The Phoenix of the Slums

The bruises on Tianming’s ribs ached like fire, but he didn’t complain.

Back at the dojo, Zhao Chenhai examined him under a dim ceiling lamp. Fang Yuwei leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, her expression unreadable as always.

“You’re healing fast,” Zhao muttered. “But you let the blade too close.”

“I adapted,” Tianming said simply.

Zhao smirked. “Arrogance again.”

“No,” Fang Yuwei cut in. “He’s right. Those three tonight weren’t street rats. Someone paid top money to keep him silent.”

Tianming looked up. “You think it’s Li Shengyuan?”

Zhao shook his head. “He wouldn't be so careless. If he sent killers, you wouldn’t be here.”

Fang tossed a photo onto the table. It showed one of the unconscious attackers with a scorpion tattoo on the neck.

“Donghai’s southern docks,” she said. “They belong to Black Scorpion Syndicate. Mercenaries, smugglers, and loan sharks. Their new boss? A man named Qin Jinhai. Ruthless, power-hungry, and always looking for favors from bigger sharks.”

“Meaning Shengyuan might’ve contracted the job through them,” Zhao said grimly. “Clean hands. No trail.”

Tianming picked up the photo.

“I want to meet him.”

Yuwei raised an eyebrow. “You’re not ready.”

“I am.”

Zhao looked into Tianming’s eyes and saw it—no bravado, just ice-cold clarity.

He sighed. “Then we do it my way.”

The Next Night – Black Scorpion Clubhouse, Southern Docks

A smoky room filled with laughter, gambling, and cheap perfume. Thugs lined the walls, armed and half-drunk, and girls danced around a crimson-lit stage.

At the far end sat QinJinhai—a heavyset man with gold chains, a cigar clenched between his teeth, and a cruel gleam in his eyes. He wore a snakeskin jacket and had a jagged scar across his scalp.

Tianming entered through the front door, wearing a tailored black hoodie, hood down, jade phoenix pendant hidden beneath his collar.

The music paused.

Dozens of eyes turned toward him.

Qin leaned forward, amused. “Who the hell are you, little lion?”

Tianming didn’t flinch. “The one you tried to bury.”

Then—movement.

Two bodyguards charged forward.

Tianming dropped low, sweeping one of them with a spinning low kick. His heel smashed into the man’s shin—crack—sending him flipping sideways.

The second guard swung a fist—a wide, clumsy hook.

Tianming ducked, stepped inside the man’s reach, and delivered a straight knee into the abdomen, knocking the wind out of him.

He twisted, using the momentum to elbow the guard in the temple—hard.

The man dropped like deadweight.

The entire room went silent.

Tianming walked toward Qin Jinhai slowly.

“You sent three men to kill me in an alley. They failed.”

Qin’s smirk twitched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tianming reached into his hoodie—and tossed the scorpion-marked patch onto Qin’s table.

“You either give me the name of who paid you—or I make this place my training ground.”

Laughter erupted.

But Qin wasn’t laughing.

He leaned back. “You’ve got balls, boy. But you’re in my pit now.”

Tianming leaned forward.

“No. You’re in mine.”