Courtyard House: First, kill the hypocrites, leave none alive.

At 7:30 a.m., the door to the apartment on the third floor of 132 Fuk Wing Street, Sham Shui Po, opened precisely on time.

Chen Feng came out and closed the door behind him. He was wearing a dark blue work uniform that was slightly faded but still clean, and his hair was cut very short, revealing his rugged features. He was carrying an old canvas tool bag—containing some of his commonly used tools, the bag bulging and looking like standard worker equipment.

He first checked the door lock to make sure it was locked, and then went downstairs.

The stairwell was filled with the damp smell of the previous night and the aromas of breakfast wafting from each apartment. A radio in one of the second-floor apartments was blaring a Cantonese morning news broadcast, the female anchor delivering stock market updates and a few social news items in a clear tone. Chen Feng continued walking, but his ears picked up on key words—he didn't hear anything about "Tseung Kwan O," "shooting," or "mass death toll." The police and the triads seemed to have reached some tacit agreement, keeping the news firmly under wraps.

As I walked down to the first floor, I ran into the landlady, Mrs. Chen, who was returning from outside carrying a vegetable basket.

"Mr. Chan, going to work so early?" Mrs. Chan greeted him in Cantonese with a smile. After getting to know these two "honest and reliable" brothers from the North, she had a good impression of them. The older brother had a legitimate skill and paid his rent on time, while the younger brother, though quiet, was well-behaved and never caused trouble.

"Good morning, Mrs. Chan." Chen Feng stopped, a slightly naive smile spreading across his face. Although his Cantonese still carried a northern accent, his pronunciation was much more standard, and he spoke common phrases quite fluently. "Yes, Cheung's shop said there's a batch of urgent work today."

"Old man Zhang, it's his good fortune to know you!" Mrs. Chan laughed. "You're fast and good at repairs, everyone in the neighborhood praises you. Take it slow and establish yourself first."

"Thank you, Mrs. Chen." Chen Feng nodded politely. "I'm in a hurry, so I'll be going now."

"Okay, take your time."

Stepping out of the tenement building, the morning sun shone brightly on the narrow streets of Fuk Wing Street. The waiters of the tea restaurant were setting up tables at the entrance, the bicycles delivering newspapers jingled as they passed by, and several housewives carrying shopping baskets stood on the street corner, chatting quietly, their eyes occasionally glancing at passersby.

Carrying his tool bag, Chen Feng blended into the sparse crowd and headed towards Yongli Machinery Repair Shop.

His pace was unhurried, his gaze fixed straight ahead, occasionally glancing casually at the shop windows or signs along the street, as if he were just an ordinary worker hurrying to work. But the corner of his eye was like the most sophisticated radar, silently gathering information about his surroundings.

On the street corner, a new mobile cigarette vendor had appeared. The vendor was a lean, middle-aged man with somewhat shifty eyes, not someone who had been doing small business for a long time. His stall was positioned so that he could observe the flow of people in both directions at the intersection of Fu Rong Street.

Across the alley, two young thugs in floral shirts, cigarettes dangling from their lips, their hair dyed an exaggerated yellow, squatted down, whistling and grinning at passing young girls. But out of the corner of their eyes, they were also scrutinizing every adult male who passed by, especially those walking alone and with a strong build.

Further on, a uniformed policeman stood in front of a newsstand, seemingly chatting casually with the owner, but his sharp eyes scanned the surroundings. When he saw Chen Feng approaching, the policeman's gaze lingered on him for a moment, then naturally moved away after noticing the tool bag in his hand and his uniform.

The atmosphere was noticeably more tense than it had been a few days ago.

There has been a significant increase in the number of these seemingly idle but actually scurrying-eyed "short mules" (thugs) on the streets. They are not necessarily all under Master He's command; some may be from other gangs who have come looking for a bargain because they smell blood, while others are simply low-level thugs who want to try their luck and see if they can run into the "200,000 bounty" target.

The police presence has also increased. Plainclothes officers may be better disguised, but Chen Feng can clearly feel the frequency of patrols and the strictness of checks by uniformed officers.

All of this points to the same source—the massacre on the beach and Master He's ever-increasing bounty, like a boulder thrown into a stagnant pool, the ripples it creates are constantly expanding, stirring up the muddy waters of Kowloon West's underworld.

Chen Feng's expression remained unchanged, but he was even more vigilant.

He had to be even more careful in playing the role of "Chen Guodong," a skilled, somewhat taciturn but law-abiding northern worker striving to make a living. Any behavior that deviated from the character's expectations—such as being overly attentive to his surroundings, acting furtively, or displaying unusual vigilance and skill—could attract unnecessary attention.

Two hundred thousand Hong Kong dollars is enough to turn countless people into the most frantic hunting dogs, and enough to magnify and scrutinize the slightest anomaly.

He walked steadily past the thugs, his eyes fixed straight ahead, as if he hadn't noticed them at all. His tool bag swayed slightly with each step, making a soft clinking sound—a perfectly normal sound for a worker.

One of the blond thugs glanced at him, his gaze lingering on his face and tool bag for a moment, as if he wanted to say something, but was nudged by his companion with his elbow. In the end, he just muttered something under his breath and turned his attention elsewhere.

Chen Feng successfully crossed the street corner.

The morning's work proceeded as usual. Master Zhang received an urgent job repairing the diesel engine of a small fishing boat; the owner was eager to set sail and was pressing him hard. The machine problem was complex, and Master Zhang couldn't handle it himself, nor could his two apprentices, who were completely at a loss, leaving them entirely to Chen Feng's aid.

Chen Feng didn't refuse; this was his chance to demonstrate his value and solidify his "status." He spent the entire morning disassembling, cleaning, replacing worn parts, and readjusting the engine, finally getting the old diesel engine roaring back to life before lunchtime. The boat owner was extremely grateful and gave him an extra twenty yuan for tea. Master Zhang, beaming from ear to ear, immediately pulled out ten yuan and gave it to Chen Feng.

"Mr. Chan, thank you so much today! This ten dollars is rightfully yours!"

Chen Feng didn't refuse, accepted the money, and thanked him. His "status" with Master Zhang became more secure, and his income increased slightly. This was a real improvement for his and Xiaoyu's daily life.

Lunch was again a plate of rice from a tea restaurant. While eating, the two apprentices, Ah Chang and Ah Bing, couldn't help but chat about the rumors circulating in the underworld.

"Hey, did you hear? Master He's increased the reward again! Two hundred thousand!" Ah Chang lowered his voice, but couldn't hide his excitement. "Two hundred thousand! That's enough for me to build a house in the countryside!"