King of the Hidden Empire

Azurehaven International Airport A direct international flight from China was slowly descending. Alexander Bishop, wearing a fitted gray-white trench coat and large sunglasses, slung a loose canvas bag over one shoulder and carried a red travel bag in his hand as he briskly followed a striking woman with a confident gait. The woman’s glossy black hair fell past her shoulders. She wore a loose white blouse with rolled-up sleeves, the faint outline of a black bra visible underneath. Her lower half was clad in tight blue jeans that accentuated her firm, shapely figure, and she sported white sneakers — youthful and vibrant. Her snug jeans highlighted her round, lifted backside, drawing Alexander’s gaze behind his sunglasses. That red travel bag belonged to the cool-faced woman. Alexander barely knew her; they’d only met casually, sitting next to each other on the same flight. Alexander, a seasoned man familiar with countless beautiful women, was instantly captivated by her looks and figure, and didn’t hesitate to strike up a conversation. But she showed little interest, barely responding to his few words before ignoring him altogether. That didn’t stop Alexander from pressing on. After they disembarked, he almost forcibly grabbed her luggage to help carry it. “Suit yourself,” the cold beauty said with a chilly glance but no objection. They walked out of the airport side by side. Suddenly, the woman stopped without turning around and held out her hand. “Give me my bag.” “Come on, after all this effort, you don’t want to buy me a drink? Or at least give me your contact info. I don’t have many friends back home — let’s be friends,” Alexander said with a chuckle, still holding onto the red bag as if he wouldn’t let go without a phone number. Bang! Without warning, the woman sharply elbowed him in the stomach. The blow was heavy, causing Alexander to grit his teeth in pain. Next, she grabbed his arm deftly and tried to throw him over her shoulder in a clean, practiced motion — clearly trained in taekwondo. Having been caught off guard once, Alexander quickly reacted. With one hand he pinned her hips, preventing her from bending to complete the throw. Feeling her grip on his backside, the woman quickly let go and swung a sharp slap at him. Alexander caught her wrist, holding her arm firmly. She was slightly surprised at his quick reflexes. That elbow strike would have floored most men, but he seemed unfazed. Before Alexander could tease her, six burly men in black suits rushed out from three parked cars nearby. They immediately surrounded the two of them — clearly bodyguards or enforcers. Alexander, just trying to flirt and not wanting trouble, immediately raised his hands in surrender. Moments later, two of the bodyguards grabbed his arms to restrain him. The woman snatched back her red bag, then planted a powerful knee strike into Alexander’s ribs. “Miss, what should we do with him?” one bodyguard asked. “Let him go,” the woman said lazily, clearly uninterested in arguing further with the troublemaker. She picked up her bag and turned away. The bodyguards reluctantly released Alexander. One of the men opened the door of the middle car, escorted the woman inside, and once the doors shut, all six climbed into the three vehicles, which sped off. Alexander watched the cars disappear, rubbing his aching stomach with a wry smile. He wondered to himself: Have women back home really become this fierce? Nearby, some fellow travelers from the same flight had witnessed the scene. One American approached with concern. “Sir, do you want to call the police?” “Oh, no,” Alexander shrugged casually. “My wife’s just a little upset with me.” The American suddenly understood and patted his shoulder in sympathy. “It’s okay. Buy her some roses, surprise her with a romantic gesture. I’m sure she’ll forgive you.” “Good idea! Thanks!” Alexander shook his hand gratefully. After some brief small talk, a minibus arrived to pick up the international guests. “A beautiful encounter, though not a perfect ending,” Alexander mused to himself, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he recalled the incident. Scanning the area outside the airport, Alexander hailed a taxi and gave the driver an address: “Vanguard International Group.” The taxi sped through the busy business district, finally stopping in front of a towering building marked prominently with the Vanguard International Group logo — a blooming white rose. Before returning to the country, he had known nothing about this company. While traveling the world after leaving the underworld more than a year ago, he’d suddenly received a call from “the old man.” The head of Vanguard International Group, Jonathan Wells, was in trouble, and if Alexander could help, great — if not, no worries. The old man was usually busy gambling and rarely spoke. In all these years abroad, he’d never cared much for Alexander’s wellbeing. This was the first time he’d actually asked him to do something. Since the old man had spoken, Alexander had to pay attention. A quick online search revealed Vanguard International Group was one of the top hundred companies in the country. Alexander found this strange. The old man was skilled but kept a low profile, living as a lazy country bumpkin unwilling to leave his remote village. How did he get involved with the CEO of a major corporation? So Alexander cut his trip short and returned home. The driver noticed he wasn’t getting out and said, “Sir, we’ve arrived at Vanguard International Group.” “Hm... just find a nearby hotel for now,” Alexander said quietly, his eyes fixed on the window view. The driver didn’t object and dropped him off at a hotel close to the building. That night, in a dark room, Alexander lounged by the floor-to-ceiling window, smoking a cigarette and silently staring at the Vanguard headquarters. He pondered whether to get involved. Helping was easy enough, but after more than a year out of the underworld, he didn’t want to risk exposing his dark identity. Even the old man, his adoptive mentor, didn’t know the full extent of his feared past. They respected each other’s privacy and rarely interfered — only checking in occasionally to confirm each other was still alive. He slept in until noon. Wearing just white briefs, nearly naked, Alexander got out of bed and stretched by the window. Then he flipped into a one-finger handstand inside the room. His handstand was unusual — not only did he balance on one hand, but he supported his entire body on a single finger, which stayed perfectly straight and unbent. His nearly naked body was straight as a stone sculpture from finger to toe, sinewy muscles tense and hard like carved rock. He wasn’t bulky like a bodybuilder, just solid and lean, with no excess fat — but now radiating explosive strength and clear, chiseled lines. His upper body was marked with over a dozen scars. Experienced eyes could see six were from bullets of varying calibers, and nine more were cuts from knives or daggers, some long, some short. The marks gave his stone-like physique a weathered, rugged character — like erosion patterns on a weather-beaten statue — full of masculine charm. Every ten minutes, he switched the finger supporting his handstand. This unique skill was called the “Celestial Incense Rite.” Alexander didn’t know its origin — the old man never explained. After rotating through all ten fingers, exactly 100 minutes passed — a habit ingrained over many years. He returned to standing, loosened his joints with a series of cracking sounds, and exhaled a long breath. Relaxing back into a lazy demeanor, he strolled to the bathroom to wash up. After stepping out naked, he picked up the clothes he’d bought yesterday and got dressed: simple jeans and a casual shirt, the whole laid-back look of a young man with no ambition. He hadn’t changed his belt — he pulled the canvas belt from his pants and ran a finger along its edge. With a flick, a sleek black cattle-hair needle popped out diagonally, then was pressed back in. It wasn’t easy to extract without special technique. These cattle-hair needles, forged from special steel, numbered eight hundred hidden throughout the belt. They were Alexander’s essential tools — his secret weapon. Another advantage was that the belt passed security checks easily, looking like a normal steel-reinforced belt, so no one paid it any mind. After tidying up, he grabbed some food in the hotel restaurant, lingering until after the morning rush, then stepped outside, lit a cigarette, and walked toward the Vanguard International Group headquarters. “Sir, how can I help you?” asked a poised and sweet receptionist at the company’s front desk. Another receptionist nearby watched him warily. Alexander lazily leaned on the desk with a teasing smile. “I’m here to see your chairman, Jonathan Wells.” “You want to see our chairman?” The receptionist was slightly startled and sized him up. He was handsome, but his clothes were too ordinary for someone who’d know the chairman personally. With some reserve, she asked, “Do you have an appointment?”