Chapter Seventy-Seven: A-Long and Old Wolf

Outside the Ocean Pavilion, chaos had erupted into a full-scale brawl. Rudachi and Aguda of the Mongol Gang had brought with them no fewer than two hundred bare-chested Mongolian warriors, launching a ferocious assault against the black-clad men gathered on the riverbank under Boss Hua’s command. The crack of blows and the shouts of battle filled the air; men fell wounded on the front lines where the two sides clashed, only to be swiftly replaced by comrades surging forward to take their place and continue the fight.

Just as Boss Hua had predicted, Rudachi’s Mongol Gang was at a disadvantage in terms of strength. Rudachi had come prepared, yet even his two hundred robust Mongolian fighters could not withstand the sheer numbers arrayed against them. Well-hidden ambushers, planted in advance by Boss Hua, poured out from the pleasure boats connected by walkways around the Ocean Pavilion. In numbers alone, Boss Hua’s men outmatched the Mongols by more than two to one.

“Are you people starting a war?” Ding Li exclaimed in shock as he arrived at the scene. Though only a dozen or so men were engaged head-to-head, the two sides together numbered in the hundreds—nearly a thousand. Turning to glance behind, he saw that Zhang Wu had brought a contingent of blue-robed enforcers from the Zhang Trading Association, their numbers rivaling those of Rudachi’s men. Combined, the three factions must have fielded over a thousand fighters.

“Brother Li, let’s go! Rudachi is our brother now, after all!” Zhang Wu, unfazed by the mayhem, handed Ding Li a machete with a grave expression and urged him on.

“Let’s move!” Ding Li took the blade without hesitation and charged into the fray, Zhang Wu rallying his men to follow in stride.

“Make way!” With no clear path to the front, Ding Li had to push his way through the Mongolian ranks, patting shoulders as he went. Many recognized him from the previous night’s alleyway encounter and, after a moment’s surprise, respectfully stepped aside.

On the front lines, Aguda’s clothes were stained with blood, a gash visible across his chest, yet he seemed to revel in the chaos. In his hands were two slaughter knives, honed by years of use. Though his attacks had little finesse, they were more than enough to leave his enemies at a loss for how to approach him.

A long-time confidant of Boss Hua, Arlong, had been watching the bloodthirsty Aguda since the beginning. He had seen six or seven of his brothers fall to Aguda’s blades. At a nod from Boss Hua, Arlong finally abandoned his post at his master’s side, drew a razor-sharp Tang sword, and strode forward with steady steps.

Aguda, for all his ferocity, lacked real combat experience. His fearlessness came from years of slaughtering livestock, making him immune to the carnage around him. Add to that the instructions from Zhang Mingzhi the night before and Ding Li’s earlier guidance, and Aguda seemed to Arlong to be one of Rudachi’s fiercest warriors.

With a metallic clang, Aguda was caught off guard by a heavy blow—a cleaving strike from Arlong. He barely managed to parry, his arms numbing from the force, feet stumbling back a step. Eyes wide with shock, he saw Arlong’s next strike already descending.

With a roar, Aguda raised both arms, trying to block with his two knives. But his vaunted strength was nothing here; in Arlong’s hands, he was like a child before a grown man. Had it not been for the crisscrossed slaughter knives absorbing some of the impact, Arlong’s blade might have split his chest wide open.

Seizing the moment as Aguda staggered back, Arlong lunged forward, slashing a deep wound into a Mongolian at his side, then raised his Tang sword to strike again at Aguda.

But just as the blade came down, Arlong’s eyes flashed with alarm. He abruptly halted his attack and retreated, leaving Aguda bewildered—until he understood in the next instant: pressed against his arm was a machete, wielded like a longsword, its tip aimed straight at Arlong’s heart. It was this blade that had pulled Aguda back from death’s edge.

“Careful, brother!” Ding Li did not press his advantage, but instead withdrew his blade, slashing the throat of an unlucky foe trying to break through behind Arlong, before slipping back into his own ranks to fight shoulder-to-shoulder with his companions. With enemies too numerous to count, Ding Li had no intention of pushing recklessly into danger—especially since he’d seen Boss Hua use a hand crossbow before. There was no telling when a hidden bolt might fly; as the saying goes, “the bird that sticks its head out gets shot.” He didn’t want to be caught off guard while fighting in the melee.

“Brother Li!” Aguda, recognizing the familiar warning, turned and realized Ding Li had just saved him. His eyes shone with excitement and gratitude as he nodded deeply and raised his knives once more.

Ding Li’s intervention not only broke Arlong’s attack but also killed another of his men right under his nose—a line crossed. In the midst of Arlong’s stunned hesitation, Ding Li stabbed another foe, blood spraying onto Arlong himself. Rage boiled in Arlong’s eyes, turning them bloodshot and savage.

Though both sides shouted threats of death, everyone knew these battles stemmed from disputes over interests, not wars to the death. In past clashes, injuries abounded, but few ever suffered crippling wounds, and deaths were rare.

But in the blink of an eye, Ding Li had killed one and mortally wounded another—his victim’s intestines spilling from a gaping wound, filling the air with a vile stench. Ding Li had shattered the unspoken boundary that had governed their fights. The men facing him began to edge away, wanting no part in such deadly business—their pay was never enough to buy their lives.

Arlong, eyes blood-red, could no longer hold back. Ding Li’s presence seemed to thicken the scent of blood in the air, and a murderous aura radiated from Arlong that was absent before. As Boss Hua’s most trusted right-hand man, Arlong was no slouch.

With a sudden, cunning upward slash, Arlong aimed his Tang sword at Ding Li’s ribs. Had it landed, the blade would have snapped several ribs with ease.

Faced with this treacherous attack, Ding Li twisted aside and blocked with his machete, only for Arlong’s strike to abruptly change mid-flow. Pulling his body back, Arlong retracted his sword and thrust it straight for Ding Li’s chest—a move to repay the earlier insult.

Ding Li was startled, but smirked inwardly; unlike before, he was not rescuing anyone but himself. Calmly stepping back, he parried the sword with his machete, easily dodging the danger.

But then he saw the glint of cunning in Arlong’s eyes and realized, too late, that the Tang sword had turned and was thrusting for Aguda instead.

Ding Li cursed under his breath and surged forward, shouting a warning: “Watch out!”

Aguda, feeling safe with Ding Li nearby, was a step too slow. As Ding Li’s shout reached his ears, he turned just in time to see the contempt in Arlong’s eyes. Gritting his teeth, Aguda did not retreat but instead pressed forward, letting the Tang sword pierce his chest while swinging his slaughter knife in a vicious arc at Arlong’s head.

Arlong had not expected Aguda’s reckless, life-for-a-life assault. Forced to save himself, he abandoned his weapon and twisted away, but Aguda’s knife still sliced a chunk of flesh from his shoulder.

Arlong howled to the sky, the pain excruciating even for a hardened man. His clenched teeth gave way to a cry of agony.

Ding Li, however, was unmoved by Arlong’s screams or the bloody chunk that flew from his shoulder. Though he had known Aguda for less than twelve hours, he already considered him a brother, one who had faced death at his side.

Without hesitation, Ding Li raised his machete for the killing blow. Just then, a gleaming crescent blade whirled toward his face. Unlike the straightforward Aguda, Ding Li was quick; recognizing the danger, he abandoned his attack on Arlong, deflected the blade, and stepped forward to deliver a whip-kick to Arlong’s wounded shoulder, drawing another howl.

“Arlong!”

“Aguda!”

Two urgent cries rang out. Ding Li yanked Aguda behind him, kicking back another would-be assailant, and shouted to his men, “Get him out of here! Quick!”

Turning again, Ding Li saw Arlong being dragged away by his own men, teeth gritted in pain, eyes burning with hatred and fury, fixed on Ding Li.

In Arlong’s place now stood a short, wiry man gripping the center of a crescent blade identical to the one that had just attacked Ding Li. His narrow, angular eyes gleamed with a lupine green, eerie and unsettling. Even Ding Li, locked in his gaze, felt as if a wolf had fixed its sights on him—a chill running down his spine.

This, then, was the infamous Old Wolf.

With deliberate slowness, Old Wolf raised his blade to his mouth, extending a blood-red tongue to lick the cold steel. His murderous intent was unconcealed, though his tone was calm as he spoke: “What’s your name? Under my blade, no one dies nameless.”

“Ding Li.” Ding Li slowly lowered his machete, regarding Old Wolf with proud, unwavering eyes. Calmly, he replied, “This is the first time you’ve heard that name—and it will be the last, as well as the only time.”