The rain returned by the time Tianming reached the safehouse.
The USB in his palm felt heavier than steel. Not just evidence—a truth waiting to burn.
Inside, Zhao was waiting, arms folded.
“You got it?” he asked.
Tianming nodded and plugged the drive into the encrypted laptop.
Lines of text scrolled fast—transaction records, voice logs, encrypted files. Fang Yuwei leaned over Tianming’s shoulder, eyes narrowing as she skimmed.
Then—a name appeared.
Lu Qingshan.
Tianming's breath hitched. “That’s… my uncle.”
Yuwei’s eyes sharpened. “He’s your father’s younger brother, right? The one who took over the family assets after the incident?”
“After my parents died in that fire,” Tianming whispered, voice tightening.
Zhao’s fingers curled into fists. “Your uncle ordered the hit on you. That means… he knows you’re alive.”
“And he’s scared,” Yuwei added.
Tianming sat back in the chair, heart pounding.
“Why?” he asked aloud. “What does he gain by killing me again?”
Zhao looked at him carefully. “Maybe he always knew the truth. That you were the true heir of the Li family fortune. That your father hid something—something more than money.”
Fang clicked on a hidden folder on the drive—audio recording.
They all listened.
“Keep him dead. If he surfaces, I’ll lose the shares. The board will realign. No more distractions. I want him erased, you understand?”
—Voice ID: Lu Qingshan
Tianming stood slowly.
“That’s all I need,” he said coldly.
Zhao stepped in front of him. “You’re not going to his mansion tonight.”
“I’m not waiting.”
“You just fought four enforcers back-to-back. You’re bruised, tired, angry. That’s not how we move.”
Fang sighed. “He’s right. You want revenge? Fine. But smart revenge. Not some rooftop suicide mission.”
Tianming clenched his jaw. “Then train me. Break me. Whatever it takes.”
Zhao smiled faintly. “Then at dawn, we start phase two.”
Next Morning — Abandoned Warehouse Dojo
The place was soaked in dew, the metal floor cold and slick.
Zhao stood in the center, holding two wooden batons.
“Today we break your bones to rebuild your instinct.”
Tianming tightened his gloves. “I’m ready.”
Zhao attacked without warning.
The first baton came in from the right—Tianming blocked with his forearm, pain lancing through his bone.
But Zhao didn’t stop.
He swung the left baton low—Tianming leapt back, then stepped in again with a right hook punch toward Zhao’s ribs.
Zhao parried it easily, hooked his baton behind Tianming’s ankle, and swept him off his feet.
Tianming slammed to the ground.
Zhao didn’t flinch.
“Again.”
Hours passed.
Sweat dripped. Blood stained the mats. Over and over, Tianming was struck, dropped, thrown—and over and over, he rose.
Each move sharper.
Each breath calmer.
Each dodge more precise.
Zhao finally stopped as the sun reached the window slats.
“Good,” he said. “You're not soft anymore.”
Fang handed Tianming a water bottle and a sealed envelope.
“This came from an old informant,” she said. “Lu Qingshan isn’t alone. He’s working with someone inside the Eastern Group Conglomerate—and they’ve started moving money offshore.”
Tianming opened the envelope and saw a second name.
“Song Rui.”
Zhao’s brow furrowed. “A ghost investor. Nobody’s seen him in ten years. But if Lu’s working with him... this goes deeper than family greed.”
Tianming looked at the rising sun beyond the window.
“Then I’ll burn the whole system if I have to.”