Volume One, Chapter Four: The Six Great Drug Lords

Yan Nuo lit his pipe and silently gazed at the distant mountains, saying nothing at all.

The four drivers rolled the two bloodied drug mules across the dirt. The two men, not yet twenty, knew their fate was sealed, yet still uttered guttural cries of “heh heh.” Just as Old Dao Bo had predicted, a few men fastened white foam crates to the barbed wire, and as the crowd murmured softly, the wire-wrapped bodies slipped soundlessly into the river far below.

Meanwhile, the pickup driver had set up a simple long table on the level grass, with six military canvas chairs placed on either side. No one noticed that Yan Nuo had already left the scene of the execution.

The six drug lords gathered around the table. Yan Nuo, lacking a chair himself, sat perfectly upright on a square granite stone at the head of the table. Even for these worldly criminals, this was a banquet like no other. Imported smuggled champagne had already been uncorked, and tall glasses of it stood before each seat; yet, the tabletop was covered with over a dozen varieties of red wine, three decanters half-filled with their contents. A blue-and-white checked tablecloth was spread across the surface. A row of palm trees grew along one edge of the natural lawn, lending the scene a distinctly tropical air.

Not far away, a chef in a tall white hat was still busy at work. Perhaps influenced by his daughter who had studied abroad, Yan Nuo had ensured the food was a blend of East and West. Lunch was served Western-style, each of the seven men presented with the same dishes. Whole chickens and fish, oven-roasted, lay on freshly opened foil, clearly not prepared in the local fashion. Tender beef was seared into pepper steaks and arranged on gleaming white platters, garnished with crisp green broccoli, bright cherry tomatoes, and golden onions—a feast for the eyes and palate alike.

The only truly local specialty was the sticky rice cakes, prepared with egg and crushed peanuts, spread flat in a bamboo tray, with a side of chopped cilantro and dipping sauces. An array of local fruits, neatly sliced, filled two enormous bowls.

All around, the place was ringed by mountains, bathed in sunshine, shaded by lush trees. If not for the identities of these guests, one might have mistaken the scene for a leisurely retreat in the countryside of Europe.

Two beautifully dressed Tai women poured champagne for everyone. Following the custom of this southwestern region, Yan Nuo, as host, lifted his glass. The others knew a toast was coming. Though these drug lords had little taste for such sickly-sweet foreign drinks—preferring to swig strong Maotai or Wuliangye—they had no choice in the matter. Each raised his glass, ready to celebrate their host’s perfect execution of vigilante justice.

Tall and slender, Yan Nuo was impeccably dressed, his manner restrained and gentle. Yet all knew, should anyone defy his will, he could rage like a wounded bull elephant—among demons, the most fearsome of all.

According to custom, the host must deliver a toast or a brief speech. The men understood Yan Nuo’s ways—he disdained empty words and grandstanding. Raising his glass, he spoke directly: “In our business, even thugs must have principles, honor, and rules. Why? Because this is a dangerous trade. The world sees us as public enemies, heaping every charge upon us, deploying their strongest police, bribing the weakest traitors, sending the slyest undercover agents—all determined to destroy us.”

Yan Nuo’s gaze swept over them. “This is a world full of lethal traps. Outsiders attack us for their own interests—I can accept that. But if someone inside breaks the rules, that brings disaster to our entire network, a fatal blow. Tradition, order, honor—these are the unwritten laws we all abide by. To defy them is to sabotage our shared enterprise. Do you really think I summoned you here just to watch two worthless scum feed the fish?”

The words made the situation clear. The more informed among them could guess what was coming—especially Li Han, who fixed a furious, predatory stare on Sha Ma Weizha.

Seeing the mood set, Yan Nuo continued, voice steady, “Now, someone has broken the rules. Challenging the rules is a death wish. Everyone knows, poaching business is forbidden in any trade.” He paused, took a puff of his pipe, and looked up at Sha Ma Weizha.

After the Spring Festival, Sha Ma had crossed Li Han’s territory to do business with people from Nanning—a fact already known to some. Now it was clear why Yan Nuo had summoned them to Mang City. Poaching business could devastate the market; even in legitimate industries, it was strictly forbidden.

It was a trap with no escape—Sha Ma Weizha would not live to taste the roast chicken. He understood Chinese, though he rarely spoke it, yet his fate was sealed. On Yan Nuo’s turf, there would be no resistance, not even a defense.

Old Dao Bo gave a signal, and Ru A Ya, with two henchmen, silently moved behind Sha Ma Weizha. Ru A Ya held a slender steel wire. If it tightened around Sha Ma’s neck, his carotid artery would split before he even suffocated.

Yan Nuo shook his head, beckoning Dao Bo over. Dao Bo leaned in as Yan Nuo whispered a few words.

Sha Ma Weizha, a fierce Yi tribesman, showed no fear, his dead-white eyes fixed on Yan Nuo. His life or death was in another’s hands, but he would not beg for mercy. No one had ever survived Yan Nuo’s sentence.

Dao Bo gave a look, a silent command. The brawny Ru A Ya nodded, seized Sha Ma by the neck, and dragged him down in full view of all. Sha Ma made no sound—perhaps he did not wish to—as he was hauled like a sack beneath a tree.

It was a prized Yunnan tung, nearly a meter thick and thirty meters tall, perhaps two centuries old—never before used as an instrument of death. Lying on his back, Sha Ma’s wrists were cuffed with two pairs of police handcuffs to a root-grown branch at the tree’s base. Ru A Ya produced a thumb-thick iron chain, binding it tightly across Sha Ma’s ankles. He looked to Yan Nuo, who nodded.

Ru A Ya walked to the pickup. Only then did Tan Xiaoming notice the winch mounted on its front bumper, and realize Yan Nuo’s chosen method for disposing of Sha Ma.

Sha Ma, restrained, did not resist as the pickup slowly approached. Ru A Ya killed the engine, stepped down, pulled out the winch cable, and hooked its heavy clasp to the chain on Sha Ma’s feet. He returned to the driver’s seat, awaiting Yan Nuo’s order.

Sha Ma glared at the silent assembly. Tan Xiaoming sipped his tea and said, “Life and death are fated, fortune is in heaven. Brother, this path was your own choice.”

Li Han drank his wine, his scarred, half-smiling face glowing with satisfaction. He said to Sha Ma, “I didn’t expect Boss Yan to act himself. You should be grateful you didn’t fall into my hands. Boss Yan’s rule is ‘no harm to the family,’ but with me, there are no such limits.”

Sha Ma believed it—Li Han had wiped out whole families before. The thought made him oddly grateful to be made an example by Yan Nuo.

He looked to Yan Nuo, and their eyes met. Yan Nuo understood, returning his gaze with a firm nod—a silent promise that Sha Ma’s family would be safe.

Yan Nuo drained his champagne and declared, “The thing I hate most is killing. After so many years in this trade, I’m weary of it. But some troubles can only be solved by blood. Call it a warning, call it striking fear into the hearts of others—it’s to prevent you all from making the same foolish, destructive mistake.”

He waved, signaling Ru A Ya to begin.

Ru A Ya tightened the winch. It whined, the engine’s roar growing louder, more piercing. Before everyone’s eyes, Sha Ma’s body stretched, stiff as a board, joints snapping with sharp cracks, flesh tearing away in strips.

His blood spattered the earth, his organs flung out with hideous noise.

Yan Nuo raised his glass and poured it over Sha Ma’s corpse, proclaiming, “Not a single plea for mercy! This toast is to you, a true man!”