Great Power Reclamation

After returning from Almaty, Yang Chenglong was filled with resentment.

That fire wasn't burning on my face, it was burning deep inside my bones.

He sat in a UCL classroom, and the professor was explaining Porter's Five Forces model, but he didn't hear a single word.

Bakhtiar's face kept replaying in my mind—his shiny hair, his gleaming gold chain, and the cigarette butt he had stubbed out on the table.

He regretted it.

I regret not doing it right there in the restaurant.

Ye Guigen was right, that glass of vodka was hard to swallow. But what was even harder to swallow than vodka was being told, "This is Kazakhstan, not China."

Yang Chenglong clenched his fist, his knuckles cracking.

"Mr. Yang?" the professor's voice came from the podium. "What are your thoughts on this case?"

Yang Chenglong snapped out of his daze. The whole class was staring at him. He scratched his messy curly hair and stood up: "Sorry, I didn't hear the question clearly."

The professor frowned but didn't ask any further questions.

As I sat down, a British boy next to me muttered quietly, "That's just how Chinese people are."

Yang Chenglong suddenly turned his head and stared at the boy. Standing over 1.8 meters tall and weighing 180 kilograms, with a face tanned dark red from years of riding horses outdoors, he was intimidating with just one glare.

The British boy shrank back, lowered his head, and didn't dare to say another word.

After class, Ye Guigen waited for him at the classroom door.

"What's wrong with you today?" Ye Guigen looked at his face. "You've been like this ever since you came back from Almaty."

Yang Chenglong slung his backpack over his shoulder and strode forward. "Nothing much."

"You walk like you're about to fight."

"Then let's fight," Yang Chenglong said in a muffled voice.

Ye Guigen caught up with him and grabbed his arm. "Jackie Chan, calm down."

Yang Chenglong stopped and turned around. His eyes were bloodshot, whether from lack of sleep or anger, it was hard to tell.

"Ultimately, tell me, did I chicken out?"

"Why are you being a coward?"

"In Almaty, that bastard Bakhtiar pointed his finger at me and said those things, and I didn't even lay a hand on him. If my grandfather knew, he would definitely scold me."

Ye Guigen looked at him and remained silent for two seconds.

"What did your grandfather say in his letter? 'Speak with your back straight.' He didn't ask you to do it."

Is there a difference between talking and taking action?

"Yes," Ye Guigen said. "In words, you are in the right. In actions, you lose."

Yang Chenglong snorted. "You're just like your father, too rational."

Ye Guigen was taken aback. This was the first time someone had said he resembled Ye Feng. He thought about it and realized it might be true.

In that private room in Almaty, his first reaction was to reason with him, present the facts, and cite the equity change records. Yang Chenglong's first reaction, however, was—to take him down.

This is the difference.

“Alright,” Ye Guigen patted him on the shoulder, “I won’t try to persuade you. But you have to promise me one thing.”

"what?"

"Call me when it really comes to taking action."

Yang Chenglong glanced at him, a slight smile finally appearing on his lips. "You? With your 1.7-meter-tall frame, can you even fight?"

“I can’t beat them, but I can call the police.”

"..."

Yang Chenglong couldn't help but laugh. After he finished laughing, the fire was still there, but it wasn't as intense.

Back in the dormitory, Yang Chenglong called Lin Wanwan. Lin Wanwan noticed something was wrong with his voice and asked what was wrong.

He recounted what happened in Almaty, growing angrier as he spoke, until finally he threw his phone onto the bed.

Lin Wanwan shouted on the other end of the phone, "Yang Chenglong! Who are you trying to throw at!"

He quickly picked it up. "I didn't drop you, I dropped the bed."

"If you're angry, go for a run. Don't bottle it up."

"I'm not running. I'm going to hit the punching bag."

Where can I find sandbags in London?

Yang Chenglong thought for a moment and sent Ye Guigen a message: "Do you know where there are boxing gyms in London?"

The reply came quickly: "What do you want to do?"

"Hit the sandbag."

"You wait."

Ten minutes later, Ye Guigen sent an address to a boxing gym called "Anchor" in Hoxton.

He added a note: "I've already asked someone to make the arrangements, just go and mention my name."

Yang Chenglong looked at the four words "Report my name" and thought:
Ye Guigen may talk about being rational, but he's already paved the way for things behind the scenes.

He changed into a sports T-shirt, put on running shoes, and went out.

The "Anchor" boxing gym was located in a basement in an industrial area, with cement walls, a metal door, and a smell of sweat and rubber.

The receptionist was a bald, burly man whose arms were thicker than Yang Chenglong's thighs.

"Yang Chenglong?" The bald man glanced at him. "Ye Guigen's friend?"

"Correct."

"Go in. The second sandbag on the right is reserved for you."

Yang Chenglong paid the fee and entered the training area. The sandbags were black, weighed sixty kilograms, and hung from iron chains. He didn't wear bandages or gloves, and punched one directly.

The sound of flesh hitting canvas was muffled, like hitting a person.

One punch, two punches, three punches.

Bakhtiar's face was in his mind. One punch knocked the gold chain off, two punches shattered the yellow teeth, and three punches shoved the cigarette butt back into his mouth.

He threw countless punches; his knuckles were bleeding, and the blood stained the black canvas, making it invisible. But he didn't stop.

"Kid, if you keep hitting like that, you'll lose your hand!" a voice came from behind.

Yang Chenglong turned around. A white man in his fifties, wearing an old tracksuit, with gray hair, stood very straight.

He walked over with two pairs of boxing gloves in his hand and tossed one pair to Yang Chenglong.

"Put it on," the old man said. "I'll practice with you."

Yang Chenglong took the boxing gloves and put them on. The old man also put on the gloves and stood in front of him.

Have you ever boxed?

No. I've been in a fight.

The old man laughed. "Fighting and boxing are different. Fighting is about risking your life, boxing is about technique. Come on, hit me."

Yang Chenglong hesitated for a moment, then threw a punch. The old man dodged to the side, and the punch hit the air, causing Yang Chenglong to stumble.

"Too slow," the old man said. "Your fist is slow when you have something on your mind. Put your mind aside first, then throw a punch."

Yang Chenglong took a deep breath and threw another punch. This punch was fast, but the old man still dodged it.

"Still too slow. Let's try again."

One punch, two punches, three punches, ten punches, twenty punches. The old man, like a fish, slipped away each time.

Yang Chenglong's boxing gloves whistled as they hit the air, and sweat splattered all over the ground.

On the thirtieth punch, the old man suddenly advanced instead of retreating, landing a punch on Yang Chenglong's abdomen. It wasn't heavy, but it was very accurate, causing Yang Chenglong to bend over.

"You only think about hitting people, not about defending yourself." The old man took two steps back. "That's enough for today. You have an injury on your hand, go back and get it treated."

Yang Chenglong straightened up, panting heavily. Sweat dripped from his curly hair onto the floor.

"Who are you?" he asked.

“They all call me Old Mike.” The old man took off his boxing gloves. “I used to serve in the Royal Marines. After retiring, I had nothing to do, so I came here to teach boxing.”

"Old Mike, I'll be back tomorrow."

"Okay. But don't come empty-handed tomorrow, bring a good bandage."

Yang Chenglong returned to his dormitory at nine o'clock in the evening. He took a shower, applied iodine to the broken skin on his hands, and grimaced in pain.

Then he sent Lin Wanwan a photo—a hand wrapped in bandages.

Lin Wanwan's call came instantly.

"Yang Chenglong! What have you done!"

"Hit the sandbag."

"Can hitting a sandbag cause your hands to become like this?"

"I wasn't wearing gloves."

"You—" Lin Wanwan was so angry she couldn't speak, "Are you stupid?"

Yang Chenglong leaned against the headboard, listening to her voice, and suddenly felt that his anger had subsided considerably.

“Wanwan,” he said, “I miss you.”

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.

"Don't change the subject."

"I didn't move. I really want to."

Lin Wanwan's voice softened. "When are you coming back?"

"Christmas break. One month left."

"A month is too long."

"Then I'll fly back to see you."

"No. You focus on your class. I'll keep an eye on 'Pegasus,' everything's fine."

The two chatted for a while longer. After hanging up, Yang Chenglong placed his phone next to his pillow and stared at the ceiling.

The London night wind howled outside the window, but his heart was no longer cold.

The next day, Yang Chenglong went to "Iron Anchor" again. He bought bandages, wrapped them around his hands, and put on boxing gloves. Old Mai was already waiting for him.

"I won't let you hit the punching bag today. Learn the basics with me." Old Mike stood in front of him. "Stance, center of gravity, footwork. Boxing isn't about brute force, it's about the whole body."

Yang Chenglong spent an hour learning from Lao Mai. Throwing punches, retracting punches, moving, defending. It was tedious, but he learned very diligently.

“You learn things very quickly,” Old Mike said, “but your problem isn’t technical.”

"what is that?"

“Temperament.” Old Mike lit a cigarette. “When you throw a punch, your eyes are full of fire. If the fire is too big, you can’t see your opponent’s weaknesses.”

Yang Chenglong remained silent. "I've seen many young people like you," Old Mai exhaled a puff of smoke.

"They're strong and have a bad temper; they can punch someone to death. But the real fighters are those who have fire in their hearts but not in their eyes. The fire burns in their hearts, but their eyes are cold."

Yang Chenglong remained silent for a long time.

"Old Mike, did you fight in a war when you were in the army?"

Old Mike glanced at him. "I've fought. Northern Ireland, Iraq, Afghanistan. I've fought wars my whole life, and in the end, I found that the hardest enemy to fight isn't the enemy, but my own temper."

He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up.

"We'll continue tomorrow."

Yang Chenglong nodded.

From that day on, Yang Chenglong went to "Iron Anchor" every afternoon to learn boxing, hit the punching bag, and occasionally spar with Old Mai.

The calluses on his hands are getting thicker and thicker, and his punches are getting faster and faster, but Old Mai says he's still "hot."

That fire was brought back from Almaty.

At the end of November, London experienced freezing rain.

Yang Chenglong's phone rang as he left the boxing gym. It was an unfamiliar number, a local British number.

"Yang Chenglong?" The voice on the other end of the phone had a heavy accent; it wasn't English, but Russian-accented English.

"Who?"

“Bakhtiar,” the other person smiled. “I’m in London. Want to meet sometime?”

Yang Chenglong gripped his phone, his knuckles turning white.

"Where are you?"

"Covent Gardens, a bar. I'll send you the address. Come alone. If your friend surnamed Ye comes along, I won't be so polite."

The call ended. Yang Chenglong stood at the entrance of the boxing gym, the freezing rain stinging his face. He clutched his phone for a full half minute before hailing a taxi.

After getting on the train, he sent Ye Guigen a message: "Bakhtiar is in London. I'm going to see him. Don't come."

After sending the message, he turned off his phone.

The taxi stopped in Covent Garden. Yang Chenglong found the bar according to the address; it was in the basement, dimly lit and filled with smoke.

Bakhtiar sat on a sofa in the corner, with only one person beside him—not a bodyguard, but a middle-aged man in a gray suit.

"You've arrived?" Bakhtiar stood up, opening his arms as if welcoming an old friend. "Sit down. What would you like to drink?"

Yang Chenglong neither sat down nor drank.

What do you want with me?

Bakhtiar lowered his hand, and the smile on his face slowly faded.

"My grandfather sent me." He took a piece of paper from his pocket and placed it on the table:
"This is the oil field's equity transfer agreement. My grandfather wants 10% of the shares. Not 15%, but 10%. This is my final concession."

Yang Chenglong glanced at the paper but didn't touch it.

“I’ve already said, I can’t make this decision. Go find my grandfather.”

“Your grandfather?” Bakhtiar laughed. “Your grandfather is hiding in the military reclamation city and won’t see anyone. I’ve been looking for him for three months, and he won’t even answer the phone.”

"That means he doesn't want to talk to you."

Bakhtiar's expression changed. The middle-aged man in the gray suit stood up and blocked his way.

"Mr. Yang," the middle-aged man said in standard Mandarin:
“I am the legal advisor to the Akkore family. If we cannot reach an agreement, we will take legal action. In Kazakhstan, in London, and in the international arbitration tribunal. Your Yang family's oil field is not without its flaws in terms of procedures.”

Yang Chenglong stared at the middle-aged man, then looked at Bakhtiar.

Are you threatening me?

“It’s not a threat,” the middle-aged man said, “it’s a reminder.”

Yang Chenglong clenched his fists. Old Mai's words echoed in his mind—"The fire burns in your heart, but your eyes are cold."

But the fire had already reached his eyes.

“Bakhtiar,” he said in a low voice, as if squeezed from his throat.

“Last time in Almaty you told me to be careful in Kazakhstan. Now that you’re in London, I’ll tell you the same thing—be careful in London too.”

Bakhtiar took a step back. The middle-aged man was about to say something when Yang Chenglong turned and left.

Stepping out of the bar, the freezing rain was still falling. Yang Chenglong stood on the street, panting heavily. His fists were clenched so tightly they cracked, but he didn't turn around.

He took a taxi back to his dorm. On the way, he checked his phone and saw more than a dozen messages, all from Ye Guigen.

"Where are you?"

"Call me back!"

"Yang Chenglong, don't be impulsive!"

"I've found Bakhtiar's location, don't go alone!"

The last message read: "I'm downstairs at your dorm. Call me when you get there."

When Yang Chenglong arrived at the dormitory building, he saw Ye Guigen standing at the door, without an umbrella, his hair plastered to his forehead by the freezing rain.

"Are you stupid? Why don't you go inside and wait?" Yang Chenglong walked over.

Ye Guigen ignored his complaints and looked him up and down.

"You saw him?"

"I saw him."

"They've made their move?"

"No."

Ye Guigen breathed a sigh of relief, then punched Yang Chenglong on the shoulder.

You scared me to death!

Yang Chenglong was knocked back a step by the punch and rubbed his shoulder.

“I didn’t lay a hand on him. But I told him that this is London and to be careful.”

Ye Guigen looked at him and remained silent for a while.

"What you're saying is practically the same as taking action."

"I know."

The two went upstairs. Hans wasn't there, and the dormitory was quiet. Yang Chenglong changed into dry clothes, and Ye Guigen dried his hair with his towel.

“Jackie Chan,” Ye Guigen said, “the matter of Bakhtiar cannot be delayed any longer. He didn’t come to London casually this time. He has powerful backers.”

"Who?"

"It's not clear yet. But my dad is investigating." Ye Guigen sat down.

"Your grandfather's oil field has been the object of envy for years. The Akkolie family is just what's on the surface. There may be even greater forces behind it."

Yang Chenglong leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

"Ultimately, tell me, shouldn't I have avoided going to Almaty?"

Why do you ask that?

"If I hadn't gone, I wouldn't have gotten into all this trouble."

Ye Guigen shook his head.

"You'll have to go there sooner or later. Your grandfather will hand over those oil fields to you eventually. It's better to know about these troubles sooner rather than later."

Yang Chenglong remained silent.

“Moreover,” Ye Guigen stood up, “you are not alone. Bakhtiar has his power, and you have yours. The Ye family is not to be trifled with in London.”

Yang Chenglong looked at him. "Are you going to use the family's power again?"

"It's not about using them. It's about letting them know that if you touch Yang Chenglong, you're touching Ye Guigen. And if you touch Ye Guigen, you're touching the Ye family."

Ye Guigen spoke calmly, but there was an undeniable authority in his tone.

Yang Chenglong lowered his head and remained silent for a long time.

"Thank you for returning to my roots."

"No need to thank me. Just treat me to a meal."

"Okay. Hand-grabbed rice."

"Large portion."

"Large portion."

The two left the dormitory and headed towards the XJ restaurant. The freezing rain had stopped, but the wind was still cold, yet the two of them walked together, their bodies radiating warmth.

“Going back to the source,” Yang Chenglong said as he walked, “do you think I was too impulsive?”

"Yes."

"Then how should I change it?"

Ye Guigen thought for a moment. "No need to change it."

"why?"

"Because you are Yang Chenglong. Impulsiveness is your flaw, but it's also your strength. Your grandfather was impulsive too, but he was impulsive his whole life and he developed the oil field. You are impulsive, but you have a sense of control. You know when to stop."

Yang Chenglong glanced at him. "When did you become so eloquent?"

“I learned it from you. You speak so directly, so I learned to be direct too.”

The two people walked into the restaurant and sat down.

"Boss, two bowls of hand-grabbed rice. Large portions."

"Alright! Have a seat!"

Yang Chenglong took out his phone and sent a message to Lin Wanwan: "Wanwan, someone caused trouble today, but I didn't do anything."

The reply came quickly: "Really? The sun rose in the west?"

"Because my brother pulled me back."

The other person sent a smiling emoji. "Then you should thank him properly."

"Please. Hand-grabbed rice."

"Large portion?"

"Large portion."

Outside the window, the London night wind was still blowing. But inside the restaurant, it was warm, the lights were bright, and the aroma of hand-grabbed rice filled the entire room.

Yang Chenglong ate his meal heartily, the fire in his heart still burning, but no longer surging outwards. It retreated into his bones, transforming into a kind of heat—not the heat of wanting to fight, but the heat of wanting to get things done.

He's made up his mind.

Tianma wants to grow bigger. He's not in a hurry about the oil field, but he wants to learn. He needs to learn how to deal with people, how to win at the negotiating table, and how to make people like Bakhtiar never dare to cause trouble again.

(To be continued) (End of this chapter)