Great Power Reclamation

The wound cleaning room in the emergency room is small, with a bed, a shadowless lamp, and a stainless steel tray containing iodine, cotton balls, forceps, and suture needles.

Yang Chenglong sat on the edge of the bed as the doctor used iodine to clean the wound on the corner of his mouth, causing him to gasp in pain.

"Don't move."

The doctor was an Indian woman in her forties, and she worked very skillfully. "Your wound needs two stitches."

"Sew it up," Yang Chenglong gritted his teeth. "No need for anesthesia."

The doctor glanced at him. "No anesthesia? Have you thought this through?"

"I've thought it through."

Ye Guigen leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Don't be a hero. Getting stitches without anesthesia hurts more than getting hit with a stick."

Yang Chenglong glared at him. "You've sewed before?"

No. But I have seen it.

"Meeting doesn't count."

The doctor prepared the needle and thread, threaded it, and looked at Yang Chenglong. "I'll begin."

As the first needle went in, Yang Chenglong's fingers clenched the bedsheet tightly, his knuckles turning white.

But he didn't say a word, or even close his eyes. He just stared straight at the operating light, which was so bright that it made his eyes sting.

After the second injection, beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and trickled down his temples.

"All done." The doctor cut the stitches and applied a gauze pad. "Two stitches. Come back tomorrow for a dressing change. The stitches will be removed in a week."

Yang Chenglong loosened the bed sheet; his palms were sweaty. He took a deep breath, got off the bed, his legs felt a little weak, but he still maintained the "I'm fine" expression on his face.

Ye Guigen walked over and handed him a tissue. "Wipe your sweat. Your face is as white as paper."

"I'm naturally fair-skinned."

"You're talking nonsense. You grew up in the Gobi Desert, you're as black as charcoal."

Yang Chenglong was too tired to argue with him, so he took the tissue and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and saw it was a video call from Lin Wanwan. He hesitated for a moment, then didn't answer, replying with a text message:
"I'm busy, I'll call later."

Lin Wanwan replied with a question mark, followed by, "Your voice sounds off. What's wrong?"

Yang Chenglong put his phone back in his pocket and didn't reply.

Ye Guigen saw it, but said nothing. The two of them walked out of the wound cleaning room and found a plastic chair to sit on in the corridor of the emergency room.

People came and went in the corridor: young parents holding children, middle-aged children helping the elderly, and emergency patients lying on trolleys being pushed around by nurses.

Noisy and chaotic, yet there is an indescribable truth to it.

“Ultimately,” Yang Chenglong leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, “you said there’s someone behind Bakhtiar. Who is it?”

Ye Guigen was silent for a few seconds. "My dad didn't say it explicitly. But he mentioned a name."

"What's your name?"

"Liu Zixuan".

Yang Chenglong sat bolt upright. "Liu Zixuan? The one from Singapore?"

"Yes. Liu Zixuan of the Liu Group."

"Isn't he involved in palm oil in Southeast Asia? What does he have to do with the oil fields in Central Asia?"

Ye Guigen shook his head. "It's not a direct relationship. My dad said that Liu Zixuan's father, Boss Liu, has been getting very close to the Akkolie family lately."

"The Liu Group has investments in Central Asia, and with its palm oil business growing, it needs to find new growth points. Oil is a ready-made option."

Yang Chenglong clenched his fists. "So the Liu family is backing you up?"

"Not necessarily. It's possible that Mr. Liu wants to use the Akko-Krei family to get involved in the Central Asian oil market."

"It's also possible that Liu Zixuan is trying to cause trouble... He held a grudge after you confronted him in London last time."

"That coward, does he even have the guts?"

“A person with guts doesn’t necessarily do it himself,” Ye Guigen said. “He can get someone else to do it. Bakhtiar is short of money, Liu Zixuan is rich. One provides the money, the other provides the labor.”

Yang Chenglong stood up, took a few steps in the corridor, and then sat down again. His mind was racing, but racing didn't mean he was thinking clearly.

That's the kind of person he is—when things happen, he gets angry first, and then he thinks of a solution.

"So what do we do now?" he asked.

Ye Guigen took out a piece of paper from his pocket, on which an address was written.

"Go to this place tomorrow morning."

"Where?"

“An old friend of my grandfather’s. He lived in London for thirty years and knew everything about Central Asia. He probably knows something we don’t.”

Yang Chenglong took the note and glanced at it. The address was in Chelsea, on a quiet street, with a two-digit house number.

"Who is this person?"

"You'll see when you get there." Ye Guigen stood up. "Let's go back. We have things to do tomorrow."

The two walked out of the hospital. It was one in the morning in London, the streets were deserted, and the streetlights cast long shadows of the two men. Yang Chenglong hailed a taxi and gave them his dormitory address.

In the car, Yang Chenglong leaned against the window, looking at the night view outside. The neon lights were dwindling, and the streets were becoming quieter. His phone vibrated again; it was Lin Wanwan again.

"What's wrong with you? Why won't you answer the video call?"

Yang Chenglong looked at the line of text and felt a pang in his heart. He typed a line:

"Wanwan, I'm fine. I just got into a fight today and had to get two stitches in my lip. I didn't want you to see it, I was afraid you'd worry."

After the message was sent, the other side remained silent for a long time.

Then came a voice message. He clicked to listen; Lin Wanwan's voice was very soft, with a sob in it:

"Yang Chenglong, you bastard. You got hurt and didn't tell me. Do you think I wouldn't worry if I didn't know? The less you tell me, the more worried I get, don't you understand?"

After listening, Yang Chenglong pressed the phone to his forehead, closed his eyes, and remained silent for a long time.

Then he sent a voice message: "Wanwan, I'm sorry. It won't happen again next time."

"There will be a next time?"

"That's all. I promise."

There was a moment of silence on the other end, then a message appeared: "Does your wound hurt?"

"It doesn't hurt."

"You're lying. How could it not hurt if you don't get stitches without anesthesia?"

Yang Chenglong was taken aback. "How did you know I didn't have anesthesia when I got stitches?"

"Because you are Yang Chenglong. You're the kind of person who's so concerned with saving face that you'd rather suffer than admit it."

Yang Chenglong looked at the line of text and suddenly laughed.

When he laughed, he pulled at the wound on the corner of his mouth, making him hiss in pain, but his heart was warm.

He typed: "Wanwan, I'll come back to see you after I'm done with things here."

"how long?"

"soon."

"How long is 'soon'?"

"One month."

"A month is too long."

"That half month."

"Ten days."

"Okay. Ten days."

Ye Guigen, who was standing nearby, heard this and shook his head.

"You two are haggling over prices across 8,000 kilometers, like you're in a vegetable market."

Yang Chenglong glared at him. "Shut up."

The next morning at 10:00 AM, Chelsea.

The street was quiet, with two rows of Victorian townhouses, red brick walls, white window frames, and neatly trimmed holly bushes in front of them.

Yang Chenglong rang the doorbell and waited for about ten seconds before the door opened.

The person who opened the door was a Chinese man in his sixties, wearing a gray cashmere sweater. His hair was gray but neatly combed, and his face had few wrinkles, but they were deep, like they were carved with a knife.

"Are you Yang Geyong's grandson?" the old man asked, sizing him up.

"Yes. My name is Yang Chenglong."

"Come in. Where's your friend surnamed Ye?"

"He has something to do and will be late," Yang Chenglong lied.

Actually, Ye Guigen was sitting in the coffee shop across the street. This was something they had agreed upon last night—

Ye Guigen remained hidden, observing from the shadows. If this was a trap, at least one person would still be outside.

The old man smiled, as if he saw through his lie, but did not call him out on it.

"Come in. Tea or coffee?"

"Tea. Thank you."

The living room was large, but simply furnished. There was a leather sofa, a solid wood coffee table, and a bookshelf on one wall, filled with books and some antique items whose age was hard to discern.

There was a tea set on the coffee table, made of blue and white porcelain, which looked very expensive.

The old man brewed a pot of Longjing tea and poured two cups. The tea was clear and fragrant.

"My name is Lao Song." The old man picked up his teacup. "Your grandfather calls me Brother Song. You can just call me Grandpa Song."

"Grandpa Song." Yang Chenglong picked up his teacup and took a sip. The tea was very hot, but he didn't show it.

"How is your grandfather's health lately?" Old Song asked.

"It's alright. It's just that my blood pressure is a bit high."

"With his temper, it's no wonder he has high blood pressure."

Old Song laughed, "Back when we were building roads in the Gobi Desert, he got into an argument with someone. They argued until they were red in the face and their necks were thick. The other person threw a punch at him, but he didn't dodge. He took the punch head-on and then threw one back. The two of them were covered in blood. After the fight, they drank together."

As Yang Chenglong listened, the corners of his mouth unconsciously curled up slightly. That was his grandfather.

"Grandpa Song, when did you and my grandfather meet?"

"In the 1970s, he was in border trade, and I was doing surveying in the Xinjiang Production and Construction Corps. Later, he went into business, and I went abroad."

"We've kept in touch for decades." Old Song put down his teacup and looked at Yang Chenglong. "You came to see me because of Akokere?"

Yang Chenglong nodded.

“Bakhtiar came to London. Last night, he sent someone to beat me up.” Yang Chenglong pointed to the gauze on the corner of his mouth. “I needed two stitches.”

Old Song's gaze lingered on the gauze for two seconds before returning to Yang Chenglong's face.

"You won?"

"We won."

Old Song nodded. "Alright. You didn't embarrass your grandfather."

He stood up from the sofa, walked to the bookshelf, pulled out a thick folder from the third shelf, and opened it.

Inside wasn't a book, but a stack of documents, some printed, some handwritten, some in English, and some in Russian.

"The Akkore family is not a major power in Central Asia."

Old Song flipped through the documents, "Their real troublemakers aren't themselves, but the people behind them."

“Bakhtiar’s grandfather, Akkore, is a cunning old fox. He knows he can’t beat the Yang family, so he hasn’t dared to make a move. But recently, someone has been backing him up.”

"Who?"

Old Song pulled out a photograph and placed it on the coffee table. The photograph showed two people shaking hands—one was the face Yang Chenglong had seen in Almaty, Akkore, and the other was a Chinese man in his fifties, wearing glasses and a dark suit.

Do you know this person?

Yang Chenglong stared at the photo for a few seconds. "I don't recognize him."

"His surname is Liu. He's the boss of the Liu Group. He's the palm oil king of Southeast Asia."

Yang Chenglong's heart sank. Ye Guigen was right; the Liu family was indeed behind them.

"I don't know what Mr. Liu and Akkore talked about."

Old Song took the photos back. "But I found something. Last month, Mr. Liu's son, Liu Zixuan, registered a company in London." "The company's business scope includes oil and gas trading. The registered address is in the City of London, in an office building."

"Liu Zixuan?" Yang Chenglong clenched his fist again. "That coward, starting a company?"

“It’s not run by him alone. There’s a Kazakh company among the shareholders, and the legal representative is Bakhtiar.”

Yang Chenglong stood up and took a few steps around the living room. His mind was burning like a fire, making him restless.

“So,” he paused, looking at Old Song, “the Liu family provided the funding, and the Akkolie family stepped in to develop my grandfather’s oil field?”

“Not only that.” Old Song turned to another page of the document. “Your grandfather’s oil field is not the only target. The Liu Group has recently been making moves in Kazakhstan, looking to acquire several new blocks.”

“The Akkolie family has connections in the area and can help them smooth things over. In exchange, the Liu family will help the Akkolie family take back the shares from your Yang family.”

"Rob them?" Yang Chenglong's voice rose. "Those are our shares! What right do they have to rob us?"

Old Song looked at him with a calmness unique to the elderly.

"Jackie Chan, in this world, nothing is 'by what right'. It's only 'can or cannot'."

“They thought they could rob it, so they came and robbed it. When your grandfather was developing the oil field, he never asked anyone ‘why he should’.”

Yang Chenglong opened his mouth, but couldn't say a word.

Old Song closed the folder and put it back on the bookshelf.

"Your grandfather chose you as his successor not because you are smart, but because you are tough."

"But being tough isn't enough. You also need to know when to be tough and when to be soft. When to strike and when to wait."

He took a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Yang Chenglong.

"This is my phone number. Call me anytime if you need anything."

Yang Chenglong took the business card and glanced at it. It only had a name and a phone number; there was no title or company information.

"Grandpa Song, what exactly do you do?"

Old Song smiled.

"Me? I'm just a retired old man. I occasionally help old friends with finding directions."

Yang Chenglong knew he was being evasive, but he didn't press the matter. He put the business card away and stood up.

"Grandpa Song, thank you."

"You're welcome. Go back and tell your grandfather to drink less. His blood pressure is so high, any more and he'll be in serious trouble."

Yang Chenglong nodded and turned to leave.

"Jackie Chan," Old Song called out to him.

Yang Chenglong turned around.

"You let the guy who hit you last night go?"

"Ran."

"He ran away?" Old Song frowned. "He didn't run away. He's at St. Thomas Hospital."

Yang Chenglong was stunned. "St. Thomas? Isn't that—"

"It's not for a medical appointment. It's to see someone." Old Song walked to the window and looked at the street outside.
“Bakhtiar went to St. Thomas Hospital this morning and waited outside the ICU for half an hour. The person he saw was surnamed Wang.”

"Surname Wang? Who is that?"

"Wang Jiaming".

Yang Chenglong's mind went blank for a moment. Wang Jiaming—Li Ming's cousin, the son of the Wang Group. The man who had "persuaded" Ye Guigen to leave at the London dinner last year.

"Wang Jiaming is in London?"

“He’s always been here.” Old Song turned around. “He took a leave of absence from school last year, but not really. He was recuperating in London. Nobody knows what illness it is. But Bakhtiar’s visit to him says one thing.”

Yang Chenglong's heart was pounding. "What does that mean?"

"This means that the Liu family isn't the only ones playing chess. Wang Jiaming is also involved. Liu Zixuan, Wang Jiaming, and Bakhtiar—these three people somehow got mixed up together."

Yang Chenglong stood in the living room, his mind a complete mess. Liu Zixuan, Wang Jiaming, and Bakhtiar. Three people, three powerful factions, all working together to target the Ye and Yang families.

"Grandpa Song," his voice was a little tense, "does my grandfather know about this?"

“I know,” Old Song said. “He called me yesterday and told me to tell you—don’t panic.”

"Don't panic?"

“Yes. Don’t panic.” Old Song walked back to the sofa, sat down, and picked up his teacup. “Your grandfather said that those who panic make mistakes first. Let them move first, and then you can move. Strike where it hurts.”

Yang Chenglong took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled.

"Grandpa Song, I'll remember that."

He walked out of Old Song's house, the sunlight so bright that he squinted.

Across the street in the coffee shop, Ye Guigen was sitting by the window, a cup of coffee in front of him, and a book in his hand.

Seeing Yang Chenglong come out, he closed the book and walked out.

"How about it?"

Yang Chenglong relayed Lao Song's words to Ye Guigen, sentence by sentence.

Liu Zixuan registered a company, Bakhtiar went to see Wang Jiaming, and the three of them got together.

After listening, Ye Guigen remained silent for a long time.

“Wang Jiaming.” He finally spoke, his voice carrying an indescribable coldness, “He took a leave of absence from school last year, not to recuperate. He was plotting something.”

"What should we plan?"

"Set up a trap to include both the Ye and Yang families."

Ye Guigen stuffed the book into his bag. "My dad's right. Bakhtiar is just a pawn. The real players are Wang Jiaming and Liu Zixuan."

Yang Chenglong clenched his fist, and the wound on his knuckles reopened, with beads of blood seeping out, but he felt no pain.

So, what do we do now?

Ye Guigen looked at him, his eyes holding something Yang Chenglong rarely saw—not anger, not anxiety, but a calm, almost ruthless calculation.

“Let’s not alert them,” he said. “Wang Jiaming is in London, Liu Zixuan is in Singapore, and Bakhtiar is in Almaty. Three people, three places, three forces. We can’t fight all three at the same time.”

"Which one should we attack first?"

"Attack the weakest one first."

"Bakhtiar?"

Ye Guigen shook his head.

"No. Hit Wang Jiaming first."

Yang Chenglong was taken aback. "Why? Isn't he recuperating? How can he fight?"

“His recovery is his own business,” Ye Guigen said, “but since he’s in London, we can’t let him be idle.”

Ye Guigen took out his phone and dialed a number.

“Uncle Scar, help me find out about someone. Wang Jiaming. Yes, the one who dropped out of school last year. His address in London, his itinerary, who he met, where he went, the more details the better.”

After hanging up the phone, he looked at Yang Chenglong.

"Jackie Chan, do you believe me?"

"letter."

"From now on, don't be impulsive. When it's time to hit, I'll let you hit. When it's not time to hit, you'll have to endure it."

Yang Chenglong gritted his teeth. "How long can I endure this?"

"Hold on until it's time to fight."

The two men stood on the streets of Chelsea for a long time. The sun shone on them, but the November sun in London had little warmth; it was just a brighter source of light.

Yang Chenglong's phone vibrated. It was Lin Wanwan.

"Has the dressing been changed for the wound?"

He glanced at it but didn't reply.

“Reply to her,” Ye Guigen said.

Yang Chenglong looked up at him.

“Don’t worry her,” Ye Guigen said. “The more silent you are, the more worried she will be.”

Yang Chenglong thought for a moment and replied: "It's been changed. The doctor said the recovery is going very well."

"Really?"

"real."

"Then take a picture and show it to me."

Yang Chenglong hesitated for a moment, then raised his phone and took a picture of his face.

The gauze at the corner of his mouth, the bruise on his left cheek, and the bloodshot eyes were all captured in the photo.

He looked at it for two seconds and thought it was too ugly, but he still gritted his teeth and sent it out.

There was a long silence on the other end.

Then came a voice message. He clicked to listen.

Lin Wanwan's voice was very soft, so soft that it was almost inaudible.

"Yang Chenglong, if anything happens to you, I will never forgive you for the rest of my life."

After listening, Yang Chenglong pressed the phone to his chest and closed his eyes.

“Reply to her,” Ye Guigen said.

Yang Chenglong opened his eyes and typed a message: "Wanwan, I'll be fine. I haven't married you yet."

After sending it, he felt it was too cheesy and wanted to take it back, but it was too late.

The other side sent an emoji, a slapping emoji.

Then came four words: "Who wants to marry you?"

Yang Chenglong looked at those four words and smiled. His lips hurt when he smiled, but he didn't care.

He put his phone away and looked at Ye Guigen.

"Let's go."

"Where?"

"Go back to the dorm. Heal my injuries. Endure until it's time to fight."

The two walked along the streets of Chelsea. Sunlight filtered through the clouds, shining on the red brick walls, the holly trees, and the two young men.

Yang Chenglong's phone vibrated again. He thought it was Lin Wanwan again, but when he took it out, he saw it was an unknown number.

He answered the call.

"Yang Chenglong?"

The voice on the other end of the phone was unfamiliar, but carried an uncomfortable kind of politeness:
"I'm Wang Jiaming. I heard you're in London. Do you have time to meet?"

Yang Chenglong stopped in his tracks, his hand holding the phone trembling slightly.

Ye Guigen saw his expression, leaned closer, and saw the caller ID on his phone.

He mouthed, "Hello. Ask him out."

Yang Chenglong took a deep breath.

"Okay. When?"

"I'll send you the address at 3 PM today."

"it is good."

After hanging up the phone, Yang Chenglong looked at Ye Guigen.

He asked to meet me.

"I know."

"Going alone?"

"No. I'll go with you."

"Didn't he only ask me out?"

Ye Guigen took out a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and put them on.

"He doesn't know me."

(To be continued) (End of this chapter)