Chapter Forty-One: Kneel and Apologize

“You brats didn’t hear me tell you to get lost? Do you want me to have someone beat you so hard you roll out of here?” Seeing that Liu Fan and his companions showed no intention of leaving as he’d expected, but instead sat there calmly as if watching a joke at his expense, Zhao Qijin’s fury burned hotter, twisting his face as he bellowed.

“Oh, is that so? Then I’d like to see if the axes of your Axe Gang are really made of iron.” Liu Fan sneered.

“If you’re so eager to die, I’ll oblige you. Tonight you’ll learn why the flowers are so red.” Once again dismissed, Zhao Qijin was beside himself with rage and strode forward, intent on teaching Liu Fan a lesson.

“Wait, wait, wait, Master Qi, you can’t do this. If you cripple someone, how can I explain to the boss? Could you please, for the boss’s sake, let these young men off?” Zhu Guangming, now flustered as the fight teetered on the brink, hurried forward to intervene. Businessmen feared the underworld, but they feared a death in their hotel just as much.

“That Ma fellow is nothing to me! Trying to use him against me? Get lost!” At the interruption, Zhao Qijin didn’t hesitate. With a sharp crack, he slapped Zhu Guangming across the face, sending him reeling, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Dizzy, Zhu spun twice before losing his bearings entirely.

This was enough to anger Liu Fan. While Zhu Guangming had earlier shown a trace of bullying his guests, it was more out of necessity; afterwards, he had fulfilled his duty as a hotelier, doing his best to ensure the safety of his patrons, and Liu Fan had been satisfied. Now, seeing him take a blow for trying to speak up for them, Liu Fan’s eyes grew cold.

“If you kneel right now and apologize, I might consider letting you off. Otherwise, you came in on your feet—you’ll leave on your back.” Liu Fan’s tone was icy.

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet instantly, the air nearly solid, and Zhao Qijin felt as though he’d plunged into an icy pit, struggling to breathe. Yet his years in the underworld had made him brash and ruthless; summoning his courage, he roared, “What are you all waiting for? Hack him to death!”

The two bodyguards behind him and the lackeys outside the door, hearing their boss’s order, charged at Liu Fan, axes raised, fierce and fearless—but it was all for nothing.

With a few deft dodges, Liu Fan and his friends sent their attackers flying even faster than they’d come, slamming into walls or crashing into the corridor railing, sprawling in disarray. The only thing they all had in common was the footprint stamped on their chests and several broken ribs. If Liu Fan hadn’t held back, not wanting to kill, they would have reported to the King of Hell by now.

“So you actually know a bit of martial arts—that explains your arrogance. But I’ll show you what a real master is.” Zhao Qijin was surprised to see his men dispatched so quickly, but thinking that Liu Fan was so young, his skills couldn’t possibly be that high, he renewed his taunts, raising his voice.

“You’re welcome to try.” After dealing with his attackers, Liu Fan brushed imaginary dust from his sleeve and replied coolly.

“If you want to die, I’ll oblige you.” With that, Zhao Qijin tensed every muscle and charged at Liu Fan.

The others watched with mocking smiles, thinking, “Foolhardy to the end.”

Indeed, as the saying goes, “Heaven can forgive the sins it brings, but self-inflicted ones cannot be survived.” As Zhao Qijin’s fist was about to land, the three women behind Liu Fan closed their eyes, unable to bear watching, certain that this time Liu Fan would be gravely hurt if not killed.

But at that moment, Liu Fan moved. He ducked low, jabbed two fingers into Zhao Qijin’s dantian, then kicked him square in the chest, sending both man and wall crashing down in a heap.

Zhao Qijin’s muscles, once taut, now deflated like a punctured ball; though still conscious, his spirit was broken. If not for his deep martial foundation and Liu Fan’s restraint, he’d be dead already. But with his dantian destroyed, his martial arts were finished—he would never again be the equal of even an ordinary man.

The commotion quickly drew a crowd. Soon, someone recognized Zhao Qijin.

“Hey, isn’t that Master Zhao from the Axe Gang?”

“Yeah, that’s him. How’d he get beaten so badly?”

“He’ll be stuck in the hospital for at least six months after this.”

“Whoever did this must be ruthless.”

“Bah, you people have too much time on your hands. Don’t you realize who Zhao Qijin is? He’s a gangster, notorious for being cruel and ruthless—word is, he’s got plenty of blood on his hands. You think someone like that deserves better?”

“Exactly. Those of us in business have suffered enough at his hands—beatings, smash-and-grabs, robberies. Serves him right to finally hit a wall. It’s a real relief.”

“Shh! You’d better keep your voices down—this is Axe Gang turf. Mind they don’t come after you later.”

…

“Seems you’ve got quite a reputation. Tell me, what should I do with you?” Listening to the crowd, Liu Fan stepped slowly out of the private room, speaking with disdain.

“Hmph…kill…me if you must. I’ve lost fair and square. Do as you wish.” As soon as Zhao Qijin opened his mouth, he coughed up a mouthful of blood, then struggled to catch his breath.

“Well, you’re tougher than I thought. But murder is illegal. All I want is for you to kneel and apologize to my friend.” Liu Fan had a grudging respect for Zhao Qijin’s backbone, but his friends were his bottom line—anyone who crossed it would pay in blood.

A collective gasp swept the crowd. The Axe Gang had always bullied others; when had anyone ever seen a man like Liu Fan, not only beating them so badly, but demanding an apology on bended knee? Wasn’t that courting death?

“Dream on. I admit defeat, but apologize? Never!” Zhao Qijin shouted with all the strength he had left. In truth, he was already afraid, but seeing his reinforcements arrive, he put on a brave front.

“Yamamoto-san, save me! Save me!”

At that moment, five men emerged from the crowd. Leading them was a pudgy, weaselly-looking man in his thirties, small and round as a meatball, with a patch of mustache above his lip—clearly a foreigner. The four men behind him, all in matching suits, were his bodyguards; their eyes were cold and their steps measured, exuding the air of experts.

“What’s the meaning of this? Why did you hurt my friend? You have no conscience!” The fat man strode forward, berating Liu Fan in heavily accented Chinese.

“Yama…moto-san, if you’ll help me take care of this kid and get those three girls inside, I’ll agree to your deal. How about it?” Seeing Ichiro Yamamoto step forward, Zhao Qijin hastened to offer terms, desperate to avenge the loss of his martial arts.

“Very good, Zhao-kun. For the sake of this partnership, I am most sincere.” Yamamoto’s delight was evident as he spoke. In truth, Ichiro Yamamoto was the eldest son of Kazuo Yamamoto, head of Japan’s largest yakuza syndicate, the Yamaguchi-gumi. He had come to China seeking new business opportunities—drug trafficking, human smuggling, contraband, and other high-profit ventures. Since arriving in Shanghai, he’d tried to negotiate with local gangs but had found no success, a sign that these criminals still had some sense of honor. This meeting with Zhao Qijin was for just such a deal, and if not for Liu Fan’s thrashing of Zhao, things might not have moved so quickly. But these foreigners were as ruthless as wolves—if there was profit to be made, nothing was off limits.

At that moment, the three women from the private room, hearing the commotion, stepped outside. Their appearance caused Yamamoto’s eyes to light up with predatory lust; he all but drooled at the prospect of ravishing them.

“Very nice, very pretty!” Yamamoto leered, then barked an order in Japanese to his four bodyguards: “Sato, cripple the men and bring the women for my enjoyment tonight.”

The men obeyed in unison, their faces expressionless as they stepped toward Liu Fan, ready to attack without another word.

Though many in the crowd criticized the foreigners’ behavior, none dared step forward to help or even call the police. They were content to watch the spectacle, a sign of how far public morality had fallen. The old spirit of coming together in adversity, of helping those in need, was gone—never to return.