The Phoenix of the Slums

Tianming sat in the back of the black van as it sped down the highway out of Shanghai, his shoulder wrapped in gauze and his fingers still bloodstained from the rooftop encounter. The dagger he had taken from the assassin lay on the seat beside him, glinting faintly under the cabin light. His eyes, however, were locked on the photograph in his hand—a grainy, yellowed image of a woman holding a baby.

His mother.

And himself.

There was no mistaking it now. This wasn’t just about some random orphan becoming a problem for a criminal syndicate. This was personal. Deeply. And dangerously.

Fang leaned forward from the front seat, holding out a tablet. “Zhao cracked the metadata on the photo. It was scanned from an old dossier. The original file came from a now-defunct Ministry archive.”

Tianming took it, flicked through the pages. Each scan was clearer than the last: official documents stamped in red, surveillance photos of his mother meeting with men in black uniforms, lists of coded names, and then—the file he didn’t want to see.

SUBJECT: LIN MEIXIU

CLASSIFICATION: CANDIDATE 3 – LOTUS PROGRAM

Status: Defected

Associated: TARGET – LU QINGSHAN

He sat back slowly, mind racing.

“My mother… was part of the Lotus Clan?”

“No,” Zhao said through the comms. “She was part of a government program aimed at dismantling them. Undercover. Deep cover. But something went wrong. The last entry says she defected. Took you and disappeared.”

Tianming clenched his jaw. “So they’ve been hunting us since then.”

Fang spoke gently. “It explains the way they reacted when they saw you. Why Song Rui had your photo on that table.”

“They weren’t targeting me,” Tianming murmured. “They were trying to find her.”

“But she’s dead,” Zhao said. “Right? The fire. The temple—”

“We never found her body,” Tianming interrupted. “Just ashes and ruins.”

The van fell silent. Only the hum of tires on asphalt filled the space.

Zhao finally said, “Then we have two questions. One—if she’s alive, where is she? Two—if she’s dead, why is Song Rui still obsessed with her?”

Tianming stared down at the photo again.

“There’s a third question,” he said. “What did

she know that scared them so badly?”

The team regrouped hours later at a safehouse buried in the mountains of Zhejiang—a concrete bunker lined with monitors, medical kits, and old military crates. Fang spread the files across the metal table while Zhao started setting up satellite uplinks.

Tianming sat on a stool, studying the map on the wall. “We need leverage,” he said. “We can’t keep reacting. If Song Rui is connected to Lu Qingshan—and my mother’s past—we need to pull them into the open.”

Zhao glanced over. “How?"

Tianming looked up, eyes cold. “By shaking their foundations.”

Fang blinked. “You want to hit their businesses?”

“Not just hit. Collapse them.”

Zhao raised an eyebrow. “That’ll trigger full retaliation.”

“Good,” Tianming replied. “I want them scared. I want them desperate. And when they make mistakes, we’ll be ready.”

That night, Tianming sat alone outside under the stars, the wind sharp against his face. He turned the photo over in his hand again and again, as if trying to pull more truth from the ink and paper.

He remembered fragments—his mother singing softly as she washed dishes, her hands trembling whenever the news played anything political, the way she used to check the locks three times every night.

He thought they were quirks. Now he knew they were survival instincts.

His hand curled into a fist.

She had died—or disappeared—trying to protect him from something monstrous.

Now it was his turn to protect what was left.

Footsteps approached. Fang sat beside him without a word. For a long time, they watched the sky together.

“She would’ve been proud,” Fang finally said.

Tianming didn’t answer right away.

“She shouldn’t have had to fight alone,” he said. “None of this should’ve happened.”

“And yet… it did,” Fang whispered. “So we fight now. Together.”

He nodded, slowly. Then stood.

“Tomorrow we go after their financial spine. We bleed their banks, expose their shell companies, and crush their supply chains. And then…”

“And then?”

“We make Song Rui look over his shoulder. Every minute. Every breath.”