The Phoenix of the Slums

Shanghai – The Grand Imperial Hotel, Private Ballroom

48 hours later

Gold chandeliers sparkled above crystal-draped tables. The Yangtze International Gala, hosted by one of China’s most powerful real estate conglomerates, was in full swing. The elite of finance, politics, and industry were here—many dressed in black tuxedos and red ties, the signature of the mysterious Red Lantern Consortium.

Fang Yuwei moved through the crowd in a sleek black dress, her hair pinned elegantly. Tiny earpiece in place.

“Eyes up. Song Rui’s expected in the next ten minutes.” Zhao’s voice came through clearly.

On the rooftop, Zhao Chenhai adjusted a high-zoom lens from a sniper perch, monitoring entrances and exits.

In the service corridor below, Tianming waited in a tailored black suit, his expression sharp, eyes constantly scanning. His thigh wound was healing, but the pain still pulsed with each step.

He didn’t mind. Pain made him alert.

“Fang, status?” Tianming asked.

“I’m blending in. The VIP list is encrypted, but I've narrowed down eight possible Red Lantern board members.”

“Keep your distance from Song Rui,” Zhao warned. “If he spots you—”

“Too late,” Fang whispered.

The crowd shifted. A corridor of silence formed.

And there he was.

Song Rui.

Mid-50s. Silver-streaked hair. Impeccable tux. A charming smile that never reached his eyes. He walked with the calm assurance of a man who owned everything he saw.

Two bodyguards flanked him. Ex-military. One scanned the room, the other walked ten paces ahead.

Song moved toward the high table—where business elites waited to toast the future of urban expansion.

“I’ve got visual,” Zhao said. “But he’s got a jammer. I can’t track his mic feed.”

Tianming moved through the back halls, approaching the service elevator that led to the top floors.

“Change of plan,” he said. “I’m going upstairs.”

Top Floor – Executive Lounge, 11:08 PM

While the ballroom below clinked glasses, Tianming reached the restricted top floor via maintenance shaft. A laptop was already waiting in the surveillance room. Fang had slipped it in hours earlier.

He hacked into the security feed. Got eyes on the penthouse suite.

Bingo.

A private meeting had begun. Song Rui sat with five men, each wearing a lotus pin on their lapels.

One man laid out photos on the table.

Tianming’s breath caught.

One of them… was his childhood photo.

Another—his mother’s face, circled in red ink.

The camera flickered.

Then cut out.

“Shit,” Tianming whispered. “They’re talking about me.”

Zhao’s voice came on. “The jammer just ramped up. I’m blind.”

“Me too,” Fang said. “Something’s wrong. Tianming, pull out now.”

But Tianming had already drawn his knife.

“No. If Song Rui’s talking about my past, I stay.”

Moments Later – Rooftop Garden

Tianming crept through the garden outside the penthouse suite, walking silently along the curved stone path. Through the glass window, he saw Song Rui laughing—holding his own photo.

Then a whisper in his earpiece.

“…Behind you…”

Too late.

A figure rose from the koi pond. Cloaked. Silent. Masked.

Lotus Clan. Again.

This one wielded twin curved daggers.

Tianming spun just as the first blade swiped toward his gut.

Tianming ducked, grabbed a bamboo chair and used it as a makeshift shield.

CLANG! CLANG!

The daggers struck in rapid flurries—slashes meant to bleed, not kill.

He blocked high, but the assassin spun low, slicing toward his Achilles.

Tianming hopped over, then drove the broken chair leg toward the attacker’s throat.

Missed.

The assassin twisted mid-air—like a shadow—and landed behind him, daggers crossing at Tianming’s neck.

Tianming dropped low, slammed his elbow into the attacker’s gut—then surged up, lifting him off the ground and slamming him into a stone lantern.

Crash!

They rolled across the garden.

The assassin recovered quickly—launched into a whirlwind combo, both daggers flashing under the moonlight.

Tianming weaved—a cut across his shoulder, blood sprayed—then parried with a planted knee and drove a brutal uppercut into the attacker’s jaw.

CRACK.

One dagger fell.

Tianming caught it midair.

Spun. Slammed it into the attacker’s thigh.

The assassin screamed.

“Who sent you?”

“Lotus… always watches…”

Then, like the last one—he bit down.

Cyanide. Dead.

Tianming stood, soaked in sweat and blood.

Song Rui was still laughing inside.

He turned and walked away.