The Ancestral Legacy Begins in the Wild West

When the fog rolled up the Thames into the Whitechapel district, the nearby streets were already deserted.

It was the kind of deathly stillness where even stray cats wouldn't peek out from under the eaves, and rats wouldn't pass through the sewers.

On the street, the unmaintained, hissing gas lamps emitted a cold white halo in the fog, like the moon submerged in deep water.

A few hours earlier, the police had come, as had the children under Oliver's command. They didn't disturb anyone, but simply knocked gently on each door.

Many ordinary people who live here know what they are trying to express.

"Don't go out tonight. Don't open the windows. Don't turn on the lights."

People cannot expect the already vulnerable poor to find temporary shelter.

But the only noise on the street was the soft cough of Boss Chen, who was leaning on a brass-topped hardwood cane in front of number seventeen's porch.

The velvet Tang suit he was wearing was an old garment made twenty years ago at the Thirteen Factories in Guangzhou, enough to withstand the winter winds blowing in from the Thames.

The knuckles of his hand, which was gripping the cane, were still slightly white.

Other brothers stood beside him and soon heard him say, "Silence."

Boss Chen's gaze fell on the edge of the swirling fog outside the street.

There were scattered footsteps pounding through the puddles, the sharp sound of shoe soles scraping against pebbles, and the slight trembling of a knife handle striking a metal buckle.

Mike walked at the very front of the group.

His mouth had two rows of silver teeth that gleamed coldly under the whale-shaped lamps; this was one of his most distinctive features, and people usually called him Silvertooth Mike.

He wore a dark gray plaid short coat that clung tightly to his thin, bony frame.

Behind him, dozens of Englishmen, their boots gleaming, dressed similarly, and carrying knives and guns, emerged from nearby alleys, from carriages that had just come to a stop, and from boats along the river.

Old Master Chen could feel the churning lesions deep in his lungs, but he didn't cough. He simply lifted his cane off the bluestone slab and put it down again.

The tip of the cane tapped against the crack in the brick, making a clear sound.

"Mike."

His voice wasn't loud, but it could be heard throughout the entire street.

Mike's silver teeth parted in the mist. But it didn't look like a smile; it looked more like a wild beast baring its teeth.

"Boss Chen," he deliberately dragged out the title, "I'm here to collect a debt, a debt you've owed me for a long time."

His boot heels made two crisp sounds.

Boss Chen didn't speak, but listened as he continued, "You owe me a way out."

"I've followed you for ten years. In those ten years, I've broken countless legs and smashed countless shops, but even now, I'm still just a deputy team leader with hardly any people under my command."

"Zheng Kui, the young man you brought from Foshan." Mike's gaze passed over Boss Chen and landed on the dark back of the shop: "Dumb Xiong, a coolie from southern Fujian."

His silver teeth flashed coldly again: "These people are more to your liking. As for me, with an Irish bastard father, I'll never be one of you anymore."

Looking at Mike, whose fierce gaze was hidden beneath his short hair, Boss Chen said, "Your mother's surname is Zhou. She's from Taishan."

Mike frowned.

"In the third year of the Guangxu Emperor's reign, your mother took you, who was three years old, and smuggled you to England by waterway. The smuggler was from her hometown and they ran up debts. When they arrived in Liverpool, the debts were due, and she was forced to work in a laundry to pay them off."

You were born there, abandoned in a dockside warehouse, forced to compete for food with rats.

"My old brothers were passing through Liverpool when your mother was dying, so they sent a letter back to London asking me to take you in."

As Mr. Chen spoke, he looked up at him and said, "These ten years you've been with me are what your mother begged for."

In the distance, the whale oil engine of a smuggling speedboat on the Thames roared briefly before being swallowed by the thick fog, and there was no other sound.

Mike gritted his teeth

"And then what, you old man..." he said in a low voice, "you expect me to be grateful?"

"You're already out of breath, what are you waiting for if you don't give up your seat?" He spread his hands, his silver teeth gleaming.

Mr. Chen is indeed having a hard time moving around, but he still continued to speak:

"I'm telling you, you've always been one of us. Your mother is from the same hometown as us, and we've never treated you like an outsider."

"What about the boss you're seeing now?" Boss Chen asked, then changed the subject: "Does that guy call you a bastard?"

Mike's face suddenly turned red.

"Your British boss sent you to kill me, and then you'll replace me as the boss, or do even bigger business," Boss Chen said, emphasizing each word.

"But what he said on Riverside Street was to drive out all Irish immigrants, Chinese laborers, and Italian merchants."

"He's giving you men to kill me today, and then he'll send you to deal with the Italians at the docks."

That's right, Boss Chen sees it very clearly, and even a big shot like Chamberlain probably understands it.

Harold's election slogans, and even what he's doing now, are still just empty words.

The Jean-Glaucon family controls Blue Agate, a potential next-generation pharmaceutical company, but they are also immigrants. That's Harold's real purpose.

Of course, a scoundrel like Mike wouldn't see a newspaper with Chang'an in it, so he wouldn't know much about these political activities.

He was simply hurt by Boss Chen's words.

In the distance along the street, a black carriage without any markings is quietly parked in the fog.

The carriage curtain was lifted a crack about two fingers wide. Harold sat there, participating in the battle with only a slender tortoiseshell telescope.

He's a politician, and he needs to protect himself; he can't get involved in gang fights. He also disdains getting involved in the messy affairs of these Chinese or mixed-race people.

Exclusion was his campaign slogan, and to a certain extent, it was indeed his true feeling.

"Old man, no matter what you say, it's useless..." Mike's voice was hoarse, as if he had a mouthful of grit in it. He raised his head, his silver teeth flashing a final, cold light under the fog lights.

But as soon as he looked up, before he could finish speaking, Boss Chen raised his hand to stop him.

Behind Boss Chen, through the dark doorway, a figure strode out.

"Clang!" Veins bulged on Zheng Kui's forehead, and his expression looked even crazier than Mike's. His hands, which were swirling in his sleeves, came together with a metallic buzzing sound, and then he immediately got into a fighting stance.

Boss Chen gripped his cane tightly, took a deep breath, and shouted, "I know you're not convinced, and I know you have ambitions, but I'm the boss, and I can't keep an eye on a kid like you who's almost thirty and still causing trouble every day."

Today you brought outsiders here, armed with knives!

As Boss Chen said these words, Zheng Kui flashed by and was already in front of Mike.

"I don't care if you're your boss or what complaints you have, I'll make you rich and powerful! Don't treat me like a pushover, I'll kill you, you piece of trash!"

"Bang!"

A deafening metallic thud echoed through the arena. Zheng Kui's fist slammed directly into Mike's chest.

The mad dog gritted its teeth and pressed down with both hands. Just like usual, it was so crazy that even though it was injured, it didn't care about the pain and only thought about fighting back. Sure enough, it had already put new equipment on its hands.

Those were long-bladed mechanical knuckle dusters, like a pair of dog paws.

Unexpectedly, after the noise, it wasn't just their side that was involved in the collision.

Mike blocked the attack, but was simultaneously shot in the shoulder.

Blood spurted out, and before he could react, another brother behind him was shot in the head in shock and fell to the ground with a thud.

In an empty building near the street, the bolt of a rifle clanged crisply.

"Throw... right on the dead man's head."