Chapter 001: The Underworld

“Have you ever heard of a place called the underworld? Don’t bother looking for it on a map—you won’t find it. Here, there are only rules, codes of honor, and grudges. Different people have different underworlds. If you’ve ever been to mine, you must have heard of Robert Bolton.”

……

April 7, 1980.

Yau Ma Tei.

A neon sign stood on the second floor of the market building, with “Zhou’s Gold Shop” written inside the light strip. Above the sign hung a sauna, to the right was “Xie Cheung Hong Dental,” and to the left was “Chan’s Fruit Stall.”

“Ah Bin, let me do an interview—how did you get into the underworld?” William Brooks handed over an apple. Outside the fruit stall, people came and went, and the traffic was endless.

Robert Bolton wore a blue denim shirt, his hair slanted upward, a few bangs falling down. His face, chiseled and defined, was strikingly handsome.

“My grades in secondary school weren’t great, but I barely managed to get into a public school. But you know, my father’s nickname was ‘Gambling Addict Hero,’ and there was no money at home to support my studies, so I just came out and mixed in the underworld.”

“Is it true that you make money faster in the underworld, and it’s easier to pay off gambling debts?”

“Yeah, I cleared Gao Li Rong’s debt in just a month.”

“What about your father?”

“He went to Macau to gamble again and got himself killed.”

Robert Bolton casually pulled out a butterfly knife, skillfully spun it, and gently used it to peel the apple.

He sat alone, the noisy street behind him only making his solitude more pronounced.

“The underworld is a road of no return. Everyone joins for different reasons. Today, you’re about to be promoted to Red Pole.”

“At eighteen, you’re the youngest Red Pole in Hong Kong in thirty years. You single-handedly led thirty men to help Wo Kee take Yau Ma Tei. Doesn’t that feel impressive?”

William Brooks sat across from him, asking curiously.

“We fight and kill every day. The reputation my brothers and I earned with our lives—what’s a few days of glory worth?”

“You don’t seem very happy,” William Brooks said.

“Yesterday, my sworn brother King died.” Robert Bolton stood up, flicked the butterfly knife, and—smack—hit the bullseye on the target on the wall.

At the entrance of the fruit stall stood a shrine to Guan Gong.

Will was also a man of the underworld, accustomed to placing a Guan Gong statue at the shop entrance. Guan Gong wore green straw sandals; anyone from the underworld would know at a glance that he had backing and wouldn’t dare cause trouble.

Robert Bolton placed the peeled apple in the shrine, reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes, bit one, took out a lighter, lit the cigarette at an angle, exhaled a puff of white smoke.

Then he took the cigarette, its tip glowing red, out of his mouth, snapped the lighter shut with a click, smiled wryly, and stuck the cigarette into the incense burner.

“When you mix in this world, you always have to pay up in the end. Join a triad? This is what they mean by ‘one general’s success built on ten thousand bones!’ Today I’m promoted to Red Pole, last night my brother died a miserable death.”

“King, Little Brian, Little Howard—three years ago, we were full of youthful spirit, a bunch of students who dropped out, swearing to make a name for ourselves in Hong Kong. How many of those students are left now?” That youthful spirit could also be called reckless ignorance.

“If there was a choice, who would want to choose a road of no return?”

Robert Bolton looked at the white smoke, his gaze solemn. “This cigarette is for King.”

William Brooks had only ever heard the name “King.”

One of the Four Heavenly Kings under “Prince Bin.” Now that “Prince Bin” had become a Red Pole, only three of the Four Heavenly Kings remained.

Names like Little Brian and Jack had already been forgotten by the underworld before Prince Bin made his name. Maybe only people from Chi Ko Secondary School still remembered the title “Thirteen Protectors of Temple Street.” As for the rest of the punks, they lost hands and feet, and it was their blood that built Prince Bin’s reputation.

“You’re right—one general’s success built on ten thousand bones. Who can guarantee… that they’ll be that general? If I had a choice, I wouldn’t choose the triad life again either.” William Brooks stood up, sighing. “But you don’t have a choice anymore.”

“I still have a choice!”

Robert Bolton was resolute in his heart.

“Screech.” At that moment, a black Toyota Crown stopped at the entrance of the fruit stall.

A middle-aged man in a brown leather jacket, with a crew cut and ramrod-straight posture, strode in briskly with three young men, charging into the fruit stall.

The middle-aged man in front wore a badge around his neck, exuding an official air, his brows and demeanor full of authority.

All four had bulges at their waists, clearly carrying weapons, looking very sharp.

“Customers are here,” William Brooks quietly reminded, stepping forward to greet them. “What would you gentlemen like to pick out?”

“Pick your star!” The middle-aged officer shoved William Brooks aside.

A young man pinned his shoulder, pushed William Brooks against the wall, raised his hand like a gun and pointed at his head, making a “biu” sound in warning: “William Brooks, now that you’re retired, you’d better behave!”

“Fei Jai Bin!”