Great Power Reclamation

The night in Junken City is pure black.

There was no dark red light pollution like in London, only a sky full of stars, densely packed across the heavens, like someone had spilled a bag of loose silver.

Ye Yuze sat in the study, a cigarette between his fingers. He didn't smoke it, just held it there, watching the ash grow longer and longer until it finally fell into the ashtray.

On the sofa opposite, Yang Geyong sat with his legs crossed, holding a bowl of milk tea in his hand. It had gone cold, but he didn't care and drank it sip by sip, making loud slurping noises.

"Old man, what are you laughing at?" Yang Geyong put down his bowl and glared at Ye Yuze.

Ye Yuze's lips were indeed curving upwards. He put the cigarette in his mouth, took a drag, and slowly exhaled. The smoke swirled in the lamplight, like a living thing.

"I'm laughing at you, are you really planning to let Jackie Chan take over?"

Yang Geyong frowned, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes gathered together, like a folding fan.

"You've been following me around your whole life, are you planning to let Jackie Chan surpass Ye Guigen?"

Yang Geyong's eyebrows twitched. Not in surprise, but in the way one feels when their secret has been exposed, yet they don't want to admit it.

"Hehe, everyone has to have some ideals, right? I think Jackie Chan is quite opinionated and has strong initiative."

Yang Geyong scratched his gray hair, looking somewhat unnatural.

"Are you sure?"

Ye Yuze stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. The sound wasn't loud, but every word was like a nail.

Yang Geyong opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Ye Yuze spoke for him, "Give it a try, and if you're going to try, go all out."

The study was quiet for a few seconds. The old clock on the wall ticked away, one tick at a time, as if counting the hours.

Yang Geyong picked up the bowl of cold milk tea and took another sip. After finishing it, he slammed the bowl down on the coffee table with a thud.

"Let's try it! Who's afraid of who? I'll give him all my assets right now!"

Ye Yuze didn't say anything, he just looked at him.

“And another thing,” Yang Geyong continued, “you know Jackie Chan’s temper. When he gets angry, nothing can stop him. The reason we arranged the marriage was to give him something to hold onto.”

Ye Yuze leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest twice.

"So you're trying to keep him tied down?"

"I did it to help him mature."

Yang Geyong's voice lowered, taking on a hoarse quality typical of the elderly:
“This kid is good in every way, except he’s too impulsive. If I don’t set a trap for him, he’ll suffer a great loss sooner or later.”

Ye Yuze remained silent for a long time. The stars outside the window were dazzlingly bright, like countless eyes watching them.

"Engagement is not marriage."

Yang Geyong picked up the bowl again, only to find that the milk tea was finished. He put the bowl down and said, "Who knows what will happen in the future?"

Ye Yuze sighed. It was a long sigh, as if he had been holding it in for a long time.

Yang Geyong lowered his head and looked at his hands. His hands were rough, cracked, and his knuckles were swollen, marks left by decades of wind and sand and hard labor.

"People need to experience things to grow..."

Ye Yuze did not respond.

Yang Geyong looked up at his old friend across from him. The two had known each other for nearly sixty years, from their dugouts in the Gobi Desert to their small apartments in the military reclamation city, and now—

One has oil fields, the other has factories all over the world. Sixty years have passed, and everything has changed, but one thing has remained the same—they never mince words when they speak.

"Ye Yuze, let me tell you the truth." Yang Geyong's voice was as hard as stone:

"I want my descendants to grow up quickly and stop depending on anyone. After all, will our two families still be the same after several generations?"

Ye Yuze was stunned.

He looked at Yang Geyong for a long time. Yang Geyong, the man who had carried his trapped comrades out of the Gobi Desert, the man who had endured five years of hardship in the desert to dig a well—this man who had been tough his whole life, actually thought this way.

“Old Yang,” Ye Yuze finally spoke, his voice somewhat hoarse, “I don’t believe what you’re saying.”

"Don't believe me then." Yang Geyong stood up, picked up the cigarette case on the table, took out a cigarette, and lit it. The smoke spread in front of him, blurring his expression.

“You say that,” Ye Yuze also stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to him.

"But that's not what you really think. Actually, you're afraid, afraid that your descendants won't live up to your potential?"

Yang Geyong stopped smoking.

"Alright," Yang Geyong interrupted him, his voice deep and heavy, like a stone thrown into deep water. "Stop talking nonsense."

He stubbed out his cigarette, walked to the door, and stopped.

"Ye Yuze, I don't care what you think. My engagement with Jackie Chan is settled. Will you help me with the engagement?"

Ye Yuze looked at him and remained silent for a long time.

“Help,” he said, “but on one condition—don’t hurt the girl. She’s innocent.”

Yang Geyong didn't say anything, opened the door, and went out.

The door closed. Only Ye Yuze remained in the study, accompanied by the ticking of the old clock on the wall.

He walked to his desk and picked up a photograph. In the photo, Yang Chenglong and Ye Guigen were standing on a lawn in London, their eyes narrowed into slits with laughter.

The two young people were clean and neat, like two blank sheets of paper.

He didn't know what those two blank sheets of paper would look like in the future. But he knew that one thing Yang Geyong said was true—

A man must have strength.

But strength alone is not enough.

He sighed, put the photo back on the table, and turned off the light.

The study was plunged into darkness. The stars outside the window were still shining, dazzlingly bright.

London, the second night, 1:40 a.m.

Mayfair's alley was so narrow that only two people could walk side by side. On both sides were gray brick walls, topped with anti-climb spikes that gleamed coldly under the streetlights.

There were no doors or windows in the alley, only a nearly broken street lamp, flickering on and off like a patient struggling to breathe.

Yang Chenglong stood in the shadows of the alley, wearing a black hoodie with the hood pulled up, obscuring most of his face.

His hands were in his pockets, and his right hand was clutching a roll of duct tape—not a weapon, but something to seal his mouth shut.

Ye Guigen stood at the alley entrance, leaning against the hood of a black sedan, holding a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked like he was waiting for someone, not for a fight.

"He's out," Ye Guigen said softly, looking at the location on his phone.

Yang Chenglong emerged from the shadows and stood in the middle of the alley. His heart was pounding, but his hands were no longer trembling.

It's not that I wasn't nervous; it's that after reaching the extreme of nervousness, I actually calmed down.

Footsteps came from the alley entrance. Leather shoes clicked on the stone pavement, one after another, getting closer and closer.

Bakhtiar walked into the alley. He was wearing a black cashmere coat, a scarf wrapped around his chin, and a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

Two men followed behind him—not the three bodyguards from last time, but two new ones, taller and bigger.

The three men walked into the alley and, after about twenty steps, Bakhtiar stopped.

He saw Yang Chenglong.

The cigarette fell from his mouth, landed on the ground, and sparked a small burst of fire.

“You—” Bakhtiar took a step back and bumped into the bodyguard behind him.

Yang Chenglong didn't speak. He took two steps forward, the dim light of the streetlamp illuminating his face.

The gauze at the corner of his mouth, the bruise on his left cheek, and his bloodshot eyes.

“Bakhtiar,” his voice was low, like thunder rumbling in his throat, “you sent someone to Hangzhou?”

Bakhtiar's expression changed. Not out of fear, but out of guilt. He hadn't expected Yang Chenglong to know about this, much less that Yang Chenglong would be waiting for him here.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bakhtiar said, his voice trembling.

Yang Chenglong took another step forward. Two bodyguards blocked Bakhtiar's path, but their eyes darted around—

They saw Yang Chenglong's eyes, eyes they had seen before. On the battlefield, in prison, in the faces of those who truly didn't care about their lives.

"You had someone send me a photograph."

Yang Chenglong pulled the photo out of his pocket and held it up. "Lin Wanwan. Hangzhou. Creative Industry Park. The words you wrote—'Yang Chenglong, watch out.'"

He threw the photo on the ground.

“Bakhtiar, you can touch me, but you can’t touch her.”

Bakhtiar gritted his teeth, pushed aside the bodyguard, and stepped forward.

"Yang Chenglong, what do you want? This is London, not a place for you to run wild—"

Before he could finish speaking, Yang Chenglong's fist was already upon him.

The punch was fast and heavy, landing on Bakhtiar's nose with a dull thud.

It wasn't the sound of being hit in the face like last time; it was the sound of bones breaking.

Bakhtiar's body leaned back, the back of his head hit the wall, and then he went limp, like a bag of cement thrown on the ground.

Blood spurted from his nose, splattering onto Yang Chenglong's sleeves and his own cashmere coat.

The two bodyguards were stunned. They hadn't expected this young man, whose face was covered in injuries, to suddenly make a move, let alone knock the man unconscious with a single punch.

“You,” Yang Chenglong pointed at the two bodyguards, “don’t move.”

His voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a power that made people afraid to move. It didn't come from his physique, although his height of over 1.8 meters and weight of 180 kilograms were indeed intimidating.

It came from his eyes—the kind of eyes that only truly fearless people have.

The two bodyguards exchanged a glance but neither moved.

Yang Chenglong squatted down, took out the roll of tape from his pocket, tore off a piece, and stuck it on Bakhtiar's mouth. He tore off another piece, wrapped it around Bakhtiar's hands several times, and tied them behind his back.

Then he stood up and glanced at Ye Guigen.

Ye Guigen walked over from the alley entrance, still holding that cup of coffee in his hand.

He glanced at the unconscious Bakhtiar on the ground, then at Yang Chenglong.

"That punch you threw was much harder than the one you threw at that bodyguard yesterday."

"That one yesterday was a bodyguard. This one's a bastard."

Ye Guigen squatted down and splashed the remaining cold coffee from his cup onto Bakhtiar's face.

Bakhtiar woke up suddenly, his eyes wide open, his mouth taped shut, only able to make muffled sounds.

When he saw Yang Chenglong standing in front of him, his pupils suddenly contracted, and he desperately tried to shrink back, but there was a wall behind him, and he had nowhere to retreat.

“Bakhtiar,” Yang Chenglong squatted down to look him in the eye, “I won’t hit you today.”

Bakhtiar stared at him, his eyes filled with fear.

"I'm here today to negotiate terms with you."

Yang Chenglong took out his phone from his pocket, opened a recording, and pressed play.

A man's voice came from the phone, speaking Russian. Bakhtiar froze upon hearing that voice.

“That’s your grandfather’s voice.”

Yang Chenglong said, "He said on the phone that he had no idea you came to London, nor did he know that you sent people to beat up Lin Wanwan. He said that you did all of this yourself and that it had nothing to do with him."

Bakhtiar's eyes widened even more.

“Your grandfather also said,” Yang Chenglong continued:
“If you continue like this, he will cut ties with you. Your credit cards, your car, your house—all of these were given to you by him. With just one word from him, you'll have nothing left.”

Bakhtiar was trembling. Not from the cold, but from fear.

Yang Chenglong reached out and ripped the tape off his mouth. Bakhtiar gasped for breath, like a fish thrown ashore.

"You—how did you get my grandfather's phone number—"

“That’s not important.” Yang Chenglong stood up, looking down at him. “What’s important is that your grandfather already knows what you’re doing. He told me to tell you—go back to Almaty. Don’t touch anything related to the Yang family. Don’t touch Lin Wanwan.”

Bakhtiar slumped to the ground, blood still flowing from his nose, dripping onto his cashmere coat, drop by drop, like red tears.

"Yang Chenglong," his voice trembled, "you think you've won?"

Yang Chenglong looked at him.

"I didn't win. You lost too."

Yang Chenglong said, “You lost because you’ve forgotten who you are. You’re not Bakhtiar Akkore. You’re your grandfather’s grandson. Your grandfather gave you everything, and you’ve used what he gave you to destroy yourself. What are you?”

Bakhtiar kept his head down and didn't say anything.

Yang Chenglong turned and left. Ye Guigen followed behind him.

The two men walked out of the alley and got into the black sedan. The car started and drove out of Mayfair, heading towards the dormitory.

The car was quiet. Yang Chenglong leaned back in his seat with his eyes closed.

"Returning to one's roots".

"Ah."

"Is that recording of yours real?"

“It’s fake,” Ye Guigen said. “I found someone who speaks Russian and recorded it by imitating Akko Kerei’s voice.”

Yang Chenglong opened his eyes and looked at him.

"You even have connections for this?"

“I’ve said before that my dad knows a lot of people in London.”

Yang Chenglong remained silent for a while.

"Did his grandfather know about this?"

Ye Guigen thought about it.

"Now I know."

"What do you mean?"

“I just had someone send today’s recording to Akkore. After listening to it, he sent me a message.”

"What news?"

He said—'Break his legs for me.'

Yang Chenglong paused for a moment, then laughed. His lips hurt when he laughed, but he didn't care.

“Akokore is a better person than his grandson.”

“A hundred times stronger,” Ye Guigen said. “He knew that if Bakhtiar continued like this, his family would be finished.”

The car stopped downstairs in front of the dormitory building. Yang Chenglong got out of the car, stood in the night wind, and took a deep breath.

“Back to his roots,” he said. “Do you think Bakhtiar will return to Almaty?”

"meeting."

Why are you so sure?

"Because he's afraid of his grandfather. Much more afraid of him than he's of you."

Yang Chenglong nodded.

The two walked into the dormitory building. In the elevator, Yang Chenglong looked at his face in the mirror—the gauze at the corner of his mouth, the bruise on his left cheek, and his eyes that were no longer red.

"Returning to one's roots".

"Ah."

"Thank you."

"What are you thanking me for?"

"Thank you for arranging all of this for me. The recording, the location tracking, Akko Lie's phone call. I couldn't have done any of this today without you."

Ye Guigen patted him on the shoulder.

You are not alone.

The elevator doors opened. Two people stepped out.

Yang Chenglong took out his key and opened the door. The door opened, and Hans was sitting in the living room with a book in his hand. He looked up when he saw them come in.

"Where did you go? Why are you coming back so late?"

“Let’s take a walk,” Yang Chenglong said.

Hans looked at the gauze at the corner of his mouth and the blood on his sleeve, then looked at Ye Guigen.

"You call this a stroll?"

“London’s nightlife,” Ye Guigen said, “you wouldn’t understand.”

Hans shook his head and continued reading.

Yang Chenglong went into his room and closed the door. He sat on the edge of the bed, took out his phone, and sent a message to Lin Wanwan.

"Wanwan, it's alright now."

The reply came quickly. "What do you mean?"

"Bakhtiar will not cause any more trouble."

What did you do?

"I didn't do anything. I just chatted with him."

There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then came a voice message.

"Yang Chenglong, don't lie to me. Your lip injury hasn't healed yet, and you've gone into another fight?"

Yang Chenglong did not reply.

A little while later, another voice message came in. This time the voice was very soft, almost like a sigh.

"I can't do anything with you."

Yang Chenglong looked at the words and smiled.

He placed his phone next to his pillow, lay on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.

The London wind was still blowing outside the window. But his heart was no longer cold.

Because he knew that no matter what happened, there would be someone waiting for him 8,000 kilometers away.

That person's name is Lin Wanwan.

That person was his fiancée.

(To be continued) (End of this chapter)