Did he trick the young marshal into becoming sworn brothers and then go south to Huangpu Military Ac

The thick fog over the Huangpu River never dissipates.

The Shiliupu Wharf was bustling with noise, a cacophony of ship horns, laborers' chants, and police whistles that made one's eardrums ache.

The river breeze, carrying the smells of fish and coal smoke, blew straight into people's collars.

Lin Qi carried a heavy leather suitcase and walked down the wooden gangway of the passenger ship.

He was wearing a very fitted dark gray tweed double-breasted coat and a light gray felt hat. He was alone and had no attendants.

As soon as I stepped onto the bluestone slabs of the dock, several thugs with their shirts open and short wooden sticks tucked into their waistbands approached me.

The Sixteen Wharfs were the territory of the Green Gang, and in their eyes, a lone traveler dressed so elegantly was a walking fat sheep.

The leader, a scarred man with half a cigarette dangling from his mouth, stood in front of them in a sleazy manner.

"Boss, you don't look like anyone here! Don't you know the rules? This dock is built with the blood and sweat of our brothers. If you want to pass, you have to pay your way in..."

Before he could finish speaking, Lin Qi stopped in his tracks.

He neither drew his gun nor backed down, but simply raised his head slightly, his eyes coldly fixed on the scarred man beneath his hat brim.

Lin Qi grew up under the red flag. From a young age, he was always a favored son of heaven, and naturally possessed an air of superiority and arrogance.

Such magnanimity is almost unheard of among ordinary people at this time.

"roll."

A single word, spoken softly, yet carrying a chilling intent.

Scarface's hand, holding the cigarette, trembled violently; his senses told him that the man in front of him was not someone to be trifled with.

Lin Qi didn't look at the scarred man again, walked straight through the crowd, and hailed a black Ford taxi at the edge of the dock.

"The Bund, Astor House Hotel."

The car door closed, the Ford spewed out a plume of black smoke, and drove into the crowded street.

Scarface finally came to his senses, spat on the ground, but didn't dare to order his men to chase after them.

Astor House Hotel.

The most luxurious hotel in the Far East.

This place is a den of extravagance for foreigners, and also a gathering place for political figures and compradors from various countries, where they amassed power and fame.

Outside the revolving glass doors, cars and rickshaws belonging to various consulates were parked.

Lin Qi pushed open the door and entered.

The lobby was covered with thick Persian carpets, and a huge crystal chandelier cast a warm yellow light.

The air was filled with the mingled scents of Cuban cigars and French perfume. A phonograph played languid jazz.

He walked straight to the mahogany counter.

The person on duty was a British manager with a neatly trimmed mustache.

Upon seeing that Lin Qi was Chinese, despite his distinguished attire, his inherent arrogance still caused him to slightly raise his chin.

"Sir, have you made a room reservation? Our standard rooms are currently fully booked."

The manager spoke in broken Chinese.

"Top floor. Presidential suite."

Lin Qi interrupted him directly, responding in extremely fluent English with the distinctive rolled "r" sounds characteristic of Boston's upper class.

The British manager was taken aback.

He had heard that accent from those banking tycoons on the East Coast of the United States.

"Sir, the presidential suite costs fifty pounds a day. And we need to verify your funds."

The manager switched to English, his tone becoming more subdued, but still tinged with probing.

Lin Qi didn't waste any words. He placed the leather briefcase on the front desk and unlocked the brass clasp.

With a "click," the lid of the box was lifted.

Inside, ten gleaming gold bars and a thick stack of HSBC bank drafts were neatly arranged.

The physical luster emanating from the gold bars instantly stung the eyes of the British manager.

This was part of the start-up capital Zhang Hanqing gave him.

"How long I stay depends on the weather in Shanghai."

Lin Qi casually took out a promissory note with a face value of one thousand and placed it on the registration book at the front desk.

"Give me the best view. I don't want to hear the tram noise from the Waibaidu Bridge. Have three meals delivered to my room every day. No one is allowed to disturb me without my permission."

The British manager's attitude underwent a complete 180-degree turn. He suddenly stood up straight, pushed the register forward with both hands, and his face was full of a professional and obsequious smile.

"As you wish, Mr. Lin. Richard is at your service at any time."

Money is the best passport in any era, especially in the bustling metropolis of Shanghai where people are treated differently based on their social status.

Top floor suite.

Lin Qi took off his coat and hung it on the coat rack, then drew back the heavy velvet curtains.

Outside the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, the entire Bund view is laid out before you, with steamships shuttling back and forth on the Huangpu River. On the other side, Pudong is still a desolate expanse of farmland and dilapidated factories.

I walked up to the liquor cabinet, poured half a glass of whiskey, without adding ice, and drank it all in one gulp.

The strong liquor burned away the fatigue of the journey and the chill in my body.

The battle begins.

The Whampoa Military Academy, which is still in the early stages of development, is currently just a concept.

That gentleman had just attended the First National Congress of the Kuomintang in Guangzhou, formally establishing the alliance with Russia and the tolerance of the Communists. There was still some time before the military academy would actually advertise for admissions.

Lin Qi had ample time to conduct preliminary packaging in Shanghai.

He knew very well that if he wanted to establish himself as a "returned overseas student" and a "military industry expert" in front of that person, the principal, the director, and various political figures from the South, the money in his hand was definitely not enough.

Two hundred thousand silver dollars is an astronomical figure in the eyes of ordinary people, but in the grand scheme of things that truly determines the fate of a nation, it is nothing at all.

He needs fame, he needs a highly influential endorser in this era.

Lin Qi walked to the desk and pulled out the contact manual for Fengtian Army intelligence personnel given to him by Zhang Hanqing from the bottom of the briefcase.

As night falls, the lights are on.

At nine o'clock in the evening, there was a gentle knock on the suite door—three long knocks followed by two short knocks, the agreed-upon code.

Lin Qi walked over and opened the door.

Standing outside the door was a thin, middle-aged man dressed in a restaurant waiter's uniform, holding a tray with a pot of black tea on it.

After the middle-aged man entered the house, he immediately locked the door.

He put down the tray, turned to face Lin Qi, his posture ramrod straight, his eyes extremely sharp.

Has the snow stopped outside the pass?

The middle-aged man lowered his voice to exchange the secret code.

"The snow has stopped, and the geese are flying south."

Lin Qi sat back on the sofa and crossed his legs.

The middle-aged man let out a long breath and relaxed. He bowed respectfully.

"Zhao Sihai, head of the Fengtian Army's special intelligence station in Shanghai. Sir, the Young Marshal sent a secret telegram saying that you have brought a top-secret mission to Shanghai and that we must cooperate unconditionally. How many men do you need to protect you? We have two safe houses in the French Concession, but there are too many people and eyes around here."

"I don't need protection. And I won't go to a safe house."

Lin Qi interrupted him.

Zhao Sihai was taken aback.

"Sir, Shanghai is a murky place. There are Green Gang members, foreign police, and Southern revolutionaries' spies everywhere. If something goes wrong while you're living here alone..."

"Station Chief Zhao."

Lin Qi pointed to the chair opposite him, gesturing for him to sit down.

Zhao Sihai only dared to rest one side of his buttocks on the chair.

"Your intelligence station receives 8,000 silver dollars a month from Fengtian for operational expenses. That's nearly 100,000 a year."

Lin Qi coldly swept his gaze over Zhao Sihai: "Hanqing values ​​you, but I've looked at the reports you've sent back to Fengtian over the past three months, and they're all just a pile of waste paper."