The night air in Yangcheng was thick and humid, clinging to the skin like a damp cloth. It carried the distant, greasy aroma of street food stalls, the faint, metallic tang of the Pearl River, and underneath it all, the thrilling, primal scent of charcoal-grilled lamb kidneys. Michael sat at a rickety plastic table outside Hui Ji Dai Pai Dong, a pile of skewers stacked on a chipped ceramic plate before him. Each kidney was a dark, glistening morsel, heavily seasoned with cumin and chili flakes. The first bite was a burst of savory, slightly gamey richness that made his eyes close in appreciation.
He was, as the unnamed informant in Tiger's gang had correctly reported, indulging in a significant quantity. There were two reasons for this feast, both deeply felt. First, a simple, visceral craving. A man could only subsist on so much lizard jerky and canned peaches before his soul began to cry out for the robust, earthy flavors of his homeland. Second, and more strategically, he was stockpiling energy. The new well in Cinder Town was nearing completion. Water, real, abundant water, meant that Lynda and Faye, and the other attendants, would finally be… presentable. Clean. The memory of Lynda's formidable thighs, capable of cracking mutant desert nuts, had sparked a sudden, pressing concern in Michael's mind. A concern that translated directly to a need for renal fortification. The upcoming hydrological improvements in his fiefdom, he sensed with a strange prescience, would be accompanied by activities decidedly taxing on the lumbar region.
The only flaw in the evening's perfection was the absence of a cold, frothy beer to wash it all down. The ghost of a traffic policeman's stern face hovered in his mind's eye. Drive drunk, go to jail.The principle was as unyielding as the laws of physics governing his portal. So he chewed his kidneys and sipped a bottle of sweet, lukewarm jasmine tea, the sacrifice for a clear head and a valid driver's license.
He ate slowly, deliberately, stretching the meal until the sky began to pale from black to a deep, bruised blue. The stall owner started wiping down adjacent tables with a damp rag, a clear signal that the world of legitimate nightlife was closing up. At ten minutes to five, Michael paid his bill, the greasy notes feeling insignificant against the weight of the gold coins in his satchel. He felt pleasantly full, energized, and ready for the next phase of his cross-dimensional logistics operation.
Unbeknownst to him, his leisurely pace had been a form of exquisite torture for a dedicated audience. Concealed in the shadows of a nearby alley, Tiger and his reconstituted gang of "Ghost Riders" had been suffering for hours. The tantalizing smell of Michael's feast had tormented them. Mosquitoes had feasted on their exposed skin. Their hatred, fermented in the humid darkness, had reached a boiling point. When the battered Wuling finally coughed to life and pulled away from the curb, their collective sigh of relief was almost a sob. They followed at a discreet distance, a pack of predators finally scenting blood.
The wholesale market was just stirring as Michael arrived. Mr. Liu, the grain merchant, was rolling up the heavy steel shutter of his shop, his face puffy with sleep. The transaction for a ton of "approaching best-by" rice was executed with the smooth efficiency of a well-rehearsed play. Michael was a valued customer now. In fact, Mr. Liu had recently, and unilaterally, reduced the price by a hundred yuan per ton. The merchant had constructed an elaborate fantasy in his head: this young man, "Niu," was not just a random buyer but a rising entrepreneurial force, operating a pig farm, a canteen, and a small supermarket all at once. He was an account to be nurtured, protected from the predatory overtures of a rival merchant named Ma. Michael, oblivious to the complex commercial narrative he now inhabited, simply accepted the discount as a welcome, if puzzling, windfall.
With his cargo secured and a bag of steaming pork buns purchased for his hidden crew, Michael drove back towards Shizhu Mountain, his mood buoyant. The first rays of the sun were painting the eastern sky in streaks of orange and pink as he reached the familiar clearing at the summit. He killed the engine, the sudden silence profound. He took a deep breath of the clean, pine-scented air, preparing to reach for the portal within him.
Then he heard it. The sound began as a faint, angry buzz on the edge of hearing and swiftly grew into a roaring, synchronized snarl. It was a sound he remembered all too well. The Ghost Riders. They had stalked him, waited for this moment of absolute isolation.
A slow, predatory smile spread across Michael's face. He stepped out of the van, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders. He was not afraid. He was… curious. Eager, even. This was a perfect opportunity for a field test.
Within minutes, thirty-three mopeds, their neon under-glow seeming pale and pathetic in the growing dawn, encircled him and his vehicle. The pack was larger than before, their numbers swollen by desperation. Notably absent were the shrieking girls. The previous humiliation had apparently cost them their fan base. The riders dismounted, brandishing an assortment of pipes, chains, and a few menacing-looking cleavers. Their faces, still bearing the yellowing bruises from his sneaker, contorted into masks of forced bravado.
Tiger stepped forward, pointing a trembling finger. "You deadbeat! Think you're so tough?!" he shrieked, his voice cracking with pent-up rage. "Today you're finished!"
Michael didn't answer with words. Instead, he sank into what he imagined was a classic Huang Feihong-style fighting stance, one hand extended, fingers curling in a clear, contemptuous come-hithergesture. It was pure theater, a move he'd seen in a dozen martial arts films. The actual "Tiger and Crane" form was a complete mystery to him, but the intent was unmistakable.
The effect was electric. With a collective roar, the mob surged forward.
Michael willed the energy within him to life. The Foundational Combat Aura seed in his dantianflared, and a faint, shimmering heat enveloped his body, visible only to his own heightened senses as a thin, quivering nimbus of light. The world seemed to slow down. The wild swings of the chains and pipes became telegraphed, clumsy arcs. He moved with a fluid grace that astonished even himself, ducking under a swing, sidestepping a lunge, his own responses a blend of Aura-enhanced reflexes and the brawling instincts of a man who'd had to fight for his lunch money in a tougher schoolyard. A precise chop to the wrist here, a sharp kick to the back of a knee there. Bodies fell, crying out in pain and surprise.
But the Aura, for all its power, was a finite resource in his novice hands. After two furious minutes, he had incapacitated seventeen of his attackers. Then, the well ran dry. The shimmering energy vanished, and a wave of profound fatigue washed over him. The remaining riders, sensing the shift, hesitated, circling him warily, their earlier courage replaced by a healthy, fear-filled respect.
Tiger, who had hung back, holding a motorcycle chain, seemed frozen. As Michael, breathing heavily, turned his gaze towards him, the gang leader finally snapped out of his stupor. But instead of begging for mercy, his face twisted into a mask of hysterical defiance.
"You think this is over?!" he screamed. "You just wait! I'm calling my Michael! Just you wait!"
One of his lackeys gasped. "Boss, no! Not Knife! He's too much! This will get out of hand!"
"I don't care!" Tiger yelled, fumbling for his phone. "I want this guy dead!"
Intrigued, Michael simply watched, his arms crossed. His Michael?This promised to be educational.
An hour later, the scene on the mountain peak had been rearranged. On the left side of the road knelt a dejected line of Ghost Riders. On the right knelt a new contingent: a dozen older, harder men in garish floral-print shirts, their faces etched with the scars of a more professional grade of street life. Their leader, a wiry man with a tattoo of a dagger on his neck—presumably "Knife"—looked utterly defeated.
Their arrival had been dramatic: three black sedans screeching to a halt, doors flying open. Knife had stepped out, a sawed-off shotgun broken open over his arm, ready to be loaded. He never got the chance. The single, sharp crackfrom Michael's Beretta, which punched a neat hole through the headlight of the lead car, had been a universally understood argument. The sight of the sleek, deadly pistol in Michael's hand had been more persuasive than any number of thugs. Knife, a man who understood the stark difference between intimidating with a weapon and actually being prepared to use one, had dropped his shotgun and raised his hands instantly. He now shot a look of pure, undiluted venom at Tiger. Thiswas the "brotherhood" he got for being a man of his word? This was the "loyalty" that had him and his best men kneeling in the dirt at dawn on a deserted mountain, facing a man who carried a military-grade handgun? The phrase "Good Michael! A man of his word!" now felt like the cruelest joke.
Michael looked at the two rows of kneeling men, then at the rising sun. He was behind schedule. He had a world to run, a gold stash to liquidate, and a ton of rice to deliver. He sighed, the sound heavy with the weary responsibility of power.
"Alright, listen up," he said, his voice cutting through the morning chill. "We're going to have a little chat about proportional response. And you're all going to be late for it."