Wei Qian didn't want his personal dilemmas to cast a pall of gloom over the entire household. Though his mind churned relentlessly with the dilemma, he went to work at the factory freight yard every single day as if nothing were amiss. Having followed Brother Le through the underworld for years, he had spent far too much time carrying heavy, lethal secrets; beneath his youthful exterior, he had cultivated the unreadable, calculating poker face of a seasoned player.
Yet the people around him refused to let him find peace.
The first offender was Wei Zhi Yuan. The boy had originally been such an ideal child -- never throwing tantrums, utterly obedient, and extraordinarily perceptive of other people's moods. Now, however, he had transformed into a relentless, chattering nuisance, hovering by Wei Qian’s side every morning and evening to repeat the same probing question until Wei Qian was driven to the very brink of madness.
Next came Old Mrs. Song. The old woman didn't need to change at all; she was already a walking, relentless rumor mill whose nagging could outmatch five hundred quacking ducks combined. Compared to her, Wei Zhi Yuan’s persistent mutterings were like weak dust. Wei Qian had developed a genuine phobia of her. One evening, the moment he pushed the front door open, Old Mrs. Song stepped out of the kitchen, spotted him, froze in her tracks, and parted her lips. Wei Qian practically envisioned a monstrous, bloody maw preparing to swallow him whole -- without uttering a single syllable, he spun on his heel and bolted straight back out into the stairwell.
...Of course, as it turned out, the poor old woman had simply needed to sneeze.
And then there was Fatty San.
That fat bastard's brand of shamelessness was truly peerless. One afternoon while Wei Qian was away at the factory, Fatty San took a brush, dipped it into a bucket of bright red industrial paint, and scrawled a massive slogan directly across the exterior corridor wall outside their flat:
STUDY FOR THE RISE OF CHINA.
That grimy, soot-stained hallway... those dripping, blood-red, colossal characters...
The wicked old hag next door, waking early for her usual four-in-the-morning stroll, stepped into the pitch-black corridor and was met by this terrifying, crimson sight. She froze on her threshold for three full seconds before letting out a strangled, bloodcurdling shriek. Clamping her trousers tight, she slammed her door shut and fled back inside, having nearly pissed herself from sheer fright.
Surrounded on all sides by this domestic siege, Wei Qian found his only sliver of solace in Song Lee Lee.
One afternoon, Little Bao cornered him in private with an unusually solemn expression. "Brother, if you don't want to go, just don't go."
Wei Qian looked down at her in surprise.
With a thick slice of watermelon wedged between her teeth, Little Bao asked with genuine concern, "You really don't want to go to school, right?"
Wei Qian hesitated for a second before nodding against his will.
Little Bao shook her head, letting out a weary, exaggerated sigh like an experienced elder. "Ah, there's no helping it. I understand your struggles."
Wei Qian was taken aback. Feeling a sudden, rare surge of warmth at the thought that his sister had grown observant enough to comprehend his heavy financial burdens, he asked softly, "What... what exactly do you understand?"
Little Bao spat with sharp precision, sending a black watermelon seed flying cleanly into the glass ashtray. Looking at him with deep, heartfelt sympathy, she confessed, "To tell you the truth, Brother... I don't want to go to school either."
Wei Qian: "..."
That very night, Song Lee Lee was sentenced to copy the longest classical essay in her Chinese textbook two full times.
Yet life possessed an uncanny way of throwing strange coincidences at desperate men. Sometimes, when an individual was backed completely into a dead end, an unforeseen turning point would drop out of the clear blue sky -- even if that turning point was paved with hellfire.
That afternoon, Wei Qian changed out of his dust-caked work clothes, unlocked his bicycle, and was just about to kick off when a voice called out to him.
The man was sharply dressed in an expensive, stylish suit, sporting a pair of dark designer sunglasses that Wei Qian couldn't identify. Yet there was an unmistakable, dangerous aura rolling off him -- the familiar stench of the criminal underworld.
An instinctive premonition flared in Wei Qian’s chest. Sure enough, the moment the man spotted him, he strode over with broad, confident steps.
Having long since washed his hands of the street life, Wei Qian had no desire to engage. He mounted the pedals to ride away, but the stranger reached out, gripping the handlebars with an iron hold while planting a heavy leather shoe firmly against the front spokes. "You're Brother Wei, right? I'd like a few words with you."
Wei Qian’s fingers tightened around the grips until the blue veins on his knuckles throbbed. He lowered his voice into a razor-thin warning: "Let go."
The man slid off his sunglasses, revealing a crooked nose and a jagged scar slicing across his left eyelid, leaving him with mismatched, sinister eyes. His face was a mask of ruthless, predatory cunning. Fishing a sleek business card from his breast pocket, he flicked it before Wei Qian’s eyes. "Fourth Master Hu... the old man's name should still ring a bell with you, shouldn't it?"
Back when Wei Qian had first made a name for himself by single-handedly dismantling a rival street crew, a wealthy figure calling himself Fourth Master Hu had indeed handed him a business card with a clear intent to recruit him. Fourth Master Hu was one of Brother Le’s most esteemed VIP guests. Though Wei Qian had declined the offer at the time, the man had left an indelible impression on him -- primarily because of his bizarre, unsettling gaze. In Fourth Master Hu’s eyes, human beings were not people at all; they were mere pigs, cattle, and livestock waiting to be herded to the slaughterhouse market.
Later on, Wei Qian had heard whispers from the streets: that old monster Fourth Master Hu had his fingers dipped in prostitution, high-stakes gambling, and narcotics -- a well-rounded bastard. Under his empire were three or four notorious underground black-boxing circuits, constantly scouting the provinces for ruthless enforcers and desperate fighters. He held a particular fondness for street fighters like Wei Qian, who fought with a reckless, suicidal disregard for their own lives.
Wei Qian’s eyelid twitched. Knowing this wasn't a faction one could easily offend, he lowered his foot to steady the bicycle, offering a polite, cautious greeting: "And how should I address you, Big Brother?"
Seeing the youth show proper deference, the man smirked with satisfaction, letting go of the handlebars while rubbing his palms together. "Nothing so grand. The name is Chao Lao-9. Just call me Lao-9."
Wei Qian forced a smooth, diplomatic smile. "Ah, Ninth Brother. Fourth Master Hu doesn't visit our district often, so you might not have heard... Brother Le..."
"Le Xiao Dong is dead," Chao Lao-9 cut in flatly. "It’s been half a year. Everyone on the circuit knows."
Wei Qian lowered his gaze, pausing for a beat. "Right. That’s why I’ve completely stepped out of the game. Fourth Master Hu and Ninth Brother honor me by thinking of me, and under normal circumstances, I wouldn't dare make excuses. But as you can see, I'm tied down with a whole family to feed. I really can't walk away from my responsibilities..."
Chao Lao-9’s mismatched eyes darted around before he nodded with an air of profound sympathy. "Ah, I get it. Everyone has their struggles. Is Fourth Master Hu the kind of unreasonable boss who forces a man? Here's the situation: the old man just opened a brand-new underground ring, and the venue hasn't even warmed up yet. We're starving for heavy hitters to hype up the opening matches. We know it pulls you away from your regular work, but you don't need to worry about the pay -- Fourth Master Hu never shorts his own men."
Having accompanied Brother Le through numerous high-end criminal circuits in his later years, Wei Qian grasped the subtext instantly: Fourth Master Hu had set up a new illegal bare-knuckle boxing venue, and he wanted Wei Qian to act as a warm-up brawler to draw in high-rolling gamblers.
The underground black-boxing circuit spanning the southern provinces had flourished for years, driven by exorbitant, blood-soaked profits. The premier underground rings featured seasoned, professional killers who pulled in tens of thousands of yuan per bout during the mid-nineties. Even the lower-tier warm-up fighters could walk away with several thousand yuan per match.
Wei Qian let out a self-deprecating chuckle. "Ninth Brother, you’re joking with me. I know my own weight. A true martial artist or professional boxer could snap my neck with a single finger. My own life is worthless, but I couldn't bear to disgrace Fourth Master Hu and yourself in the ring."
Wei Qian understood the mechanics of the trade: if he agreed, he would effectively become Chao Lao-9’s contracted dog. Chao Lao-9 scouted talent for Fourth Master Hu, taking a hefty cut from the fighter's appearance fees and bets regardless of whether the fighter won, lost, or died on the canvas.
"You've got it all wrong," Chao Lao-9 waved his hand dismissively. "Real master fighters aren't cheap cabbages you find on every street corner. Fourth Master Hu has an eagle's eye -- if he picked you, you don't need to sell yourself short..."
Pausing, Chao Lao-9 glanced around the alley, lowering his voice into an intimate whisper: "Besides, I give it to you straight: on the canvas, being decently tough is all you need. You jump in for a few opening bouts, bag eight to ten thousand yuan, and walk away clean. It's easy money, and nothing bad happens. Being too strong is actually a death sentence -- the elite fighters in the championship tiers can never step down. There's always someone more vicious waiting, and their only way out is in a body bag."
The corner of Wei Qian’s eye twitched violently.
"I'm not feeding you bullshit," Chao Lao-9 murmured, carefully gauging the youth's reaction as his voice dropped even lower. "Fourth Master Hu sent us across the country, and I’ve scouted dozens of brawlers. For a guy like you, the flat appearance fee is two thousand yuan up front. Bonuses and winner's commissions depend on your performance. Those top-tier killers pulling in thirty to fifty thousand... that’s blood money for their actual lives. Even if you wanted to fight at that level, you don't have the training for it, understand?"
Wei Qian remained dead silent. Chao Lao-9’s words carried an undeniable, dangerous ring of truth.
"Look, little brother, I’m just giving you the general market rate -- I’m not trying to scare you," Chao Lao-9 said, patting Wei Qian’s shoulder with faux camaraderie before slipping a train ticket into his chest pocket. "This is a ticket for next Monday. My private number is written on the back. If you want the cash, come find me in Guangdong. If you don't, just throw it away. I was just looking to help a capable brother out -- business or no business, our goodwill remains, right?"
Carrying that train ticket in his pocket, Wei Qian lay awake on his cot for the entire night without closing his eyes for a single second.
Chao Lao-9’s arrival was like a soft pillow handed to a man nodding off from sheer exhaustion.
Wei Qian had spent weeks agonizing over how he could possibly support his family if he returned to high school. Chao Lao-9 had handed him the answer on a silver platter: a guaranteed two-thousand-yuan entrance fee. If he could merely survive two or three preliminary bouts, he would walk away with five or six thousand yuan.
Five or six thousand yuan was pocket change to a kingpin, but in the late nineties, it was a staggering fortune for an ordinary working-class family. In the hands of a woman like Old Mrs. Song, who could split a single copper coin into eight pieces, that sum could comfortably sustain the entire household for an entire year without a single worry.
But...
Money is hard to earn, and shit is hard to swallow. There were no free meat pies falling from the heavens. Wei Qian understood with crystalline clarity that Chao Lao-9’s promises of "safe exhibition bouts" and "easy cash" were pure, unadulterated bullshit.
Why pick him out of millions? Across the vast expanse from the north to the south, there were countless men who knew how to brawl.
The more Wei Qian turned it over in his mind, the clearer the brutal truth became: Brother Le was dead, and Fourth Master Hu had reached across provinces specifically for him because he was a rootless, dispensable stray with no powerful backing to avenge him if he died.
Before him lay a deep pool of water, clear to the pebble bed, with visible nuggets of gold glittering at the bottom. But Wei Qian had no way of knowing how deep the freezing water truly ran once he jumped, nor did he know if he would ever have the strength to surface again.
Pocky had also made a sudden fortune right before he was shot dead in the street.
Wei Qian rolled over, his long muscles aching from lying rigid for hours. He carefully sat up, taking care not to disturb Wei Zhi Yuan -- the summer night was sweltering, and the boy's forehead was glistening with sweat, sleeping with a peaceful depth that was rare for him.
Stepping downstairs in the pre-dawn quiet, Wei Qian began pacing circles around the base of the shantytown silo like a blind donkey grinding a millstone, desperately trying to wring a shred of clarity from the darkness.
He told himself that this agonizing torment was born purely from his own boundless greed. The burden on his shoulders was already crushing, yet he still harbored the luxury of wanting his family to live with dignity and comfort.
His mother had sold her own flesh on the streets just to keep him fed -- was he really going to be worse than a prostitute? How could he bear to let Little Bao and Wei Zhi Yuan suffer the same squalor he had endured as a child?
And on top of that, he had the audacity to dream of high school.
Bathed in the pale morning light, his hair soaked through with falling dew, Wei Qian interrogated his own soul like a condemned man on trial.
What the hell is the point of going to school? he snarled savagely at himself. Does finishing high school guarantee you get into university? Does getting into university guarantee you graduate? Does a diploma guarantee a decent job? Even if you land a decent job, can you ever make up for the six or seven years of wages you threw away while your family starved?!
He systematically listed every rational, cold-blooded reason he could conjure to prove that going back to school was a fool's errand.
Just then, the metal shutter of the corner kiosk downstairs rattled open with a sharp clatter as the vendor yawned into the dawn.
Wei Qian kicked a loose pebble across the dirt, muttering a silent curse to the heavens: Go to school? Why don't you just sprout wings and fly to the fucking moon?
Walking up to the window, he bought a fresh pack of cheap cigarettes and a plastic lighter, officially declaring his six-month struggle to quit smoking a total, humiliating failure.
Squatting by the curb, Wei Qian finished the entire cigarette in deep, burning drags.
And then, he made a decision that flew in the exact opposite direction of every logical argument he had just manufactured:
Isn't it just Guangdong?
Fuck it. I'm going.