The Phoenix of the Slums

1:34 AM – Safehouse, Industrial Ruins Outside Suzhou

Tianming’s shirt was soaked in blood and sweat, his knuckles scraped raw. He dropped the USB drive and black book onto the table.

Fang Yuwei immediately began scanning the files.

Zhao Chenhai handed Tianming a towel. “Zheng Hai?”

“Out cold. Might have a concussion. Might wake up regretting everything.”

Zhao gave a faint nod. “Not bad.”

Fang looked up. “This ledger… It’s bigger than we thought. There’s mention of numbered accounts tied to something called Project Red Lantern. Multiple international transfers—Myanmar, Russia, Dubai. All off the books.”

“And Song Rui?” Tianming asked.

Fang hesitated. “There’s a meeting scheduled. In Shanghai. Three days from now. A gathering of 'silent partners.' Song Rui might be there in person.”

Zhao’s jaw tightened. “We won’t get a second shot at that. We’ll need clean routes, surveillance, and—”

CRACK.

The window shattered.

A blade shot through the air like lightning.

Zhao yanked Fang down just in time—the dagger embedded into the wall an inch from her head.

Tianming spun—saw a black-clad figure drop from the rafters.

No sound. No breath. Just presence.

The assassin had arrived.

The attacker wore a tight, matte-black suit—slim, wiry, agile. His face hidden behind a porcelain half-mask etched with a crimson lotus. A long, curved blade gleamed in one hand.

Tianming lunged forward—

The assassin vanished—a blur of motion. He side-stepped, swinging the blade in a tight arc toward Tianming’s ribs.

CLANG!

Tianming barely blocked it with a metal chair, which was instantly cleaved in two.

The assassin flipped backward—no wasted motion.

Tianming charged again—feinting high with a punch, then going low with a sweep kick.

The assassin leapt, flipping over him mid-air and planting both feet into Tianming’s back, sending him crashing through a table.

Zhao pulled Fang into cover and shouted, “That’s a Lotus Clan strike team! This guy’s not freelance—he’s elite!”

Tianming rolled to his feet, spitting blood.

"Then I’ll fight elite."

He grabbed a pipe and hurled it—distraction.

As the assassin deflected it, Tianming rushed in.

**He punched left—**the assassin ducked—then drove his elbow downward toward the mask.

CRACK! The mask shattered.

The assassin growled. A young man beneath, eyes cold as death.

The blade came again, an upward slash.

Tianming twisted right, the blade grazing his ribs—blood sprayed—but he used the momentum to get inside the assassin’s guard.

Close quarters.

One-two punch combo to the assassin’s face. Then a headbutt, then a shoulder ram into the wall.

But the assassin grinned—

And stabbed Tianming in the thigh.

“Got you,” he whispered.

Tianming hissed in pain—but didn’t retreat.

He grabbed the assassin’s wrist and, with a judo pivot, disarmed him and smashed his knee into the attacker’s chin.

The assassin staggered.

Tianming leapt—spinning side kick to the chest.

WHAM!

The assassin hit the wall and collapsed, dazed.

Tianming limped over. Knife still lodged in his thigh. Breathing ragged. But eyes burning.

“Who sent you?”

The assassin coughed blood, smirked.

“You think this was the only blade? You're already marked.”

Then he bit down hard—a poison capsule.

His eyes rolled back.

Dead.

Minutes Later

Fang was dressing Tianming’s wound. Zhao stood at the broken window.

“Lotus Clan,” he muttered. “Lu Qingshan’s cleaning house faster than we expected.”

Tianming stared at the dead man’s mask.

“Then we clean faster.”

He picked up the curved blade.

“Tell me everything you know about the Lotus Clan.”