The Torch of Anti-Communism (9)
While I was stuck at headquarters all through March, Gao Xusen's uncle, Gao Ninghui, reclaimed his position as director of the Guangdong Provincial Discipline Inspection Commission. It went beyond washing away that false accusation—it was a complete vindication.
On the day his reinstatement was confirmed, Gao Xusen called with a voice brimming with excitement, expressing his gratitude.
"Truly, thank you. A zero-day vulnerability as a promotion gift... I never could have imagined it."
Even in China, they just called it a zero-day vulnerability.
"The higher-ups must have been thrilled, right?"
"How could they not be? They reinstated my uncle immediately. After the Guangzhou incident, when naval vessels fell to cyber attacks, all of Beijing was obsessed with bolstering online security. Your gift quenched that thirst decisively. Word is, the Ministry of State Security is half-convinced that this vulnerability was exploited in that attack."
The ship where I'd acquired the USB killer had self-destructed under its own antiship missile barrage, and the surviving vessels had been too busy with emergency system restores to preserve any attack data. Emergency restores overwrite existing data with backups, wiping everything clean.
I'd given Gao Xusen the gift as planned because, as expected, the USB analysis had uncovered yet another zero-day vulnerability. With plenty more in reserve, parting with one was no loss.
"My uncle asked me to convey his deepest thanks."
"Tell him I'll visit when I have time."
"Oh, we've imposed on you repeatedly—we should be the ones inviting you. My nephew's wedding is on May 18th. How about then?"
"Hard to say. I won't have time for a while..."
If I had time for something trivial like a wedding, I'd be better off flying to America or Japan. America still had the Kingdom of Fungi and the Trembling Giant to check on this year, and Japan had that island where I needed to prep for chemical weapons procurement.
Or maybe I should start properly stepping on the tails of those slave traders.
With so many priorities vying for attention, ten bodies wouldn't be enough. Our guanxi with Gao Xusen wouldn't crumble over skipping one wedding. A fat red envelope stuffed with cash would suffice. Since he treated me like a sworn brother, I'd need to send enough as his brother's stand-in to save face.
Safety-wise, it seems fine to go.
The micro reconnaissance drones and zero-day vulnerability I'd provided to the Three Inspectors and Gao Xusen were enough to convince Beijing that British agents lurked behind the Guangzhou incident. Every national operation needs time—even in intelligence, where meticulous prep is life or death.
Thus, the British intelligence agency's plan to probe the puppeteer's disappearance wouldn't have taken shape until after I'd left Guangzhou. No matter how much the Round Table pushed, they wouldn't throw elite agents into the fire without prep.
But China's counterintelligence is notoriously tough to crack, no matter the effort—especially with the Ministry of State Security on high alert for Brits. I'd already heard some results through my channels. The Three Inspectors I'd backed had all angled aggressively for Ministry spots after I suggested one should aim there.
Most human intel networks are cellular, collapsing if even one cell is caught. And those three had already brought me several pieces of good news: at least one British spy captured or killed per report.
I snapped out of my thoughts and asked Gao Xusen, "By the way, you said the wedding's in May? Not August or September?"
In China, the prime wedding dates are August 8th or September 9th. Superstition holds that marrying at 8:08 a.m. on 8/8 or 9:09 a.m. on 9/9 brings wealth or lasting happiness.
"Well, the nephew wanted a better auspicious day, but marriage binds families. Sometimes circumstances force it earlier."
In other words, a strategic alliance among noble houses facing turbulent times. With Gao Xusen's star rising daily, the bride's family had to be no small power. From my view, it was guanxi expanding without effort.
"Still, Tuesday the 18th isn't bad for a celebration. You can register later anyway."
"I see."
"You're a man of great deeds, and I've benefited greatly, so I understand if you can't make it. But if possible, please grace us with your presence. My uncle's been looking forward to meeting you."
"I'll try my best, but don't get your hopes up. I've got too much on my plate lately."
The rest of the call turned to business—Chinese people's favorite topic: money. The Huacheng Menglong Corps, which I'd supported by dispatching expert instructors from my smuggling hubs, had finally landed its first national contract.
"It's worth 300 million yuan."
Gao Xusen couldn't hide his excitement.
"Small now, but it's the first step on a bright path. Someday, we'll handle independent ops beyond just supporting military and police. Right?"
"Naturally."
300 million yuan was about 50 billion won—not insignificant. But factoring in salaries, bonuses, and headcount for ability users, it barely covered labor costs.
"Don't worry too much. Every contract under my jurisdiction in public security will go to you and Director Park's corps. We'll sign the first before quarter's end. Those eager to impress me will fall in line."
Me and Miju's corps. He was the real power in the China branch, and that alone—plus his competence and proven ruthlessness in solo assassinations—made him ideal. He found the promotion burdensome, but debts must be paid. Especially after volunteering for another life-debt.
No burden outweighs one's life.
"By the way..."
"Yes?"
After a pause and a cough, Gao Xusen asked sheepishly, "Do you know what Director Park likes? Food preferences, movie genres, gifts she'd appreciate..."
This guy still hadn't given up.
I thought constant suitors would wear down his passion eventually.
Time to instruct Kyung-tae to reinforce evacuation plans for China branch execs. The more self-important the man, the angrier he gets at rejection—or obsessively fixated like a child on the unattainable. For discipline's sake, director-level execs need fitting protection.
A money-loving communist noble wouldn't torch guanxi with me over this—but I prepare for every "what if."
I gathered my thoughts and replied neutrally. "I don't know her tastes that well. I'll check if anyone does."
"Would you? Haha! You're the only one for me."
His hearty laugh grated.
After hanging up, I pondered a wedding gift for his nephew. Cash alone wouldn't impress. It had to suit the in-laws' eyes to leverage the expanding guanxi.
How about an Awakened noble steed?
The idea sparked promisingly. With athletes—lacking or low in primitive magic—retiring and suiciding daily, even famed racehorses faced grim fates.
The racing world's big trend: heavier breeds dominating. Draft horses once ignored now led thanks to awakening odds scaling with biomass. Shires, Percherons, Percherons, Clydesdales, Suffolk Punches—all over 2,200 pounds on average, double the Thoroughbred standard.
Genetic pedigree mattered less. A reinforcement coefficient 5.0 mongrel outvalued a 2.0 purebred.
Thus, old-era champions plummeted in worth. I scooped up the bargains, stashing them at my nearby ranch, etching optimized circuits in stolen hours.
Not a Thoroughbred, even Awakened... A Suffolk Punch it is.
Suffolk Punches, with their lush manes, leg feathers, and tails, topped aesthetics among heavies. The couple would squeal in delight. Prime Awakened heavies were scarce, even for the rich.
End of March brought word: first Native defector arrived in Puerto Vallarta. A Waukulik uprising commando who'd miraculously escaped heroes from the "All-America Hero Association" and militias.
He'd opposed hostage executions during the splintering. "Most shameless, cough, but I can't pay now..." Mashath begged mercy over the phone, voice frail. "Nowhere else to turn. Cough, we'll repay this grace with interest."
Familiar plea. Her misfortune was my long-awaited joy.
America's imperialists repulsed me—no remorse for their invasions. But—at least one plan's unfolding smoothly.
In these snag-filled days, the satisfaction hit harder, outweighing disgust with change to spare.
I replied calmly. "Sheltering one fugitive's no trouble, but given the situation, it won't end there, will it, Miss Mashath?"
"Probably not."
"And you? Are you okay?"
"...Yes."
Her hesitant reply hid the truth. With nooses tightening, how long could the uprising's planner stay hidden? Casino loyalists must be fleeing like rats from a sinking ship. In this crisis, Mashath—needing steely resolve—couldn't even mask her illness over the phone.
"Doesn't sound like it..."
"......"
"Your grandfather's one of my few friends, and you're his granddaughter. Even as a profit-driven businessman, I'd secure your escape gratis. If things get dire, entrust yourself to me without hesitation."
"Your words are so kind, but I can't shirk my responsibility."
"I'm talking about when it's untenable."
"I'll cherish your goodwill always..."
My generosity was as sincere as my loathing for Yankee imperialists. I'd truly shelter her if she fled. For a fresh start, I'd provide forged ID and ample funds—as her grandpa's friend.
A rational leader steps down at the right time. To groom unlearned Natives into terror vanguards, that is.
I offered pity at no loss, then shifted to business tone. "Now, as a businessman: you say you can't pay now—is the casino's management in trouble?"
After hacking coughs, Mashath rasped, "No... Prepared for worst, erased connections..."
"Casino might survive, but your control? Can you vouch its solvency equals yours?"
"That's—"
She faltered. I pressed steadily. "Should've declined last commission. Who knew that bomb would backfire."
I guessed reclaiming Sacred Mountain patched shaky succession, but no need to show it. I was the oblivious helper.
"If your grandfather saw you unfit to lead, Diamond Casino loses my trust. Time to diversify deposits. Inter-tribal guarantees have limits."
"No!" Mashath pleaded urgently. "Even if I'm ousted, cough, our tribe won't forget your grace. Believe me—your assets face no risk. I guarantee it."
Choppy from suppressed coughs. This young chief fretted her tribe's future amid crisis. Curious what she'd do learning traitors among her defended tribesmen had already approached me.
She persuaded fervently—to prevent deposit withdrawals. Only after repeated verbal pledges did she relax, adding at the end: "Please don't tell Grandfather. I beg you."
"Don't worry. I'm not that shortsighted."
Best if the old chief died cleanly now. But relaying shocking news to kill an imperialism's victim would sour my mood—especially with our long acquaintance.
His death wasn't essential. Thus, the dutiful granddaughter's plea meant little.