Beihai, Early Spring. February 1995.
February in this coastal city always brought a bone-chilling humidity. Inside Guiyuan Restaurant, the most prestigious establishment in the West District, the top-floor VIP suite, "Infinite Sea and Sky," was so silent you could hear a pin drop.
On the mahogany lazy susan sat several of Beihai's signature delicacies: steamed flower crabs, salt-and-pepper mantis shrimp, and a half-empty bottle of Feitian Moutai.
He Laodong, the nominal head of the Haicheng Gang, slumped in the seat of honor. He had once been a man who carved out his reputation with a machete at the South Pearl Bus Station. But now, his face was a sickly grey, faint traces of white powder clung to his nostrils, and his eyes were unfocused, a dull, drunken smirk hanging from his lips.
"Changfeng..." He Laodong mumbled, his wine glass wobbling in his hand. "Those seafood wholesalers at Dijiao Pier... they're complaining the cut is too heavy. I promised them I'd drop it by a point next month. As bosses, we have to show some 'Jianghu' brotherhood, don't we?"
Lu Changfeng, sitting in the secondary seat, didn't reply immediately. He elegantly peeled a shrimp, removed his gold-rimmed glasses, and meticulously wiped his fingertips with a damp towel.
"Brother Dong, we set the rules. If we start making exceptions, this territory becomes unmanageable," Lu Changfeng's voice was soft, yet it cut through the room like an ice pick.
"Oh, Changfeng, you're too serious. We have plenty of money now. Why haggle with a few fishmongers?" He Laodong waved a dismissive hand, his expression suddenly turning volatile. "And that 'shipment'... you need to hurry it up. The kids on Sanzhong Road are going crazy waiting for it..."
Lu Changfeng looked at the man before him. In his eyes, He Laodong was no longer a leader; he was a defective product riddled with leaks. A relic of the old era—addicted to white powder, squandering public funds on gambling, and shaking the very foundations of the organization.
"Brother Dong, the waves of Beihai come one after another," Lu Changfeng said, sliding his glasses back on, a cold glint flashing behind the lenses. "You're old. It's time for you to live a quiet life."
He Laodong froze, half-sobering up instantly. "What do you mean by that?"
In that split second, Lu Changhai, who had been standing guard by the door like an iron tower, moved. He didn't reach for his signature shotgun. Instead, he pulled a pre-prepared strand of high-strength steel wire from his pocket.
With a massive stride, Changhai lunged forward, his thick arms snaring He Laodong's neck from behind.
Creeeak—
The sheer force caused the chair to groan against the floor. He Laodong's eyes bulged, his hands frantically clawing at Changhai's rock-hard forearms, leaving bloody streaks across the skin. The wine glass shattered on the heavy carpet, the spilled liquor soaking into the fabric.
Lu Changfeng sat motionless, not even glancing at the struggle behind him. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his Moutai—bitter and searing.
Minutes later, a deathly silence returned to the suite.
Changhai let go, and He Laodong slumped to the floor like a sack of wet flour. Heavy-breasted, Changhai wiped the sweat from his face. "Brother, it's done."
Lu Changfeng stood up and straightened his suit, though it wasn't wrinkled. He walked to the window and cracked it open just enough to let the cool sea breeze blow away the stench of alcohol and death.
"Changhai, tell Dong's wife that he went to Southeast Asia to lay low. This money will last them a lifetime." He tossed a large check onto the table. "From tomorrow, the Haicheng Gang doesn't need a 'Grandfather.' It only needs a 'CEO'."
That night, the Haicheng Gang completed its most secretive and bloody transfer of power. The old-school thugs of Cape Road vanished, replaced by a cold, machine-like new order established by the Lu brothers.
The night in Beihai remained deep, but the scepter of the West District was now firmly in the hands of the man in the glasses.