Mid-November 1999. The Lu Residence, Beihai.
Since the smoke cleared from the chaotic night at "Mini-City," the air in Western Beihai had grown unnervingly thick, like stagnant swamp water.
Usually, at this hour, the street outside the Lu Residence would be lined with luxury sedans. Well-dressed "old friends" would arrive with fine liquor and expensive cigarettes to pay their respects. But these past few days, the vermilion gates were terrifyingly desolate. Even the street sweepers took long detours to avoid the area.
Inside the study, Lu Changfeng had sat in total stillness for an entire night. The ashtray was a mountain of stubs, some still emitting thin wisps of bitter smoke. Three telephones of different colors sat before him—silent, like dead things.
"Brother, you've been sitting here all night. Is it really worth all this?" Lu Changhai strode in, cradling a freshly polished semi-automatic rifle. He slumped onto the mahogany sofa with a careless shrug. "We just smashed a club. We've reigned over the West District for years. It's always been loud thunder but little rain. As long as Old Chen and Old Huang are still in their seats, who dares move against the Lu family?"
Lu Changfeng slowly raised his head. His eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses were a roadmap of broken red capillaries. He grabbed a receiver and dialed a number he knew by heart—Vice-Chief Chen's private line.
"The subscriber you have dialed is powered off..."
He tried Section Chief Huang. Then Director He.
"The number you have dialed is temporarily unavailable..." "The number you have dialed is no longer in service..."
Lu Changfeng slammed the receiver back onto the cradle with a hollow thud.
"Changhai, don't you see it yet?" Changfeng's voice was rasping and dry, carrying a faint, uncontrollable tremor. "They aren't out of signal; they are drawing a line in the sand. The fire you lit at Mini-City burned too fast and too bright. It has reached the Provincial Department. The 'High-Priority Supervision' documents are likely already on their way."
"So what!" Changhai stood abruptly, the mechanical clack of his rifle bolt snapping through the room. "We have guns and we have men. Our hundreds of boys in the West District aren't here for show. Anyone who dares cross the threshold of Cape Road... I'll show them just how cold the water in Beihai can be!"
Lu Changfeng looked at his arrogant brother, a wave of profound exhaustion washing over him. He walked to the window and cracked open the curtain. On the morning sea, several fishing boats that should have been casting nets sat motionless in the distance, their signal lights blinking cryptically in the gray mist.
He knew those weren't fishing boats. They were eyes—cold, relentless eyes watching the Lu family.
"Changhai, the sun is coming up," Lu Changfeng whispered to himself, staring at the leaden sea. "Before, we hid in the shadows. There were rules in the shadows, and we had our 'umbrellas.' But now, the light is here. And when the sun rises, the thing it fears most to touch... is a shadow like us that can never see the light."
He turned, pulling a stack of unsigned checks from a drawer, then glanced at a copy of The Art of War on his shelf—the philosophy he had lived by for decades. Now, the schemes, the connections, and the black money felt pathetic against the approaching storm.
"Tell Ah Sheng and Ah Jun to burn the ledgers. Tell everyone to scatter. For a while... don't stay in Beihai."
Lu Changfeng delivered his final instruction and slumped into his chair. Outside, the first ray of dawn pierced the clouds and hit the marble lions at the gate, but it brought no warmth. The Haicheng Gang—the meat grinder that had run at full speed for ten years—emitted its first mechanical scream of total collapse.