The Phoenix of the Slums

The sun hadn’t yet risen over Hangzhou when Zhao’s fingers danced across the keyboard, lines of code flashing like lightning on the screens in front of him. The bunker was quiet except for the faint hum of electronics and the occasional sip of bitter black tea. Tianming stood behind him, arms crossed, eyes focused.

“We’re in,” Zhao muttered.

“What did you find?” Tianming asked, already leaning in.

Zhao tapped a few keys and brought up a detailed web of shell companies—each one connected through obscure third-party holdings, tax havens, and offshore accounts. At the center of it all: Hanglong International, a seemingly innocuous logistics company that moved textiles between Southeast Asia and the mainland.

“Guess who signed off on the last customs declaration?” Zhao said.

Tianming narrowed his eyes. “Song Rui.”

“Bingo.”

Fang entered the room, strapping on a thigh holster. “I’ve confirmed the intel with a source inside the Shanghai Port Authority. Hanglong’s containers have been getting waved through inspections without delay—no scans, no manifests.”

“What’s inside them?” Tianming asked.

“Guns. Chemicals. Cash. People,” she said grimly. “The Lotus Clan’s lifeblood.”

Tianming’s jaw tightened. “Then tonight,

we cut the artery.”

That evening, the team split into three.

Zhao remained in the van parked a kilometer from the target: Hanglong’s inland distribution hub, hidden behind an old paper mill.

Fang scaled the northwest wall under cover of darkness, her body melting into the shadows like a wraith. She moved with precision, disabling the outer cameras using a portable scrambler and slipping inside through an unlocked service duct.

Tianming approached from the east on foot, his lean frame cloaked in a grey jacket and gloves. He carried no gun—only a baton and a curved combat knife. He didn’t want to kill unless necessary. But he also didn’t come for mercy.

Zhao’s voice crackled through the comms. “Guards on rotation. Two by the gate. Four patrolling. Internal thermal shows at least eight in the warehouse.”

“Marked,” Fang whispered, already inside. “I’m in the rafters. Moving to drop point.”

“Copy,” Tianming said. “On your move.”

Seconds ticked by.

Then Fang’s whisper. “Now.”

Tianming leapt the perimeter wall in a blur, rolled once, and darted through the fog toward the first patrol pair. He waited until they turned the corner—then lunged.

His baton cracked against the first guard’s skull—clean and silent. The second raised his weapon, but Tianming twisted inside the arc of the barrel, swept the man’s legs, and drove an elbow into his throat before he could shout.

Both were down in under five seconds.

Inside the warehouse, Fang swung silently from the rafters, landed behind a technician monitoring a screen, and jabbed a taser into his neck. He convulsed and slumped. She disabled the radio console and signaled again.

“Clear. Move in.”

Tianming kicked open the side door and sprinted in. A floodlight flickered on.

Three guards spun toward him.

One charged with a metal pipe. Tianming dodged left, grabbed the man’s arm mid-swing, and flipped him over his shoulder into a stack of crates. A second man fired a shot—but Fang dropped from above and landed on his back, twisting his wrist until the gun fell.

The third guard hesitated—then ran.

Tianming didn’t chase. Instead, he walked to the control panel at the rear of the building and yanked out the flash drive Zhao had prepared.

“Uploading virus now,” Zhao confirmed. “Thirty seconds. You’ll know when it hits.”

Outside, alarms began to blare from the port’s central terminal.

“Customs just lost all tracking on Hanglong’s containers,” Zhao said. “They’re flagging everything. The system’s marking them as biohazard.”

“Any evidence traceable to Song Rui?” Tianming asked.

“You’ll love this,” Zhao chuckled. “Their insurance payouts are linked to a bank account under Rui Corporation. We just dumped the documents onto the police tip line, the Financial Bureau, and a dozen media outlets.”

Tianming exhaled. “Perfect.”

A faint rumble came from below.

“What’s that?” Fang asked, knife in hand.

Tianming stepped toward a locked hatch in the floor. “There’s more here than just logistics.”

He pried it open.

A staircase led down into darkness.

They descended.

At the bottom—an underground bunker. Crates. Oxygen tanks. Surveillance gear. Cells.

Cells with people inside.

Women. Children. All unconscious. Drugged.

Fang swore under her breath. “Trafficking.”

Tianming turned, voice ice cold. “Call the authorities. Make sure the press comes. I want this to be a public execution of Song Rui’s reputation.”

She nodded, already dialing.

Tianming stood in the center of the room, fists clenched.

This wasn’t just revenge anymore.

This was war.