Chapter Forty-Five: Luo Qiankun

“Mr. Lin, this is the man—Cheng Longjian.” Wang Haiyang pulled out his phone and brought up a photo of a rather unremarkable-looking middle-aged man. However, a thin, menacing scar ran down the left side of his face, stretching from the corner of his eye to his neck, giving him a sinister and fierce appearance.

“He was my father’s mortal enemy back when Dad was running in the underworld twenty years ago. Later, my father orchestrated a dirty scheme that ruined his whole family, and that scar on his face is Dad’s handiwork.”

“No one expected the guy to survive such disaster. He went off, learned martial arts, and returned for revenge. He even killed Old Su, the innate martial artist in our syndicate, with a single punch.”

“Today, my father has arranged a deadly showdown with him at Baiyun Pavilion. To deal with him, our syndicate has spent a fortune hiring Luo Qiankun, the top fighter in Binhai City. But I’m uneasy, so I wanted to invite you, Mr. Lin, to lend us a hand as well.”

Wang Haiyang gave a rough summary of the situation. Lin Feng nodded, piecing together the cause and effect.

“Who is this Luo Qiankun?” he asked.

“Luo Qiankun? He’s the number one martial artist in Binhai City, runs the Hero Martial Arts Hall—the city’s top dojo. They say he’s so powerful he can kill a bull with a single punch.”

Talking about Luo Qiankun, Wang Haiyang became visibly excited, recounting several stories of Luo soundly defeating foreign fighters.

Lin Feng smiled and nodded, remaining silent.

It was obvious that neither Wang Haiyang nor Wang Jisheng had ever truly considered relying on Lin Feng to resolve this formidable threat. All their hopes were pinned on Luo Qiankun. Even though Wang Haiyang had witnessed some of Lin Feng’s abilities, he still didn’t believe Lin could defeat a martial artist like Cheng Longjian—he was merely a backup.

Soon, the two of them drove out to the outskirts of Binhai, arriving at Baiyun Mountain.

Halfway up the mountain, they came upon a two-story building in the architectural style of the Ming and Qing dynasties. The entire structure was made of wood, with red columns, black tiled eaves, and gold lacquer accents—a majestic sight.

Above the scarlet gate hung a redwood plaque with three gilded characters: “Baiyun Pavilion.”

This so-called pavilion was, in fact, a famous teahouse in Binhai City—Wang Jisheng’s private club.

Outside, the area had already been cleared. Instead, more than twenty robust bodyguards in black suits and sunglasses stood on either side. Their muscles bulged against their jackets, and the protrusions at their waists suggested they might be carrying pistols.

“They’re my father’s personal guard—retired special forces. To deal with Cheng Longjian, my father went through hell to get each of them a handgun,” Wang Haiyang whispered, leading Lin Feng inside.

“Dad, this is Mr. Lin I mentioned. He’s a master—he can throw leaves and petals through a wooden board! Even Big Brother Qi speaks highly of him!”

Upstairs in the pavilion, a swarthy, powerfully built middle-aged man sat in the center on a leather sofa, preparing tea, surrounded by a dozen bodyguards. At Wang Haiyang’s greeting, he looked up, and an aura of dominance, tinged with blood, radiated from him.

This was the particular quality found only in those long accustomed to power and who had blood on their hands.

There was no need to ask—this was Wang Jisheng, the underworld kingpin of Binhai, an equal rival to Long Aoyun of the Heavenly Dragon Hall.

In Binhai’s criminal world, Wang Jisheng was a true storm-bringer. Backed by a powerful family, he spent over a decade becoming the city’s unchallenged kingpin. If not for the sudden rise of the Heavenly Dragon Hall three years ago, the whole city would have been under Wang’s dominion, not locked in the current struggle.

Wang Jisheng glanced at Lin Feng’s youthful face, startled for a moment, then his gaze dimmed. Not even the mention of Qi Heng raised his opinion of Lin Feng in the least.

It was not for any other reason but Lin Feng’s youth. In martial arts, unless one’s family background is profoundly steeped in tradition, it takes years of arduous training to climb the ranks. Without the proper foundation, who cares about the saying “the young fear the strong”?

A true veteran martial artist can “kill with a snap of the fingers, their inner force manifesting outward.”

“Very well, young Lin Feng, is it? Please, have a seat. Regardless of your strength, anyone willing to lend a hand to Wang Jisheng in a time of crisis is a friend.”

Wang Jisheng, ever the shrewd operator, wore a friendly expression, personally pouring Lin Feng a cup of tea—a sign of respect.

“Young Lin Feng, as Haiyang must have told you, my old nemesis is no pushover. If you help us, I won’t let you go unrewarded. Should you defeat Cheng Longjian, I’ll pay you ten million as a reward. How does that sound?”

Wang Jisheng’s eyes narrowed in a smile, raising one finger.

Ten million?

Lin Feng’s brows knitted. On the way over, Wang Haiyang had promised fifty million, yet upon meeting, the sum had already been slashed by four-fifths. Clearly, Wang Jisheng looked down on him.

Wang Haiyang’s face went purple with embarrassment, at a loss for words.

Lin Feng, however, seemed unconcerned. Instead, he put on an expression of satisfaction and replied, “Ten million! That’s wonderful. Thank you, Uncle Wang!”

Wang Jisheng took no notice of Wang Haiyang’s discomfort, only nodding with a smile, thinking, “What nonsense—he’s just a kid, barely twenty, without a trace of martial cultivation, yet thinks he can meddle in a duel between true masters! He’s asking for death. For Qi Heng’s sake, I’ll throw him a million to get rid of him.”

At that moment, a resonant, powerful voice echoed through the room.

A group of brawny men in thick training uniforms entered. At their head was a middle-aged man with a full beard, a tiger’s back, and a broad chest. His enormous muscles bulged, and his bare chest swelled like twin mountains, his entire body exuding a grand, intimidating aura.

“Luo Qiankun, Brother Luo! I didn’t expect you’d arrive so early!”

“How could I possibly be late for your invitation, Brother Wang?”

“Come, come, Brother Luo, have a seat, some tea!” In front of Luo Qiankun, Wang Jisheng was the very picture of obsequiousness, not only personally serving tea but also snapping at Lin Feng:

“Youngsters these days have no manners—make way for your elders! Haiyang, take your friend aside. Brother Luo and I have important matters to discuss.”

Wang Jisheng deliberately belittled Lin Feng to curry favor with Luo Qiankun, using Lin Feng as the perfect foil to highlight his respect for Luo.

“Hahaha, Brother Wang, you’re too kind!”

Luo Qiankun, all courtesy on the surface, stood unmoving by the sofa, clearly waiting for Lin Feng to give up his seat.

Lin Feng’s brows arched; he snorted and shook his head. Evidently, being too low-key is a mistake—keep your head down too long, and every stray cat and dog will try to lord it over you.

Lin Feng remained unmoved, as steady as a mountain.

In that instant, both Wang Jisheng and Luo Qiankun felt a surge of irritation toward Lin Feng.