Dragon and Tiger Clash (3)
Hushan Liang had pegged the applicants' quality as low, but they were surprisingly decent compared to my own expectations. The talent pool of Awakened ability users in the region had been gutted once by the incompetence of communist nobles hungry for private armies, and then again by the Black Sea Party going door-to-door with their "revolution or death" ultimatums. And yet, here and there among them were solid performers with reinforcement coefficients above 5.0. Truly, a vast land breeds vast numbers of people.
The slogan of ability-user resurgence—"If 1.5 billion people unite, the whole world will kneel"—was no exaggeration. India was the only other country that could compete with China on this front. Add China's hegemonic moves to the China-phobia that had spread globally alongside the plague in the first half of the year, and it was clear why anti-Chinese sentiment was only growing stronger everywhere.
A select few who aced the endurance tests, apnea limits, and musculoskeletal durability trials were already brimming with confidence. Introductions were being exchanged among them too—a natural way to build networks. One example went like this.
"No need to hide it. I'm Zhang Jun, the Wave Axe Great Tiger of Foshan's Huadi River. I've come to lend my axe work to the Party and the people's future."
No one had asked, so what was there to hide? As the man who'd apparently made a name throwing and swinging his axe in past fights introduced himself, a bulldog-faced woman let out a sociable gasp of admiration.
"Impressive. I could tell your aura was no ordinary thing."
"And you?"
"Xu Huihui of Huizhou. My friends call me the Wondrous Blade Dragon."
"Your main weapon's a sword?"
"Hardly. I mostly use guns, but once I took down three Black Fiends' necks with three sword strokes in a single skirmish, and the nickname stuck."
"Oh, that's something. Three in one go? No average skill there. We'll probably cross paths with fellow experts often from here on, so let's look out for each other."
One a tiger, the other a dragon. Either way, their mannerisms and speech felt awkward, like they were forcing themselves into idealized self-images in their heads. Kyung-tae looked distinctly uncomfortable listening to it. I figured the guy was being overly sensitive. It couldn't be the mainland's typical bravado he'd seen plenty of in fiction.
To them, this is just traditional culture.
When I'd persuaded Ryan Nielsen of the Pioneer Hunters Brigade in North America, I'd invoked Chinese venture capitalist and former Alibaba chairman Jack Ma, who described his management philosophy as "wuxia-style business." His office was called Peach Blossom Island, his conference room Radiant Summit—both settings from famous wuxia novels, I'd heard. He even gave himself the nickname Wind Qingyang, the old master who taught the protagonist swordsmanship in one of those stories. He encouraged his employees to use nicknames from the novels too, practiced taijiquan, and saw himself as a true wulin man.
Since Jack Ma was such a legendary figure among Chinese people, I'd heard plenty of anecdotes about him from Chinese business contacts. Stories brimming with national pride. Every time, my thought was the same: These chinks have such a short history. Mao Zedong and the Red Guards had smashed and burned all their ancient cultural traditions and heritage, leaving them culturally shallower than even America—at least on that front.
Likewise, in history-poor America, Star Wars became myth, The Godfather legend. Here, wuxia filled those roles. Just as mafiosi modeled themselves after The Godfather, the hunters here emulated wulin masters. From one to ten, it was all the Communist Party's doing.
Among the applicants, I spotted others like Kyung-tae—wincing in discomfort or sneering in contempt. Clearly from a different social class.
"Ugh, fucking hell... Look at this diaosi rotting in his basement, strutting now that he's got some ability. Poor, uneducated trash like that is the problem."
"Tell me about it. It's so cringy I can't even watch."
Diaosi meant lowly dropouts, especially men who couldn't hack it in society. Similar to Korea's "dirt spoons," but with more contempt—or self-mockery.
As they snickered back and forth, trouble was inevitable among the sharp-eared ability users outperforming the normies. The Wave Axe Great Tiger guy who'd introduced himself earlier fixed a menacing glare on them.
"Hey, you. That for my benefit?"
"Wasn't for you, was it? Why eavesdrop on others and make a fuss? Did your parents raise you on wuxia novels? Or do you not even have parents?"
"You crazy bastard, you must be dying to get killed..."
In a country where cursing 18 generations of ancestors was the harshest insult, dragging parents into it with strangers was a blatant invitation to fight. As Wave Axe Great Tiger Zhang Jun rolled up his sleeves and advanced, my men intervened again as security, pulling them apart. Similar scuffles broke out all over the testing grounds. These types were outing their own personalities—no need for a separate character test.
Few who sign up to eat off others' lives have good tempers to begin with.
Truth be told, no one with a stable job switches to risking their neck for a blade's pay, no matter how strong their powers get. So these were Guangdong's bottom-feeders. And filth always sinks to the bottom.
Contrary to popular belief, successful crime syndicates scrutinize recruits' character heavily. Especially trustworthiness and discipline. I'd never seen undisciplined groups last. Even the Mexican cartels weren't exempt—they fractured into civil wars constantly. Los Zetas splintered into three factions in a tripod stalemate, each claiming true legitimacy while eyeing absorption. Meanwhile, Italian mafias like 'Ndrangheta or La Cosa Nostra maintained stability for generations through tight-knit rules and traditions—like mini-societies. Rare organizational culture in the underworld. Internal health, regardless of their antisocial bent.
La Cosa Nostra's tenth tenet: No immoral man can be a made member...
Others: Respect your wife, avoid bars and clubs, keep promises, speak only truth. A parasitic society with its own moral code, distinct from the mainstream.
That was why, as organization head, I obsessed over internal cultural soundness. Crime groups were still people-based enterprises, demanding understanding of human nature and rationality. Immaturity was tolerable; rotten character wasn't.
These locals were just camouflage fillers or auxiliaries anyway. Plenty of my provisional picks for the hunter regiment included these fake wulin posers.
"What's 'equal step crossing' mean?"
Overhearing applicants talk about crossing Foshan's Huadi River via equal step crossing in Black Fiend fights, I asked. Kyung-tae replied in a deflated tone.
"More wuxia stuff... Basically, running on water."
I'd thought it some unfamiliar water-walking technique. Nodding after a moment's thought, I said,
"Not impossible. With enough ability, they could dash across narrow channels. Need a good run-up first, though."
"Yeah, sure..."
No pure human body could run on water unaided. Even I couldn't purely on reinforcement. But with momentum, a few steps skimming waves was feasible pre-magic era. For primitive magic Awakened transcending physical limits, sprinting twenty meters across was trivial—the stride distance made all the difference.
Once average primitive abilities rose further, it'd become a trick relying more on finesse than raw prowess.
Time flew as tests progressed; it was mealtime.
"Since you're here, join me for a drink."
Hushan Liang politely accepted my off-hours drinking suggestion.
"Yes, Vice President."
Gao Xusen's official reason for sending him: observe the process, learn selection for future self-sufficiency. But really, to oversee via proxy. Lacking abilities himself, Gao needed one trusted eye among his three powered lieutenants. Figured it'd make me more cautious.
But look. Hushan Liang showed little interest in his nominal boss's task. No, for his own gain, he couldn't show interest.
"Oh, this is surprising."
He gawked genuinely at the 150 large catering trailers lined in the arena lot. No faking that awe. I'd prepped meticulously to avoid slovenly buffets unfit for Chinese underclass manners. Top-shelf chefs to boot.
"How much did this cost?"
"Money's irrelevant. Business leaves people, not just profit. Who'd stick with a stingy host on food? This feast will spark envy over curses, even from those cut today."
Cheap PR like this? Those who'd never tasted such luxury snapped photos and videos, eyes wide, noses twitching, phones out. My men, strict on test filming before, now just watched.
Hushan Liang flattered agreement.
"Wise words, sir. So many dream of hunter life for a reversal of fortune—they'll go mad seeing this treatment."
"Exactly. Let's eat."
Applicants' tables were outdoors; ours in large tents. At the round table's head, I seated Hushan Liang to my right—unlike last time, offering a drink first.
"Here."
"No, let me pour first."
The Laojiao Tequ, one bottle per person, was clear as water, richly aromatic. I wasn't planning to drain them here. In this land, leaving food and drink was virtue. After emptying glasses and refilling, I idly picked at food, asking casually,
"One question. If I engineer merits for you all again, whose turn is it this time—out of the three?"
Hushan Liang, mid-reach for Xiangyu pork, quietly set down his utensils at my words.