We agreed on the twelve zodiac animals, but you've transformed into the Monkey King?

Wen Xiao turned around and trudged down the mountain through the mud.

At the end of the mountain road, beneath a withered tree, sat a black, bulletproof Ford sedan without any license plates. Raindrops pelted the glossy black paint, creating a white mist.

An elderly butler, dressed in a long blue cloth robe, waited quietly by the carriage door, holding a black umbrella. Seeing Wen Xiao approach, covered in mud, the butler showed no disgust, respectfully opening the door and bowing slightly.

"Fifth Master Wen, Boss Huang said that it's windy and rainy outside, so please get in the car and have some hot tea."

Without pausing, Wen Xiao, exuding an aura of chilling coldness, bent down and sat down inside.

The car doors closed, shutting out the howling wind and rain outside. The carriage was large, with black velvet curtains drawn tightly, dimly lit. The air was filled with the subtle fragrance of sandalwood, mixed with a faint smell of cigars, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere.

In the shadows opposite, sat a slightly plump old man. He wore an exquisitely crafted dark blue mandarin jacket with floral patterns, and slowly and methodically twirled a pair of walnuts that had developed a reddish patina in his hands.

"Click, click."

The sound of walnuts rubbing together filled the narrow, enclosed carriage.

Wen Xiao leaned back in the expensive leather chair. His rough white mourning clothes were already soaked with mud and blood from his left shoulder, and now he was carelessly soiling the chair and the mink carpet under his feet.

Huang Jinrong didn't look at the destroyed carpet. He picked up the purple clay teapot on the small clay stove, slowly poured a cup of tea, and pushed it onto the small mahogany table in the middle.

"This rain couldn't have come at the worst possible time," Huang Jinrong said hoarsely, his eyes half-closed. "Muddy water gets in your eyes, making it hard to see. I heard that the Yama King ordered last night that several streets in the French Concession be used to bury one of his gang leaders?"

"If Boss Huang is here to act as a lobbyist for the French, then I can't afford this cup of tea." Wen Xiao didn't touch the teacup.

Huang Jinrong laughed. The laughter was very soft, like the low hooting of an owl.

"Young man, don't get so hot-tempered." Huang Jinrong spun the walnut in his hand faster. "I am the Chinese chief inspector of the French Concession, and I work for the foreigners. But the rules of Shanghai are what I, Huang Jinrong, have upheld for thirty years to establish."

He slowly opened his eyes, and two beams of light suddenly shot out from his wrinkled eyes.

"That little foreign dog Pierre has overreached. He thinks that by hanging one of our 'Hongmen' brothers on a telephone pole, he can make all the Chinese gangs in Shanghai their dogs for generations. He broke the rules, and that's like taking away my, Huang Jinrong's, livelihood."

A venomous snake lurking beneath the mud finally flicked its tongue.

Wen Xiao looked at him, a cold, emotionless smile curving her lips: "So, Boss Huang wants to use me as a tool to teach the French how to behave?"

Huang Jinrong wasn't annoyed. He pulled out a roll of yellowed kraft paper from the cuff of his wide mandarin jacket, pressed it down with two withered fingers, and pushed it in front of Wen Xiao.

"I'm old. I can't bear to see bloodshed in the French Concession, and I certainly don't want to watch the Hongmen and Qingmen fight to the death because of foreigners." Huang Jinrong stared into Wen Xiao's eyes, his tone dark.

"This is the internal structure of the French police station, including the guard posts for shift changes and the secret door to Pierre's private interrogation room. From 1 a.m. to 3 a.m. tonight, the telephone exchange at the French military barracks in Xujiahui will malfunction due to 'thunderstorms.' During these two hours, the French police station will be like an iron turtle that no one will listen to, no matter how loudly you shout."

Silence fell over the carriage.

Wen Xiao's gaze fell on the parchment. He knew that if he died inside, the Green Gate would lose a powerful opponent without lifting a finger; if he really killed Pierre, the French would be severely suppressed, and he, Huang Jinrong, could come out again as a "savior" to clean up the mess and control the balance between the underworld and the legitimate world.

Whether you win or lose, the biggest winner is the old man sitting in the car drinking tea.

"Boss Huang's got a clever plan." Wen Xiao reached out his mud- and blood-stained hand, snatched the parchment, and tucked it into his cold mourning clothes. "Aren't you afraid that once this knife sees blood, it won't be able to be stopped?"

Huang Jinrong closed his eyes again, and the walnuts in his hand resumed their slow and deliberate rhythm.

"Whether a knife can be sheathed depends on whether the person wielding it has the fate to do so." He said calmly, "If this matter succeeds, you, Fifth Master Wen, will have officially established your business in Shanghai, and you will owe me, Huang Jinrong, a favor; if it fails... well, let's just throw this tea away when it's cold."

Wen Xiao didn't waste any more words and pushed open the car door.

The biting winter rain, mixed with a fierce wind, instantly poured into the warm carriage, dispelling the precious sandalwood scent and causing the charcoal fire in the red clay stove to flicker.

Wen Xiao stepped one foot into the muddy water, half of his body hidden in the wind and rain.

"Keep the tea."

Wen Xiao pulled on a white linen hood, completely concealing his pale, cold face in shadow. In the wind and rain, his voice carried a bloody undertone:

"Boss Huang has lived most of his life, and he's never seen a grave... where a telephone needs to be installed?"

boom!

The car door slammed shut. The black Ford sedan slowly started moving in the rain. The torrential, cold rain quickly washed away the only two tire tracks in the muddy ground.

……

In the Huabu Police Station, the ceiling fan spun weakly.

Zhao the Bald leaned back in his chair, smoking a cigarette.

"Smack."

Meng Huai slammed two stacks of case files, one thick and one thin, onto Zhao the Bald's desk.

"This is a case that was put down by the Municipal Council." Meng Huai pointed to the thin stack of case files. "It's a case reported by the French Concession Grand Circus and several foreign mansions on Avenue Joffre. Something strange has been going on these past few days; more than a dozen monkeys have gone missing in the concession. Ganges monkeys, macaques, even the old macaque from the circus that we used to jump through the fire hoops is gone. The foreigners are pressing us hard, telling us to open a case and investigate on the streets as soon as possible."

Zhao the Bald didn't even lift his eyelids:

"If a foreigner loses his animal, he can just put up a couple of lost and found notices on the street. With such a meager monthly salary, why would the police bother looking for monkeys?"

"There's nothing we can do. Those old men in the Municipal Council are paid by foreigners, so they have to put on a show." Meng Huai gave a wry smile, pushed the thin stack of files aside, and then patted the pile of brown paper bags that was at least half a foot thick next to him. "If the monkey gets lost, at most you'll get a few scoldings, but this is what's really giving us a headache."

Baldy Zhao holstered his gun and looked at the thick stack of files: "What's this?"

"The missing persons reports," Meng Huai sighed. "In Nanshi, Zhabei, and even the shantytowns on the edge of the concession, the number of missing persons is absurd. There are dozens of laborers, rickshaw pullers, and beggars whose names have been filed."

Zhao the Bald tapped his fingers twice on the table: "Are these missing paupers wearing reward tags?"

Meng Huai paused for a moment, then shook his head: "They're dirt poor, how can they afford to pay for bonuses? They can't even scrape together the few cents for filling out the case forms."

"No bonus, what's the point of investigating?"

Zhao the Bald leaned forward, casually pulled a file from the thick stack of documents, glanced at the rough portrait on it, and tossed it back:

"The world is so corrupt that every day, truckloads of corpses are pulled from the Huangpu River. These laborers were either refugees who fled back to their hometowns or were taken by gangs to fill the river. Do you think this is a charity?"

"That's the logic," Meng Huai said, still unwilling to give up. "But they've covered their tracks so cleanly, not even a trace of blood was left. I always feel there's something fishy about this. If we don't do anything about it, what if the higher-ups investigate one day..."

"Then stamp it and close the case." Zhao the Bald interrupted him, his tone cold and hard. "Just write 'migrant fugitive' or 'gang fight.' Don't waste my bullets and time on cases that don't bring in any profit. Go sign the attendance record; we're going to collect protection money at Baxianqiao later, that's the real business."