Volume One, Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Heir

On the afternoon before the flying squirrel was ambushed by mercenaries in the small wooden cabin, at four o’clock, the five remaining distributors in Mang City were invited to Yan Nuo’s mansion.

It was their first time entering this mysterious estate. No one could define the style of this compound, surrounded by tall walls and watchtowers.

Yet everyone felt the immense aura emanating from this north-facing, south-oriented courtyard. In ancient times, the south was considered supreme; “north” symbolized defeat. All royal palaces and temples faced south, the noble emperor seated to the south of his lowly ministers. The emperor’s ascension was known as “facing south in majesty,” while defeat was “losing to the north,” and a smaller nation bowing to a greater one was “facing north in submission.”

If one returned to ancient times, even the most powerful figures would dare not truly align their seats along the meridian for fear of taboo. Yet the designer of Yan Nuo’s estate clearly understood feng shui and was unafraid of convention.

The car entered through a southern gate resembling an ancient city tower. Inside, a cement road neatly divided the compound into two functional zones, and the car stopped at the parking lot just within the gate.

A butler, dressed in a linen short-sleeved shirt, approached, pressed his hands together, and introduced himself in fluent Mandarin as a Thai national, then led the drug lords along the cement path deeper inside.

He explained he had studied hotel management in Singapore and served royalty for over a decade. The drug lords immediately grasped Yan Nuo’s reason for hiring him—not only did he possess professional experience, but as a foreigner, he knew no one outside these walls.

The butler explained that the three completed buildings served as reception, offices, and meeting spaces, further astonishing the drug lords. They could not fathom what sort of meetings required such grand halls.

On the right side of the road, three three-story buildings were still under construction, their footprint unclear. They shared a uniform style: foundations packed with impenetrable stone, beams over a meter in diameter and fifteen meters tall encircled the base, painted a regal royal red. The facades were yet unfinished. The roof beams, made of precious Burmese teak, were finely carved, already works of art worthy of passing down through generations. The projecting eaves rose up like the beaks of great birds, converging from all sides toward the roof.

For this border town, the project was truly colossal. Though Yan Nuo had met with trouble, construction pressed on. One could discern the workers’ trades by their tools: carpenters, masons, gardeners, stonecutters, and assorted laborers, all working by hand.

A massive cement mixer rumbled heavily.

Most impressive to the drug lords were the round watchtowers at the four corners of the estate, their gray-black concrete exteriors exuding strength and severity. Each tower reached twenty meters high, with huge searchlights mounted atop open tiers. From the rooftop observation decks, one could overlook the entire Mang City, every movement within sight.

Though sentries could not be seen from below, the gun slits surely concealed vigilant eyes.

“A true fortress!” Li Han, a former soldier, exclaimed with genuine admiration.

“No matter how hard you try, how could that mouse get in?” Tan Xiaoming scratched his head.

These five great drug lords, though poorly educated, had grown wealthy and traveled far, associating only with prominent figures—never had they encountered such a magnificent private residence.

Tan Xiaoming, settled in Yunting and hailing from Bamin, commented in his regional dialect, “What’s that rascal planning? It’s like Chengde’s imperial summer resort in here.”

The other four nodded in agreement; the comparison was apt.

Hei Pi said coldly, “For someone to infiltrate such a tiger’s den and take out Yan Nuo without any weapon—don’t you find that terrifying?”

Li Han sighed, “Perhaps it was another veteran. Such unfair treatment surely provoked them.”

Without the butler’s guidance, the drug lords could tell that the left side of the path was the living quarters. Scattered clusters of buildings likely housed security and staff. The architectural style resembled a military camp; a completed cafeteria opened its doors, with tables and chairs enough for a hundred or two.

At the northernmost end, stretching to the mountain’s foot, stood the castle within a castle—a Japanese-style building surrounded by gray stone walls, which the butler identified as Yan Nuo’s residence.

Outside the Japanese house was a finished but unused standard swimming pool, and an expansive green lawn, seemingly an unfinished golf practice range.

In the northwest corner, a small castle held a tall bamboo tower rising above the stone wall. Clearly, the bamboo lodge was exquisitely crafted, encircled by thick dragon bamboo, its style markedly distinct from the rest of the estate.

The butler led them straight to Yan Nuo’s main hall. Passing through the vermillion gate, they first entered a spacious, well-lit changing room. Following local custom, they removed their leather shoes and put on comfortable wooden clogs.

Stepping out, the drug lords entered a Japanese-style courtyard, with a lotus pond on the inner side. The clogs clacked against the stone slabs, sounding like hooves on hard ground, as if announcing the arrival of guests.

Within the grand hall of the greatest drug lord in the southwest, even these worldly men felt a chill and regret—it seemed, from the layout, more like a trap designed to strangle them.

Though the lights were on, the hall was dim. Eyes, used to the bright plateau sun, were momentarily blinded; the hall felt as perilous as a lair of dragons and tigers.

No, it was as unfathomable as Yan Nuo himself.

They halted in unison, the sound of clogs ceasing together. From the darkness, a gentle woman’s voice drifted out, eerily chilling: “Uncles, you’ve arrived? Please, come in!”

After several seconds, their eyes adjusted to the hall’s lighting, and their apprehension eased. Descending a few steps, they realized the reception hall was a vast semi-basement, its ceiling a domed arch, bare gray concrete without any ornamentation.

Four of them saw two indigo curtains parting in the center, revealing a delicate young woman seated behind a massive rosewood tea table. She did not rise to greet them, appearing proud and untamed.

In front of the tea table were backless huanghuali benches. The five men, uncertain, were guided by the butler to sit in a row facing the girl.

Seated, they saw the girl wore an indigo cheongsam, her skin untouched by makeup, jade bracelets on both wrists. Behind her, to the right, a man sat concealed by the curtain. He had bronze skin, a square face, medium build, his white shirt sleeves rolled up, exuding explosive strength.

He sat with one leg crossed, eyes sweeping over the five men. Tan Xiaoming shivered at the sight. The man smoked, silent, watching as the group settled.

“Uncles, I am Yu Wen’er,” the girl said. Her complexion was fair—not a Saluo native—barefaced, but a faint layer of flesh-colored Saluo medicinal powder brushed across her cheeks.

She began brewing tea with care, occasionally glancing at the guests, who naturally wore expressions of “long admired your reputation.” Indeed, Yan Nuo never concealed his affection and pride for his beloved daughter. Even in front of officials and evil partners alike, he would unabashedly recount Yu Wen’er’s growth, anecdotes, studies, equestrian interests, praise her beauty and intelligence.

This, in fact, was a grave taboo in their world of crime. As he often said, “If your enemy wishes to harm you, they will always start with the one you love most.”