Chapter 105: The Black-Clad Assassin in a Bamboo Hat

After arranging for Xu Hong, Gouzi, and Wang De to handle the matters at the dock, Ding Li felt a wave of exhaustion—not the kind born from a sleepless night, but a weariness stemming from not knowing where to begin addressing the chaos unfolding before him.

His only living relative, Liu Sheng, lay unconscious with a high fever; his trusted aide, Sai Yijia De, was gravely injured and comatose; and the Nanhai Gang’s business at the dock was under ruthless suppression by the combined forces of the Cao and Tian families. All these events left Ding Li utterly at a loss.

Standing beside the pavilion in the front courtyard, his brow furrowed deeply, Ding Li’s thoughts circled endlessly around these troubles, oblivious to the presence of someone behind him until a voice snapped him back to reality.

“Brother Li, are such small troubles already overwhelming you?”

Turning around, Ding Li recognized Wang Ling, one of the famed Three Heroes of Duanzhou whom he had rescued from the shantytown near the docks not long ago. Leaning on a crutch beneath the pavilion, Wang Ling’s face was still pale. Though the doctor had treated his fractured bones, the trauma to his muscles and sinews would take more than a few days to heal.

“It’s nothing difficult—why not just have the Zhang Trading Company intervene?” Wang Ling said with a slight wheeze, a faint sweat glistening on his forehead under the slanted sunlight. He shifted a few steps, propping his wooden crutch against the pavilion railing. Despite the pain, he solemnly cupped his fist toward Ding Li in gratitude.

“Thank you, Brother Li, for saving my life at the docks. If there’s anything you need from me, just say the word!”

“It was nothing worth thanking me for. I didn’t save you to collect debts. For now, you should just focus on healing,” Ding Li replied with a faint smile, waving off the gratitude. He then picked up the crutch from the railing and handed it back, sighing softly as he shook his head.

“You’re right about the Zhang Trading Company—it could indeed solve this easily. But you must also understand: if a person holds no value, they lose their reason to exist. Some matters must be faced head-on.”

With that, Ding Li pressed the crutch firmly into Wang Ling’s hands, patted his arm lightly, and turned away from the pavilion.

Returning to the room meticulously arranged by Liu Sheng, Ding Li found it still filled with maids and several doctors, their brows glistening with sweat. Yet Liu Sheng, lying on the bed, showed no sign of awakening—aside from faintly calling “Brother Li” in her unconscious state, her expression remained knitted with worry.

Gazing at her fragile face, Ding Li felt not only anxiety and deep affection but also a strange and unfamiliar helplessness.

Leaving the room, Ding Li visited Sai Yijia De’s bedside. The doctors were still tending to his wounds. Word was that Sai Yijia De suffered twelve injuries across his body; none were fatal now, but each had been life-threatening at the time. Whether he would survive depended solely on his own resilience.

Though Ding Li now appeared to have assumed the mantle of Nanhai Gang’s leader, the reality of his predicament was known only to him. Few capable people remained around him. Wang De, Wang Huan, Gouzi, and Xiao Li—all were laborers at heart. Ding Li had never intended to involve them deeply in the gang’s affairs.

Sai Yijia De was a trusted aide, but now that he lay gravely wounded, the faction he led within the gang had been shattered. Ding Li doubted he could reunify it anytime soon.

Of the others, Xu Hong was promising but only suited for routine internal matters. As for Wang Ling, though he pledged loyalty, Ding Li hesitated to entrust him; his wounds would keep him sidelined for months, unable even to walk without a crutch. Ding Li could not see where he would be useful.

The only remaining power base was Fuxu Town, but Ding Li knew its situation well. Consolidating the remnants around Little Nanhai would take far longer than a few weeks. He also trusted that Zhang Mingzhi would not soon divert his focus from the lucrative Fuxu Port to Guangzhou Harbor.

Staggering out of the Ding residence, the familiar faces of the servants before the gate felt oddly distant. Gazing up at the exquisitely carved nanmu wood plaque gilded with gold, the pride he felt that morning had faded.

Though it was past noon, Ding Li had no appetite. He wandered aimlessly through the streets, sparsely populated due to the heat. A strange sensation stirred within him—vague, elusive.

Suddenly, a sharp whoosh ripped through the quiet street.

Instinctively, Ding Li ducked aside. A cool rush brushed his arm, followed by a faint sting. Heads turned; all eyes fell on a crossbow bolt lodged in the side wall of a leather shop, glinting faintly. Yet no sign remained of the ambush just moments before.

Ding Li’s arm bore only a superficial wound. After his evasive leap, he slipped into a narrow alley, tearing a strip from his sleeve to swiftly bind the injury. Fingers deftly pulled the cloth tight, sealing the wound in moments.

He retreated deeper into the alley, eyes darting about. His free right hand instinctively reached behind his waist.

He was baffled by the attack—it didn’t make sense. Though conflicts had erupted earlier at the music shop with the Cao and Tian families, and serious trouble had struck the docks, Ding Li doubted any enemy would so brazenly strike him in broad daylight so soon.

After several cautious steps back from the alley’s entrance, his gaze caught a figure clad in black. A broad-brimmed bamboo hat shaded their face; a carefully wrapped weapon was slung across their back. Ding Li clearly saw the weapon—a finely crafted short crossbow.

Suddenly alert to danger, Ding Li bent his knees and explosively pushed off the ground, arms reaching up to grab the wall’s edge.

The black-clad figure at the alley’s mouth moved too, deliberate and unhurried, yet with an unmistakable steadiness. Though Ding Li could not see behind the hat, he sensed the assassin’s calm composure.

An assassin—there was no doubt.

No one would wield a crossbow in broad daylight with such composure unless they were a professional killer.

Climbing onto the wall, Ding Li’s body flowed over without hesitation. As he cleared the top, he glimpsed beneath the hat a pair of eyes filled with disdain and challenge. The assassin lowered the raised crossbow, a faint smirk playing at their lips. A gust of breeze lifted the mask momentarily, revealing a face marked by contempt.

Anger flared within Ding Li.

As a highly trained solo operative, he could not tolerate being looked down upon by a stealthy assassin.

Gripping the wall’s edge, Ding Li surged upward, vaulting back into the alley.

The black figure caught sight of this but by the time they reacted, Ding Li was already sprinting forward, a gleaming short dagger raised high in his right hand.

“Hmph?!” The assassin hesitated, raising their crossbow instinctively, but Ding Li flung the dagger with a flash of cold steel.

The assassin dodged swiftly, lowering their crossbow once more.

The distance between them—just over twenty paces—closed in the blink of an eye as Ding Li surged forward, closely following his thrown dagger.

Just as the assassin prepared to turn, a biting wind swept past. Startled, they stumbled backward, unable to rise from their crouch.

But as the assassin stepped back, a heavy slap landed on their shoulder. Their body sagged, retreat halted by an unseen force. They were yanked off the ground, tumbling violently back into the alley.

Reacting swiftly, the assassin gathered their energy mid-air, twisting to control their fall. Just as they landed, the wind lifted their mask again, revealing a small yet solid fist heading straight for their face.