The North Wolf Gang, a titan of the underworld, thrived on razor-sharp vigilance, especially in the capital's treacherous turf. Behind their glittering Wild Wolf nightclub lay a hidden escape tunnel—a dead end to the untrained eye, but a lifeline for the cunning. As Zhang Feng and Thin Tiger emerged from the underground passage, a car waited just three meters away.
Leaning against it stood a towering, stoic figure, his silhouette sharp in the dim light—Sun Xiaohu. The moment the two surfaced, the car door clicked open with a crisp snap.
Lei Zhengyang stepped out, his gaze locking onto Zhang Feng. A smirk curled his lips—part contempt, part chilling disdain.
"You!" Zhang Feng's voice cracked with shock. He hadn't expected Zhengyang to be lying in wait. When Xiao Dasheng and Li Yuanfeng tracked him down, panic had flickered in his gut. Last year's Song Yingfei trap was his design, meant to ensnare Zhengyang. Though Zhengyang fell for it, he vanished, letting the sparked feud fizzle over time. When he resurfaced a year later, the Lei-Song grudge had dissolved like smoke. Zhang Feng had nearly choked on his rage—a golden opportunity, wasted by time's cruel passage.
Zhengyang ignored his outburst, pointing at Thin Tiger. "That's Thin Tiger. Decent fighter. Have fun with him, Xiaohu. No need to hold back—kill him if you want."
Xiaohu didn't speak. His body surged forward, a predator pouncing on Thin Tiger. With no other path, he'd carve his way through blood. Anyone in his way would die.
Zhengyang turned to Zhang Feng, their eyes meeting. "I always saw you as a friend," he said softly. A year ago, this betrayal would've gutted him. Now, only a faint pang of regret lingered.
Zhang Feng's laugh was jagged, twisted. "Friend? Lei Third Young Master, you're too kind. I never saw you as one. None of those around you did. To us, you're a tool—a ladder to the Lei family's power, a way to squeeze out benefits. You've played your part well."
Zhengyang's voice was calm. "What did you gain by pitting the Lei family against the Songs?"
"What did I gain?" Zhang Feng's voice rose, manic. "Half the northern market's turf! The North Wolf Gang's strength doubled. We dominate the north—I'm the underworld's crown prince!" His words grew frenzied, eyes wild. Zhengyang shook his head. Power and wealth could drive men mad, and Zhang Feng was already unhinged, a reckless menace who'd stop at nothing.
"Why do you get everything others dream of just by being born?" Zhang Feng snarled. "Why do I have to grovel at your feet? Why do you claim the best, while I'm just a speck in your shadow? Tell me why!"
Zhengyang shrugged. "No clue. But next life, pick a better family. I'll send you off now."
Zhang Feng's eyes narrowed, disbelieving. "You? Kill me? Can you even?"
Nearby, two tigers clashed—one young, one seasoned. Xiaohu's ferocity was unmatched, but Thin Tiger's cunning and experience outclassed him. Blood seeped from Xiaohu's wounds, yet he stood, fueled by a stubborn creed: as long as he breathed, he'd never fall. To Zhang Feng, the idea of this "wastrel" killing him was laughable.
"I'm not wiping out the North Wolf Gang—yet," Zhengyang said. "No need to doubt me; I can do it. The gang's still useful to me, but you? You don't get to live. Betrayers die. And don't worry—Wolf King won't shed a tear." The Wolf King's ruthlessness was legend; only profit mattered. He'd slay his own son for the right price, a truth Zhang Feng knew too well.
A chill crept over Zhang Feng, his squinting eyes searching Zhengyang's face. He'd never truly known this man. To him, the Lei family's third young master was a fool, ripe for manipulation—fawned over outwardly, scorned within. Zhang Feng thought he held the strings, but now, fear gnawed at him. "Afraid?" he muttered. "Me, scared of a wastrel?"
A dagger appeared in his hand, concealed behind his back. As Zhengyang stepped closer, Zhang Feng's body tensed—then Zhengyang vanished into the night's shadows. Startled, Zhang Feng stumbled back, swinging his dagger in a desperate arc, its blade glinting blue. The Wolf King's son was no lightweight; his playboy facade masked a killer's edge. Around Zhengyang, who didn't wear a false face?
The blue flash faded, and Zhengyang reappeared, inches from Zhang Feng. Zhang Feng's hand trembled, blood dripping—one drop, then another—down his wrist. Lifting his hand, he touched his neck, finding a gaping slash. With a guttural gasp, the wound tore wider, blood gushing like a broken dam. His face paled, hands clutching his throat as he stared at Zhengyang, eyes wide with ghostly terror. In one move, his throat had been cut—with his own dagger.
"Now you know," Zhengyang said, voice flat. "Killing you takes no effort at all."
Zhang Feng believed it—his life proved it. Killing him was effortless. "I don't believe…" he choked, collapsing into a lifeless heap.
Zhengyang had never planned to let Zhang Feng live once he targeted the North Wolf Gang. A chance was offered; Zhang Feng spat on it. No one to blame but himself.
Xiaohu, bloodied and battered, stood tall, eyes blazing with exhilaration. The fight fueled him, awakening the born warrior within. He wasn't Thin Tiger's match yet, but Thin Tiger faltered, distracted by Zhang Feng's death. One glimpse of his leader's corpse shattered his will to fight. No matter how strong, a man without spirit was doomed.
The air reeked of blood, thick and foul. Zhengyang lit a match, igniting a cigarette, inhaling deeply. The tobacco's bite dulled the stench. A year in the hellish training camp had steeped him in gore, but back in the city, this was his first taste of blood. It wasn't pleasant.
Xiaohu took a blade to the side, but that wound turned his fist into a lethal edge. His hand shot out, fingers aligned like a spear, piercing Thin Tiger's neck with surgical precision—sharper than any knife. Zhengyang tossed his cigarette, clapping as he approached. "Clean kill, Xiaohu. I like it. Want to seize your fate? You need more power. I think you've found its source."
Blood dripped from Xiaohu's wounds, but Zhengyang offered no comfort. He knew Xiaohu's pride—bleeding, not weeping. Unlike Xueling's warmth, Zhengyang's way was harsh, pushing Xiaohu to grow through trial. The boy had a long road ahead.
The night was brief, but for some, it dragged like years. In a single hour, Wild Wolf nightclub was gutted. Zhengyang had tasked Qiuping with finding "leverage," and the haul was staggering. If coerced women and blackmail needed proof, the piles of drugs found were undeniable. Shutting down Wild Wolf became a no-brainer.
By dawn, the flurry of pleading calls from the gang's allies went silent. No one was foolish enough to stick their neck out with such damning evidence. They prayed the storm would pass, sparing them.
Old Master Lei learned of the raid the next morning, his temper erupting like thunder. But the culprits—Zhengyang and Qiuping—were conveniently absent. "Chief, Colonel Lei and Third Young Master are at the Fifth Military District," his secretary whispered, ever attentive, seeing the old man's fury. "Shall I summon them?"
Fuming, Lei Yunbao (the "Leopard") calmed quickly, shaking his head. "To the office first. I'll deal with them tonight."