The Phoenix of the Slums

The air inside the Black Scorpion Clubhouse thickened. The dancers stopped mid-step, the dice on tables froze. Everyone knew what came next.

Qin Jinhai stood up, wiping ash from his cigar.

“You want names?” he sneered. “Then earn it.”

He snapped his fingers.

Four enforcers stepped forward—each one larger than the last. Leather vests, steel-toed boots, scars, and knuckles calloused from years of street violence. One wielded a chain. Another cracked his neck like a bull ready to gore.

Tianming didn’t blink.

He tugged his hoodie off, revealing his taped fists. Quiet. Focused.

Zhao Chenhai’s voice rang in his mind like a gong: “In chaos, breathe. In noise, hear your heartbeat. Let instinct cut louder than fear.”

The first enforcer lunged with a roar.

Tianming sidestepped right, using the man’s own momentum to deliver a sharp left knee to the ribcage, followed by a right elbow across the jaw.

CRACK. Blood flew. The man dropped to one knee.

But the second was already behind Tianming, swinging a chain like a whip.

CLANG! The chain missed Tianming by inches—but he ducked, rolled forward, and kicked backward in one motion—a mule kick straight into the man’s kneecap.

The thug screamed, chain slipping from his hand.

Tianming spun to his feet just in time to see the third one—a bald tank of muscle—charging him full speed.

Tianming dropped low into a wrestler’s crouch, bracing for the impact, and just before contact—

He sidestepped left and used the man’s forward motion to trip him, grabbing his belt and flipping him headfirst into a table.

CRASH!

Chips, glass, and blood scattered everywhere.

The room exploded in howls and curses.

Only one man left.

The fourth enforcer moved calmly. No roar. No rage. Just a fighter’s presence. He raised his fists in a boxing stance—chin down, footwork sharp.

Tianming narrowed his eyes. This one was different.

They circled.

Then the enforcer jabbed—fast.

Tianming blocked with his left forearm, but the man followed instantly with a right hook to the ribs, then a low kick to the thigh.

It landed. Hard.

Pain jolted through Tianming’s leg.

He backed up—but not out.

He adjusted his stance, raising his guard higher.

The enforcer moved in for a clean one-two combo.

Jab. Cross.

Tianming leaned left, dodging the first punch, and used his right forearm to absorb the second—then launched his counterattack.

A front kick to the abdomen.

A rising left uppercut.

A spinning backfist.

Each landed sharp—snapping the enforcer’s head to the side, but the man still stood.

Grinning.

He rushed forward with a clinch—

But that’s what Tianming wanted.

He dropped low and swept the leg, causing the man to fall forward—and as he fell, Tianming delivered a downward elbow to the back of the head.

THUD.

The room froze again.

All four men were down.

Qin Jinhai stood, clapping slowly.

“That was pretty,” he said. “Real pretty. Fine. You earned it.”

He tossed a USB stick onto the ground.

“Everything you want. Who paid for the hit. Who authorized it. And more.”

Tianming stepped forward, picked it up, and met Qin’s eyes.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he said quietly. “There’ll be a time I return—not for names, but for debts.”

Then he walked out of the club… leaving a trail of broken bodies and a room full of silence.