and again, step by step, slowly instilling fear and unease in Golden Tiger:
…Maybe next time, Ning Zhuo really would kill him.
At that time, Ning Zhuo had no ties, nothing to lose, and the ruthlessness to carry it through. He adopted a stalking strategy, targeting only Golden Tiger without involving others.
So while the underlings were still shouting about teaching Ning Zhuo a lesson, Golden Tiger himself had already lost his nerve.
After much reflection, he had no choice but to cut his losses, retreat from the Chang’an District, and relocate to a poorer, dirtier, and more chaotic place.
At the very least, it would be the little brothers who threw themselves on the front lines and risked their lives—not him personally.
Golden Tiger believed this was what one called a tactical retreat. He would wait until his own power gradually grew, and until Ning Zhuo had developed and found things he cared about. Then, he could use the advantage of hiding in the shadows to ruthlessly strike at him.
…And then he watched with his own eyes as “Haina” cut through thorns and brambles, becoming a rising star among mercenaries—a force he couldn’t afford to provoke.
His so-called tactical retreat became a laughable act of cowardice.
Still, what gave him a tiny bit of comfort was that aside from “Gale,” more than one gang had suffered at the hands of Ning Zhuo.
With this beautiful King of Hell holding the fort, all the gangs tacitly avoided the Chang’an District.
If they couldn’t beat him, they could at least stay away.
Over the years, Chang’an District gradually became the most stable area in the lower city when it came to public order. It really began to have a bit of that “Chang’an” air.
Fortunately, years later, Jin Hu’s long-cherished wish was still fulfilled.
“Gale” was hired and absorbed by Titan Corporation, going underground to do some dirty and secret jobs for them.
For example, after Honbu Takeshi ended up in prison this time, four mercenaries led by Jin Hu were sent to protect him—and went to prison with him.
With such grudges in place, Jin Hu of course had nothing good to say about Ning Zhuo.
…However, in telling the story, he still omitted and blurred some of the details.
Like how he had been chased down and beaten up by the young Ning Zhuo back in the day.
After hearing the story, Honbu Takeshi stroked his bumpy chin and thought for a while. “Ning Zhuo? I think I’ve heard of him.”
Jin Hu had followed Honbu Takeshi for so long, he knew the man’s character better than anyone.
—Honbu Takeshi was a shameless pervert who lusted after beauty regardless of gender.
Jin Hu spoke frankly: “Yeah, he’s got that rabbit face, like someone born to stand on the street corner!”
Honbu Takeshi stroked his chin and let out an intrigued “Oh?”
Jin Hu caught the implication behind that “Oh.”
At first he was stunned, then he immediately realized his mistake and regretted what he’d said.
Ning Zhuo wasn’t one of those desperate nobodies trying to use their looks to curry favor with Honbu Takeshi, nor was he one of those exotic dancers sent in regularly for h8m to “release some fire.”
If Honbu Takeshi really had the gall to ask Ning Zhuo to sleep with him…
Just imagining the outcome made Jin Hu’s scalp go numb.
He had no doubt that Ning Zhuo would genuinely be capable of confiscating Hongbu’s “crime tool” on the spot.
At that point, Jin Hu would definitely be blamed for “failing to protect” the boss.
Thinking this, Jin Hu—now covered in goosebumps—quickly changed the subject: “He’s not worth touching anyway. A mercenary with a face like that’s probably been passed around top to bottom already—definitely not clean!”
After slut-shaming Ning Zhuo from a distance, Jin Hu, afraid that Honbu Takeshi still had impure thoughts, hurried to arrange for the underlings to continue entertaining him with karaoke.
Honbu Takeshi didn’t press further either. He picked up the microphone again and chose another overly sentimental love ballad to sing.
…
On the other side, the chaos in the washroom quickly drew the attention of the prison guards.
Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai hadn’t even officially entered the prison yet and were already brawling. The guard felt his authority had been seriously disrespected.
But he also knew these two had some backing.
Though the higher-ups hadn’t specifically informed him of their exact affiliations, after years of witnessing the full range of human behavior in prison, the guard had developed a talent for half-assing things skillfully.
If it were anyone else causing trouble right after entering, he’d have beaten them a few times with his baton without question.
Instead, he merely shouted at the two of them symbolically, which, in his mind, fulfilled his duty of supervision.
Under the guard’s urging, the two washed themselves clean and changed into prison uniforms.
The fabric was coarse and dull gray, boxy from top to bottom—there was no way to make them look “good.”
But once those uniforms were on these two, the picture changed entirely.
Shan Feibai looked like a fallen young master from a wealthy family, still carrying a noble air despite his downfall.
As for Ning Zhuo, his pants were a little tight—wearable, but the fabric at the tops of his thighs stretched tautly, making even the guard, who wasn’t interested in men, sneak a few glances.
The guard drove them forward, making them walk ahead.
As the automatic doors opened one by one, a new world of chaos and stifling heat slowly unfolded before them.
Though it was already late autumn and early winter outside, the inside was so hot it was hard to breathe.
The scorching air poured straight into their lungs, roasting them from the inside.
The first place they passed was the labor room for sentenced inmates.
This place was clean and bright—a showcase zone of the First Prison.
Whenever “White Shield” leadership came for inspection, this was the first area they were shown.
Inside, the assembly lines varied—some made tents, some made leather cases, some made shoes.
Behind a huge transparent glass wall, inmates sat at their workstations, backs straight, faces numb, each completing their assigned tasks.
They had to work here for 12 hours a day.
Behind that glass wall was a massive machine made up of both flesh and steel.
Right next door was the labor room for detainees.
Their work was relatively easy—just folding paper boxes and other basic handcrafts.
Then, the two were taken to the living quarters of the inmates.
When a new door slowly opened, an even denser, stickier wave of body heat hit them in the face.
The cells were divided into upper and lower levels—not floors, but stacked cages.
Each cell was a standard ten square meters, packed haphazardly with four bunk beds.
A single toilet, a sink covered in limescale, and a small wooden shelf for toiletries were pitifully crammed into one corner.
Each person’s average movable space was less than two square meters. The upper bunks were so cramped that one could only sit upright. To get down, they had to wriggle like a worm, dragging their butt across the bed to the ladder.
Many people had called in sick and weren’t working. When they heard the sound of guard boots, they weakly leaned on their beds and groaned, signaling that they were genuinely ill—not slacking off.
Since the lights weren’t on during the day, they looked like piles of filthy trash hidden in the corners beneath the shadows.
Shan Feibai walked through this chaotic corridor and felt something surreal.
In the glamorous Atber District, all filth and grime had been swept away like fallen leaves by the autumn wind—and gathered into this landfill.
The sharp contrast gave him a twisted, dislocated feeling.
And when the guards led them through a thirty-meter-long passage into a whole new space, even the usually indifferent Ning Zhuo raised his eyebrows slightly.
—The first thing they saw was a decently-sized indoor tennis court.
Two men in regular clothes were drenched in sweat, chasing a yellow tennis ball.
Their technique was rough, but they played with obvious enjoyment.
The place was spacious and spotless.
Floor-cleaning robots ran cheerfully about. Oxygen machines roared in the corners. Floor heating gently warmed the ground. Humidifiers sprayed mist tinged with high-end fragrances.
The people here looked busy, but free.
Some practiced swings at golf simulators, others played the latest video games, and one hugged a guitar, fully immersed in practicing strumming.
—If not for the nameplates on their chests identifying them as inmates, they could’ve been mistaken for members of a peaceful and leisurely country club.
This was their true destination.
The “High-Security Zone” of Atber District’s First Prison.
