SES Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chongqing – Jiefangbei

Wan Fenghuo strolled leisurely through Jiefangbei, the most bustling part of Chongqing. His pace was unhurried, his demeanor calm and composed, as he passed by sleek, brightly lit modern storefronts and brushed shoulders with countless fair-skinned, beautiful Chongqing women.

In his right hand, he carried a birdcage. At first, he held it casually, but when he noticed more and more people staring, his fingers suddenly curled into a flamboyant orchid gesture.

It had nothing to do with his orientation or mental state—it was simply a whim. In his own words: “That’s called having a sense of humor.”

People around him began to stop and stare; some even pulled out their phones to take pictures. He overheard someone whispering behind him, “Is this cosplay? Man, that uncle’s going all out for his age.”

Wan Fenghuo snorted. Shallow-minded fools. Who’s playing cosplay here?

Inside the cage, the canary flitted about energetically, seemingly indignant and somehow sharing his disdain.

As he passed a high-end international menswear store, the window display featured a tall, roguishly handsome male mannequin, chin lifted at a 45-degree angle, fingers lifting the lapel of a pricey suit jacket to show off a supposedly sexy, alluring plastic chest. Reflected in the glass, comically, was Wan Fenghuo’s ensemble.

He wore a traditional Chinese round-collar robe with wide sleeves and slits at the sides, paired with cloth shoes. If he’d added a melon cap and round sunglasses, he’d have looked exactly like a scheming late-Qing dynasty bookkeeper. But instead of those props, he carried a birdcage—making him resemble the fallen Manchu aristocrats in Lao She’s stories, who, knowing the Qing Dynasty was doomed, spent their days raising hawks and fighting birds in idle despair.

Of course, Wan Fenghuo would never see himself that way.

To him, this was an expression of style, of status—an air of independence and superiority. A prince among men who walked his path. And without this distinct aura, attitude, and behavior, how could he possibly be worthy of such an exceptional profession?

There are 360 trades in the world, each with its legacy. His line of work, too, had deep historical roots. He often told people: Our profession has its own founding master, too.

That master was Bai Xiaosheng, author of The Book of Weapons, a man with extensive connections and insider knowledge, nicknamed “The Know-it-All.”

Being a “know-it-all” was one of the oldest professions around. Because people conceal their true thoughts, smile with daggers hidden behind their backs, and the truth is often tangled and elusive, there has always been an insatiable demand for this trade across time.

Wan Fenghuo was born for it. He had a passion for the business that few could understand. Just imagining how an intangible piece of information could be bought cheap, sold high, or even auctioned off in a bidding war—stirring up a storm that could alter countless lives—made his blood race with excitement.

That’s why he changed his name to Fenghuo—a reference to one of ancient China’s earliest methods of communication: the beacon fire.

Of course, this was a massive market—a giant pie. Anyone, be it a person or an organization, trying to monopolize it would burst from overindulgence. That’s why Wan Fenghuo made a clear-headed, deliberate choice to focus on a specific niche.

He steered clear of anything related to government, military, diplomacy, capital, or finance.

He dealt in only one kind of information:

Underworld intel.

Sometimes, younger folks liked to challenge him on that. In their minds, “jianghu” meant costume dramas and martial arts flicks—something that only existed in old films or novels. In the information age of the 21st century, the idea of the “jianghu” seemed even more outdated and absurd than the traditional robe he was wearing.

But Wan Fenghuo believed that wherever there are people, there is “jianghu.” It had always existed—it had simply changed how it presented itself.

Back then, it was galloping across the ends of the earth on horseback. Now, it was racing around in cars. A beat-up car was the equivalent of a lame old nag, while a luxury vehicle was the modern-day Ferghana steed. Back then, people flipped tables and brawled if they didn’t see eye to eye. Now, they start flame wars online. The essence hadn’t changed.

Maybe the term “jianghu” just sounded too ancient and poetic. If you gave it a trendier name—like “river-lake”—young people might find it easier to grasp.

Wan Fenghuo carried his birdcage up the grimy stairs to the second floor of Old Jiu’s Hotpot. The clock at the entrance showed 10:30 a.m.—far from lunchtime—but the place was already packed and buzzing with noise.

The people of Chongqing loved their hotpot regardless of the season or time of day. It was a deep and lasting love.

He chose an inconspicuous corner seat. The wooden tabletop had a crack filled with a thick, glossy layer of congealed chili oil—something that had built up over many, many meals, almost like fossil layers, each telling its own story.

He ordered a nine-grid hotpot, two full bowls of oil for dipping, nine meat dishes, and nine vegetable dishes. The table was packed. The middle-aged waitress scribbled rapidly on the order sheet, making ticks and marks while still managing to chat with customers.

“Wow, your outfit’s pretty unique, big brother.”

Wan Fenghuo swished his chopsticks through the gradually boiling pot. “I’m an old soul. I like things from the past. All this modern stuff—it’s too noisy, too frantic.”

The waitress remained professionally upbeat. “So I guess you don’t use credit cards either? All cash?”

She tossed out the question casually, not expecting an answer, already rushing off to deliver vinegar to another table.

The hotpot was bubbling now, fragrance wafting in waves. The canary, seemingly eager to eat too, bounced anxiously in its cage. Wan Fenghuo didn’t look at it, calmly dipping food with a scholarly air.

Nine-grid pots were great—everything had its place. Raw and cooked wouldn’t mix, and you didn’t end up biting into half-done tripe by accident. The tofu skin was as thin as paper; a quick dunk in the red broth was enough. He fished it out with his chopsticks, dipped it in the oil bowl where it glistened, and popped it in his mouth.

Just as he was getting into it, someone sat down across from him.

Even through the steam, he could make out the figure clearly: a gaunt middle-aged woman in black, with long straight hair, a long face, and sparse eyebrows—so sparse, they looked like a forest that had been half clear-cut, exposing bare patches at a glance.

Wan Fenghuo instinctively straightened up in his seat.

There’s an old saying: in ancient battles, if a woman or child led the army, you had to be even more careful. Same principle here—if the client was a woman or a child, Wan Fenghuo always gave extra respect.

“Ms. Cen Chunjiao? Buyer or seller?”

“Are you the boss, or just the errand boy?”

They both spoke almost simultaneously. A brief silence followed, broken only by the bubbling of the hotpot.

Wan Fenghuo chuckled. “It’s the modern world. Everyone’s equal. Boss or runner—what matters is being reliable.”

Cen Chunjiao studied him for a moment. “Seller.”

She lowered her voice. “It’s about a decapitation case from over twenty years ago.”

Wan Fenghuo launched into the standard spiel: “Given the state of forensics back then, there are plenty of unsolved murder cases. In your situation, it depends on the value of the leads you provide. As you probably know, we don’t pay deposits. We’ll first let our local contacts review the info and see if any buyers are interested. If they are, it comes down to what price they’re willing to pay. Information, as they say, one man’s treasure is another’s poison. You need the right buyer to get the right price.”

His mouth was a little dry from talking. He waved a server over and ordered a bottle of herbal iced tea.

That woman asking whether he was the boss or just a runner—pfft. She underestimated him. In wuxia terms, maybe he wasn’t the sect leader, but at least he was hall master level.

Strictly speaking, these kinds of in-person meetings weren’t his job anymore. But hey, wasn’t “keeping in touch with the people” all the rage these days? Even President Xi went to eat baozi at a local diner. Wan Fenghuo figured it was like Jack Ma hopping on a bike to deliver a package for fun—it made him feel grounded.

Cen Chunjiao stirred chopped cilantro and scallions in her oil bowl—three clockwise circles, then three counterclockwise. Just stirring. She never once dipped a bite into the hotpot.

Wan Fenghuo offered, “Don’t be shy—dig in.”

“Where I’m from, we use sauce bowls. I’m not used to oil.”

So she was just stirring for the heck of it. But in his line of work, he’d seen all kinds of oddballs. He didn’t mind. “You from the north?”

Cen Chunjiao answered with a non-sequitur: “Ever heard of a place called Luoma Lake in the north?”

China’s huge. With all the little lakes and streams out there, how was he supposed to keep track? Wan Fenghuo was about to shake his head when she continued.

“Over twenty years ago, by the lake, a family of three—two professors and their twenty-something daughter—was slaughtered. It was brutal. The whole place was drenched in blood. When the cops arrived, they couldn’t even find a place to step.”

Wan Fenghuo grunted. Yeah, crime scenes were usually like that. He fished out some overcooked crown daisy greens while wondering why “Luoma Lake” sounded vaguely familiar.

“But that wasn’t the weird part. The weird part was how the bodies were arranged. The limbs, torsos, and heads were all strung together with fishing line, not regular thread, but fishing line. Makes sense—Luoma Lake’s got lots of fishermen.”

Wan Fenghuo had just lifted a piece of ox tripe when he slowly put it back down.

Cen Chunjiao, as if unaware, stared into the bubbling pot like she was seeing a scene play out inside.

“They nailed hooks into the walls. One end of the fishing line was tied to the bodies, the other wrapped around the hooks, arranging the three corpses into a tableau. It was chillingly lifelike. One person shielding their face, like they were hiding. Another holding a knife, grinning maniacally, about to strike. The third pushing their hands out, like trying to break up a fight.”

Wan Fenghuo’s lips suddenly felt dry. He swallowed several times.

Cen Chunjiao squinted slightly, fully immersed in her tale. “They said there were over a hundred strands of fishing line, stretched and crisscrossed across the room like a spiderweb. Every facial expression was dead-on. The angry one had his eyes forced open—two lines specifically to hold up his eyelids. The grinning one had coordinated tension between his eyes and mouth. When the police moved the hand from the face of the third body, they found a gash underneath, right where it had been covering.”

And then she stopped talking.

Wan Fenghuo snapped out of his daze. As if suddenly understanding something, he reached into his inner pocket.

“A down payment of twenty grand. We can talk about the rest later. Ms. Cen, where are you staying? If it’s one of our partner hotels, it’ll be easier to stay in touch.”

As he spoke, he pulled out an iPhone 6.

“Let’s scan QR codes? I can send it to you on Alipay right now.”