Volume One, Chapter Fifteen: The Security Captain

In the early summer, the sunset over the small border town remained scorching, drenching the earth in golden light. In these tropical lands, people were accustomed to walking barefoot, though the ancient bluestone slabs of the old streets burned under the sun's relentless gaze.

The three-story buildings of the old town and the agricultural dormitories stood side by side. During the “Third Front” movement of the 1960s and 70s, more than a hundred thousand migrants and sent-down youths from Jiangsu, Zhejiang, and Guangdong had settled in Mang Town. The residential quarters of state-run chemical factories and rubber plantations had, almost imperceptibly, evolved into villages and neighborhoods, gradually encircling and dividing the town's ancient structures. The emerging city no longer fit the label of a mere town.

The influx of outsiders had altered the local dialect, blending it with the original tongue to create a new vernacular. One could easily tell the old border folk from the new arrivals just by listening to their speech.

In recent years, Flying Squirrel had mingled in the city's brothels and markets, often hearing the familiar sounds of Cantonese, which deepened his sense of belonging in Mang Town.

A single concrete road threaded through the encircling dirt paths. Whenever cars or tractors thundered down these roads, clouds of dust would swirl into the town, settling thickly on every household.

When Flying Squirrel first heard the name Ru Ayah from an informant, he immediately knew the man was from the Ang people—a true “minority” with fewer than twenty thousand members within the country. The Ang customarily named their children using the Chinese zodiac or birth order. This man was born in the Year of the Horse—“Ayah” being the Ang pronunciation for “horse.” “Ru” was a Han surname, though some bore the names Li or Zhang. All Ang men prefixed their zodiac with “A.”

There was a faint scar on Ru Ayah’s right cheek, but the one on his neck was broader and far more menacing. Flying Squirrel had studied a photograph of him, marveling that a slash so close to the carotid hadn’t killed him.

Ru Ayah had grown up in Luxi County, under Mang Town’s jurisdiction. The Ang—once called the Benglong—had lived for generations in the vast mountain ranges of Gaoligong and the Nu Mountains. For most children in these impoverished mountains, life was a ceaseless crawl through the dirt, utterly cut off from the world outside by forests and forbidding peaks. But Ru Ayah was born restless and unruly. He’d never attended school, spending his youth as a brazen fighter in the village.

At fifteen, during a skirmish with a neighboring village over water rights, he stabbed and killed another boy, a moment that altered the course of his life forever.

With this deed, he became the undisputed leader among his kin, but also faced the prospect of further bloodshed and the vengeance of the dead boy’s family. He had no choice but to heed the elders’ advice and leave the village until the headmen of both sides could settle the matter.

In truth, Ru Ayah’s heart had long yearned to break free from those mountains.

Upon leaving, he arrived in town and, on his very first day, found himself pitted alone against twelve of Yan Nuo’s men in a pitched street fight.

The Ang people were fierce by nature, trained from childhood in martial arts on bamboo stakes—Plum Blossom Fist and the Left Fist. He chased down all twelve, the enemy scattering like the tide. He even snatched a helmet from one of the motorcycle taxi drivers and smashed it repeatedly into the man’s face.

Years later, townsfolk still recounted the tale of that one-against-twelve brawl with relish.

The lopsided fight lasted over ten minutes. The battered local Tai youths, outmatched by this drifter, finally called their boss for help.

Yan Nuo soon arrived, handed Ru Ayah a cigarette, and—calm and affable—asked about his origins.

Learning that Ru Ayah was of the Ang, Yan Nuo smiled, patted him on the shoulder, and, in flawless Ang dialect, said, “You’re brave and you can fight. My wife is from your tribe. Come with me—from now on, we’re family.”

Ru Ayah followed this man who respected him, not knowing at the time that Yan Nuo had long dominated the borderland’s underworld and could have ended his life right there.

Later, his gratitude for Yan Nuo was tempered with awe, and his loyalty grew even deeper. His violent and suspicious temperament was a natural fit for the drug trade.

After ruthlessly eliminating several threats to Yan Nuo’s clan, Ru Ayah was appointed chief of security—his top enforcer.

Now, Ru Ayah, with over a hundred men, was casting a net over every corner of town in search of Flying Squirrel.

They roared through the streets on more than a dozen motorcycles and seven battered “Liberation” trucks. The paint, once green, had rusted to a reddish brown. Their engines rumbled so loudly that the horns were rendered unnecessary.

Two could fit in the cab; the rear was open, roofless. The vehicles were unwieldy but sturdy, their steel-plated bumpers capable of smashing through the local mud-brick houses with ease.

With weapons, this would cease to be a mere gang—it would be an army.

But the enemy had no guns, so there was no need for firearms. Besides, this was Yan Nuo’s hometown; he sought to maintain a semblance of peace and avoid gunfire in broad daylight.

The gangsters stood in the truck beds, wielding gleaming Thai swords, machetes, and cleavers. One brash youth brandished a massive “Green Dragon Crescent Blade,” shirtless, his body adorned with writhing dragon tattoos.

The convoy split into seven squads, fanning out from the east in a grid to sweep westward through the city. The drivers, all locals, knew every road by heart. Vehicles large and small tore through the crisscrossing streets, raising clouds of dust in their wake.

The townspeople, recognizing Yan Nuo’s men at work, simply carried on with their tasks, scarcely glancing up. Many didn’t even bother to look.

Still, some couldn’t help but wonder what could have happened to warrant Yan Nuo mobilizing so many men. Never before had this tranquil town witnessed such a spectacle. Everyone knew of Yan Nuo’s ties to the police—no one dared threaten him, not even in the slightest.

Moreover, Yan Nuo was seen as a charitable local. The good townsfolk saw only his donations: the handsome schools he built, the solar streetlights he’d gifted to villages, the concrete roads paved with his money.

Who could possibly be so reckless, so devoid of sense or conscience, as to stand against Boss Yan Nuo?

At the corner where the main road met an inner lane, a sugarcane vendor’s stall stood. The vendor deftly peeled cane with a rusty sickle, while a customer in a battered straw hat watched the swaggering gangsters from the corner of his eye.

To him, these men were already ruined.

The search party moved in fits and starts.

When the convoy reached Mang Town’s central square, they found crowds beginning to gather. These onlookers weren’t frightened by Yan Nuo—they were simply curious. The square was home to the local police substation, where a few uniformed officers stood at the front, smoking, occasionally extending their arms to nudge the clueless crowd a step back.

The police had no right to interfere in Yan Nuo’s affairs. Nor had Yan Nuo signaled for their help. Was there anyone in this city beyond his reach?

From the rear of the crowd, the townsfolk on the square looked like geese with their necks stretched high, honking and murmuring.

At the very back, a tall, lanky youth stood, his face expressionless, neck craned like a goose, watching the convoy ahead.