SES Chapter 140 Part 2

The cave wasn’t pitch black. Here and there, faint green phosphorescence flickered across the stone.

She turned her head with effort—and saw her left hand stretched out beside her. The nail on her middle finger was… standing upright.

Nails weren’t supposed to do that. They were supposed to lie flat. Why was it sticking up like that?

When the realization hit, pain flooded her vision. Tears burst from her eyes, rolling down her cheeks and dripping into the cold dirt beneath her.

After a long moment, she took a deep breath. With trembling effort, she lifted her right hand and gently, slowly, placed it over her left.

She counted softly. “One… two… three.”

At three, she clenched her teeth and pressed down hard.

—

It was nearly midnight on the China–Myanmar border.

The village was called Naqibo, belonging to the Yunnan–Myanmar border region near Myitkyina.

By day, it was an ordinary place: lazy chickens, tired dogs, and villagers with weathered faces trudging to the fields.

But on certain nights, between eleven p.m. and two a.m., it came alive.

At the village entrance, makeshift open-air tents would spring up like street food stalls.

Some were trading stalls—men poured the contents of canvas bags onto tables: jade, gemstones, uncut stones. The sellers sat cross-legged, shirts open, a green dragon tattoo visible among their chest hair, a waist pouch stuffed with thick stacks of mixed currency.

Some stalls sold seafood—even though the village was nowhere near the coast. Plastic crates tipped over, spilling ice and oysters and shrimp. The menu even featured “Bordeaux Wine Grilled Seafood,” an odd mix of flavors.

Others hosted mahjong tables—no cash, just colored chips. Ten blue for one red, ten red for one gold. When someone took a gold chip, the others’ expressions darkened, and curses flew.

There were also women—gorgeous, long-legged, moving like water through the crowd. One glance was enough to make one of them stop by a man’s side. No haggling, no words—things simply happened.

And then there were the closed tents—black cloth covering the entrance, guarded by muscle-bound men. Only certain people could enter, flashing a half-matched bill or playing card that fit a secret mark.

At two a.m. sharp, everything disappeared. Cars started quietly, lights flicked on, and everyone vanished without a sound.

This was the infamous Naqibo Three-Hour Night Market—known but never spoken of along the China–Myanmar border.

At that moment, Luo Ren sat in one of the seafood tents, perched on a small folding stool. The rickety table before him was propped up on a broken brick to keep it level.

But the food on the table was exquisite—slices of salmon laid thin and glistening over a small mountain of crushed ice, a tiny porcelain dish with soy sauce and wasabi, and a plate of chilled shrimp, translucent as crystal. Occasionally, a shrimp twitched.

The seat across from him was still empty.

Luo Ren poured himself a drink. The ice melted slowly, a round green plum sinking to the bottom of the glass.

A woman approached—red lips, sultry eyes, roses tucked in her corset. Luo Ren handed her a bill and gestured outward.

She understood immediately—he was here to talk business, not pleasure.

Smiling, she plucked one of the roses and slid it into a crack in the wooden table. Its long stem cast a trembling shadow.

“In that case,” she said softly, “the others won’t come bother you.”

That was the rule here.

Luo Ren kept waiting. The night wind passed through the tent. His phone read 11:45 p.m.

Then came heavy footsteps—metal clinking faintly. Luo Ren didn’t look up until Aoki limped into view and sat down across from him.

A steel frame braced Aoki’s right leg. His steps were heavy, and there was something menacing in his gait.

Aoki was around thirty, a sharp-featured Japanese man with a lean but powerful build. His forearms were corded with muscle and marked with vertical Chinese characters.

The tattoo read: “A silver bowl of snow, a white horse in the reeds.”

Luo Ren stared at him, emotion stirring in his chest, his throat tight. After a long moment, he said quietly, “It’s been a while.”

Aoki didn’t use chopsticks. He grabbed a slice of salmon with his fingers, dipped it in soy sauce, and shoved it into his mouth. The sauce dripped down his chin, but he didn’t wipe it away.

Luo Ren picked up the sake bottle to pour himself a drink, but Aoki snatched it, turned it over, and poured the contents onto the ground. The ice cubes hit the dirt one by one, leaving only the swollen green plum stuck in the bottleneck.

Then he took Luo Ren’s cup and emptied that, too.

The staff didn’t even glance their way. They’d seen worse.

“Luo,” Aoki said, “I went to Lijiang.”

Luo Ren looked up. “That painting—was it you?”

“I just wanted to remind you that if I could find you, the Leopard can too.”

Luo Ren fell silent.

Aoki snapped his fingers for another bottle. When it came, he poured for Luo Ren himself.

“I know you opened a restaurant in Lijiang,” Aoki continued. “Playing small-town boss. Got yourself a pretty girlfriend—sweet smile, falls over when the wind blows.”

He leaned closer. “You forgot about us, didn’t you, Luo?”

Luo Ren said quietly, “No.”

Aoki’s eyes burned with fury. The veins on his hands bulged. His lips curled into a cold smile.
Word by word, he said, “You did. You forgot us, Luo. You went and started your own life.”

With a sudden snarl, he flipped the table. Plates shattered, food scattered.

Such a waste of good seafood.

Luo Ren’s phone hit the ground, half-buried in crushed ice.

He bent down, brushed it off, and glanced at the screen.

12:20 a.m.

Why hadn’t Mu Dai called yet?