Great Power Reclamation

Wang Jiaming arranged to meet at Mayfair, a Georgian-style townhouse with no sign at the entrance, only a brass wall lamp and a house number.

Yang Chenglong arrived at 2:58 PM, two minutes early.

He stood at the door, took a deep breath, and pressed the doorbell.

Ye Guigen sat in a black sedan across the street. He had his sunglasses on and his hoodie pulled up, making him look like an unlicensed taxi driver waiting for fares.

But his hand was in his pocket, holding his phone, on which was a dial pad with the number already dialed—999.

The door opened. A white male valet in a black suit, expressionless, gestured for him to come in.

"Mr. Yang? This way, please."

Yang Chenglong followed him through a corridor lined with oil paintings depicting scenes of European courts, with noblewomen in puffy skirts and aristocrats wearing wigs, the colors so vibrant they were almost blinding.

At the end of the corridor was a white door. The servant knocked, and a voice came from inside:
"Come in."

The door opened to reveal a spacious living room, where the fireplace burned brightly, warming the entire room.

A mahogany desk stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, and behind it sat a young man—Wang Jiaming.

He was much thinner than Yang Chenglong remembered. The Wang Jiaming he met at the banquet last year was a fit and sharp-eyed businessman.

The person sitting behind the desk now has sunken cheeks, deep-set eyes, and unnaturally pale skin, as if he hasn't been in the sun for a year.

But he was dressed very well—a dark blue cashmere suit with a white shirt underneath and a pair of gold cufflinks at the collar.

“Yang Chenglong,” Wang Jiaming said without standing up, but simply raised his chin, “Sit down.”

Yang Chenglong didn't sit down. He stood in front of the desk, hands in his pockets, looking down at Wang Jiaming.

What do you want from me?

Wang Jiaming smiled. The smile on his thin face was like a piece of paper that had been folded, revealing several deep lines.

"Don't be nervous. We're just chatting."

He picked up a cigarette case from the table, took out a cigarette, and lit it. The smoke curled upwards, swirling around his pale face.
What happened to your lip? Did you get into a fight?

Yang Chenglong did not answer.

“Young man, you have a short temper.” Wang Jiaming flicked his cigarette ash into a crystal ashtray.

"When I was your age, I also loved to fight. But later I couldn't fight anymore. My body couldn't take it anymore."

He coughed twice, his voice hollow, as if it came from a dry well.

Seeing him cough, Yang Chenglong's anger suddenly subsided.

It wasn't because he was afraid, but because he discovered something—Wang Jiaming was really sick.

It wasn't an act. That paleness, that hollowing of the skin, that coughing sound—you can't fake that.

"What do you want from me?" Yang Chenglong asked again.

Wang Jiaming stopped coughing, wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, and looked up.

"You know Liu Zixuan, right?"

Yang Chenglong's heart skipped a beat, but his face remained expressionless. "I know him."

"You have a grudge against him?"

"It's not really a holiday. We just don't get along very well."

Wang Jiaming laughed. "Not getting along? You shut him down twice in London. The first time was at a party, where you embarrassed him."

"The second time was at the bar, your friend surnamed Ye publicly humiliated him like a grandson. Is that what you call 'not getting along'?"

Yang Chenglong remained silent.

"Liu Zixuan is a petty person."

Wang Jiaming stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. "You've offended him, and he won't let it go. He came to me wanting my help, but I'm not going to help him."

Yang Chenglong looked at him. "Why?"

"Because it's not worth it."

Wang Jiaming leaned back in his chair. "Liu Zixuan is a spoiled brat; he'll never amount to anything. Helping him would be a waste of my time."

“I’m here to make things clear to you—I’m not with Liu Zixuan. What he did with Bakhtiar has nothing to do with me.”

The living room was silent for a few seconds. The fire in the fireplace crackled.

"So who are you on board with?" Yang Chenglong asked.

Wang Jiaming looked at him, his eyes holding something indescribable.

"I'm not part of anyone's group."

He said, “I am a patient. I am recuperating here and do not want to get involved in anything. Go back and tell Ye Guigen that Wang Jiaming should not provoke him, and that he should also not provoke Wang Jiaming.”

Yang Chenglong stared at him for a few seconds, trying to find a trace of lying in his eyes. But those eyes were too deep, as deep as a well, and he couldn't see anything in them.

"Okay." Yang Chenglong turned to leave.

"Wait a minute," Wang Jiaming called out to him.

Yang Chenglong turned around.

"Was the injury on your lip inflicted by Bakhtiar's men?" Wang Jiaming asked.

"Yes."

“He’ll come looking for you again,” Wang Jiaming said. “This guy won’t learn until he hits a brick wall. Be careful.”

Yang Chenglong looked at him and remained silent for two seconds.

Why are you telling me all this?

Wang Jiaming smiled. There was a bitter taste in that smile.

"Because I owe Ye Guigen a favor."

Yang Chenglong was taken aback. "What favor?"

"Ask him. He knows."

Wang Jiaming waved his hand, as if shooing away a fly. "Let's go. We've said everything we needed to say."

Yang Chenglong stepped out of the villa, the sunlight making him squint. He stood at the door, took a deep breath, then quickly crossed the street, opened the door of the black sedan, and got in.

Ye Guigen took off his sunglasses and looked at him. "How is it?"

Yang Chenglong repeated Wang Jiaming's words verbatim.

He emphasized the last sentence, "I owe Ye Guigen a favor."

After listening, Ye Guigen leaned back in his chair and remained silent for a long time.

"Wang Jiaming owes me a favor?" He finally spoke, his voice carrying a confusion Yang Chenglong had never heard before. "How come I didn't know?"

"You really don't know?"

"I really don't know." Ye Guigen frowned.

“I’ve only met him a few times. The last time was last year at a dinner party, when he stood up for his cousin Li Ming and said a bunch of meaningless things. I haven’t been in contact with him since then.”

"Then why did he say he owed you a favor?"

Ye Guigen thought for a long time and then shook his head. "I don't know. But since he said that, it at least proves one thing—he's not on Liu Zixuan's side."

How do you know he's not lying?

"Because he doesn't need to."

Ye Guigen said, "If he were really in cahoots with Liu Zixuan, he wouldn't have asked to meet you today. He asked to meet you to distance himself from you. As for whether what he said is true, we'll find out by checking."

Ye Guigen took out his phone and sent a message to Scarface:
"Check Wang Jiaming's medical records for the past year. Which hospital in London did he see, what was his illness, and who was his attending physician?"

After sending it, he looked at Yang Chenglong.

"And you? How are you feeling?"

Yang Chenglong touched the gauze at the corner of his mouth. "I feel like he's about to die."

"Is he dying?"

"His face was frighteningly pale, he had lost a lot of weight, and he was having trouble breathing when he spoke. It didn't seem like he was faking it."

Ye Guigen remained silent for a while.

“If he is really dying, then what he says will be more credible.”

Ye Guigen said, "A person who is about to die has no need to lie."

The car started and drove towards the dormitory. Yang Chenglong leaned against the car window, watching the streets outside change from Mayfair's mansions to bars in SoHo, and then from bars to bookstores and cafes in the university district.

“Given the facts,” he suddenly said, “what did Wang Jiaming mean when he said, ‘He will come looking for you again’?”

Ye Guigen thought for a moment. "What I mean is, Bakhtiar won't let this go. He has Liu Zixuan backing him, money, and manpower. If he loses this time, he'll come back next time. If he doesn't come back next time, he'll come back the time after that."

"So we just keep waiting?"

“No need to wait,” Ye Guigen said. “Let’s go find him.”

"Find him? Where should we look?"

"It's not about going to him in person. It's about finding his weakness."

Ye Guigen turned to look at Yang Chenglong. "Bakhtiar has been in London for almost a month. He came to London not just to cause you trouble. He has something to do in London."

"What's going on?" "I don't know yet. But Scarface is investigating."

The car stopped downstairs in front of the dormitory building. Yang Chenglong got out of the car and was about to walk into the building when he suddenly stopped.

“Ultimately,” he said, “you said Wang Jiaming owes you a favor. Could it be related to your father?”

Ye Guigen was taken aback. "My dad?"

"Didn't your dad help a lot of people? Maybe he helped Wang Jiaming somewhere."

Ye Guigen thought for a moment, then shook his head. "My dad has helped too many people. He can't even remember them all. But Wang Jiaming is the son of the Wang Group, what does he need my dad's help with?"

"I don't know," Yang Chenglong said, "but you can ask your dad."

Ye Guigen took out his phone and glanced at the time. It was morning in New York; Ye Feng should have just gotten up.

He made a phone call.

It rang three times, then I answered.

"Dad, I have something to ask you."

"explain."

"Wang Jiaming said he owes me a favor. Do you know what that means?"

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

"I know." Ye Feng's voice was completely flat.

"Last year, Wang Jiaming was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in London. It was in the early stages, but he needed immediate surgery. The waiting list for the British medical system was too long, and he couldn't wait."

“I helped him contact a specialist in the United States, and the surgery was performed at MD Anderson. The surgery was very successful. He felt he owed me a favor.”

Ye Guigen held his phone, stunned for two seconds.

"He has pancreatic cancer?"

"In the early stages, he recovered well after the surgical removal. However, he needed long-term rest, so he took a break from school."

Ye Feng paused for a moment, then said, "He doesn't want anyone else to know about this. You know it, but don't tell anyone else."

"understood."

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

“Wang Jiaming has pancreatic cancer. My dad helped him contact doctors in the United States.”

Yang Chenglong opened his mouth, but couldn't say anything for a long time.

“So,” he finally said, “it’s true that he owes you a favor.”

"it is true."

"Then what he said today—that he wasn't on Liu Zixuan's side—might also be true?"

Ye Guigen nodded. "It might be true. But it's not necessarily true. A person who is about to die doesn't necessarily tell the truth. Sometimes, it's precisely because they are about to die that they are more likely to lie. Because they have nothing left to lose."

Looking at Ye Guigen, Yang Chenglong suddenly felt that this man was sometimes frighteningly calm.

“Ultimately, you are,” he said, “overthinking.”

"Think more, live longer." Ye Guigen pushed open the car door and got out.

The two walked into the dormitory building. In the elevator, Yang Chenglong looked at his face reflected in the elevator mirror—

The gauze at the corner of his mouth, the bruise on his left cheek, and his hair as messy as a bird's nest.

“After all,” he said, “don’t you think I was too impulsive?”

"Yes."

"Then what do you suggest I do?"

Ye Guigen thought for a moment. "Impulsiveness is your flaw, but it's also your weapon. The key is not to use it in the wrong place. Charge when you should, and when you shouldn't, let your brain precede your fist."

The elevator arrived. The doors opened, and two people stepped out.

Yang Chenglong took out his keys and opened the door. The moment the door opened, he froze.

Hans stood in the middle of the living room, holding a rolling pin in his hand, with an overturned vase at his feet.

Opposite him stood a burly man in a black suit—the very bodyguard who had run away last night.

The two men stood facing each other, neither daring to make the first move.

"What's going on?" Yang Chenglong stepped in and blocked Hans's way.

The bodyguard's expression changed when he saw Yang Chenglong. He took a step back, reached into his pocket, pulled out an envelope, and threw it on the ground.

“Bakhtiar sent me to deliver it.”

Then he turned around, pushed open the window, and jumped out.

This is the first floor. He landed in the flower bed outside the window, rolled around once, got up, and ran away.

Yang Chenglong didn't chase after him. He squatted down, picked up the envelope, and opened it.

There was a photograph inside.

In the photo, Lin Wanwan is standing at the entrance of the "Tianma" exhibition hall in Hangzhou, holding a cup of milk tea and talking to someone. The sun is shining brightly, and she is smiling happily.

The back of the photo reads: "Hangzhou. West Lake District. Creative Industry Park. Yang Chenglong, watch out."

Yang Chenglong held the photograph, his fingers trembling. Not from fear, but from anger. The kind of trembling that comes from extreme anger.

He handed the photo to Ye Guigen.

Ye Guigen glanced at it, and his face darkened.

"If he can't touch you, he'll go after Lin Wanwan." Ye Guigen's voice was cold. "This man has no bottom line."

Yang Chenglong turned around, walked to the table, opened the drawer, and took out a utility knife.

He pushed the blade out, then pulled it back in, pushed it out, then pulled it back in. Click, click, click.

“Jackie Chan,” Ye Guigen walked up to him, “Don’t be impulsive.”

“I wasn’t impulsive.” Yang Chenglong’s voice was surprisingly calm. “I’m very composed.”

He put down the utility knife, took out his phone, and dialed Lin Wanwan's number.

"Wanwan, listen to me. Don't go out alone these next few days. Don't go to the exhibition hall. Go straight home after get off work. If anyone follows you, call the police immediately."

Lin Wanwan was silent for five seconds on the other end of the phone.

"Yang Chenglong, what happened?"

"Someone is trying to use you to threaten me. But don't be afraid. I've already arranged for someone to arrive in Hangzhou tomorrow."

"Someone was arranged? Who?"

“My grandfather’s men. They came from Junken City.”

Lin Wanwan remained silent for a few more seconds.

"Yang Chenglong, promise me one thing."

"what?"

"Don't do anything foolish."

Yang Chenglong held his phone but did not answer.

"Did you hear me?" Lin Wanwan raised her voice. "Don't do anything foolish!"

"I heard you," Yang Chenglong said. "I won't do anything foolish."

After hanging up the phone, he sat on the bed, head down, hands on his knees, shoulders swaying slightly.

Ye Guigen stood in front of him, looking at him, and felt an indescribable sadness in his heart.

Jackie Chan.

"Ah."

"I'll handle this."

Yang Chenglong raised his head and looked at Ye Guigen.

"How did you handle it?"

Ye Guigen took the photo out of his pocket and looked at Lin Wanwan, who was smiling happily in the photo.

“Bakhtiar wants to play. We’ll play with him. But what to play, how to play, and when to play—we can’t let him decide. We have to decide.”

Yang Chenglong stood up. Standing at over 1.8 meters tall, he looked like a tower in front of Ye Guigen.

"Ultimately, tell me, when should we fight?"

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

"almost."

Outside the window, the sky over London was overcast again. The dark clouds hung low, pressing down on the rooftops, on the treetops, and on the hearts of the two people.

The wind started to blow.

A storm is coming.

(To be continued) (End of this chapter)