Mid-Autumn, 2000. Beihai, Midnight.
The autumn that year arrived with an exceptional chill. The wind sweeping through Cape Road had stripped away the summer heat, replacing it with a silence so heavy it was suffocating.
The once-luminous Lu Residence, which used to bustle with activity until dawn, now sat in the dark like a lonely tomb. Since Lu Changfeng issued the secret order to "scatter," most of the core lieutenants had fled into the night. Only the two white marble lions remained, staring down the empty street under the cold moonlight.
2:00 AM. National Highway toward Qinzhou.
Lu Changhai sat in the back of an inconspicuous black Jetta, his white-knuckled grip tightening around a leather bag stuffed with US dollars and forged documents. He hadn't slept in two days; his eyes were a roadmap of burst capillaries. To avoid potential checkpoints, he had chosen this bumpy old road, planning to transit through Qinzhou and flee the country.
"Faster! Drive faster!" Changhai rasped at the driver. He reached into his jacket to touch the Model 54 pistol—his last shred of security.
However, as the car veered into a remote residential area on the outskirts of Qinzhou, dozens of blinding searchlights suddenly cut through the pitch black.
"POLICE! DON'T MOVE!"
The shout exploded across the wilderness like a thunderclap. Changhai kicked the door open, attempting to scale a wall, but the moment his feet hit the ground, several agile figures lunged from the shadows like hawks, pinning him ruthlessly into the mud.
"I'll kill you all!" Changhai screamed, his fingernails clawing into the dirt as he let out a feral roar.
"Lu Changhai, look closely. You have nowhere left to run."
A cold gun barrel pressed against his temple. As Changhai tasted the salty grit of the mud, the only thing that flashed through his mind was that morning in 1993, and the cigarette butt his brother had flicked from the ruined building.
Meanwhile. The Lu Residence, Beihai.
The light in the study remained on. Lu Changfeng sat in his oversized mahogany chair, a pot of Pu-erh tea sitting before him, completely cold.
He hadn't fled. He knew that on this land where he had spent ten years building his empire, if "those above" truly meant business, he couldn't hide even at the ends of the earth.
The copy of The Art of War on his desk was open to the first chapter: "The general who wins makes many calculations... the general who loses makes few." Lu Changfeng let out a bitter laugh. He had spent his life calculating profits and losses; he had calculated the greed of every official and the flow of every cent of black money. Yet, he had failed to calculate that when justice finally arrives, there is no ledger to be balanced.
BOOM!
The study door was violently kicked open. Dozens of heavily armed SWAT officers swarmed in, their submachine guns locking down every exit and blind spot.
Lu Changfeng stood up slowly, his movements still possessing the refined grace of a scholar. He didn't look at the police; he looked out the window. In the distance, the silhouette of Guantou Ridge was blurred by the night. He had looked at that sea for thirty years, but tonight, it seemed exceptionally dark.
"Boss Changfeng, let's go," the lead officer said, his voice cold and hard.
Lu Changfeng removed his gold-rimmed glasses, meticulously wiped them with the hem of his shirt, and placed them neatly on the desk.
"The tea has gone cold," he whispered.
As he was led out the gates of the Lu Residence, several blue-and-white police cruisers lined the street, their flashing lights illuminating the faces of neighbors peeking from behind their curtains. The Lu brothers, who once ruled the West District with an iron fist, were being systematically cleared away like dead leaves in the hurricane known as "Operation Thunder."
That night, there were no waves at the Beihai shore. A faint breeze drifted through Cape Road, carrying away the last remnants of the Haicheng Gang's prestige. On the horizon, the Morning Star was slowly rising.