The rain hadn’t stopped since sundown. It ran in silver veins down the narrow backstreets of Mong Kok, where neon bled into puddles and cigarette smoke curled like ghosts. A single man walked through the chaos, Jin Tao, leather jacket soaked, eyes sharp enough to cut steel. He wasn’t here for peace.
He was here for blood.
Down on Dragonbone Alley, a convoy of black sedans idled. The Zhen Triad waited inside the old fish market, now a den for money and death. Jin adjusted his gloves. His fists were taped. His breath steamed in the air. He cracked his neck and stepped into the alley.
Two guards spotted him instantly, one lit a cigarette, the other reached for his machete.
“You lost, boy?” the smoker said.
Jin smiled, faint and dangerous.
“Yeah. Lost everything.”
The first guard swung. Jin caught his wrist mid-strike, twisted, and drove a rising elbow into the man’s jaw, a brutal Chin Na move that shattered bone and sent him spinning into the wall. The second guard came low with the machete. Jin stepped forward into a Tiger Leap, driving his knee into the man’s chest, forcing the blade free, and slashing upward in one clean arc. Blood hit the neon light like ink.
He kept walking.
Inside the market, bodies lined the gambling tables. The hum of generators echoed over dripping water. The air smelled like old fish and gun oil. At the far end, Colonel Wei, silver suit and cold eyes, sat beneath a paper lantern. Around him were ten men, all killers.
“You came alone?” Wei asked, voice low.
Jin shrugged off his jacket, muscles glistening under the red lights.
“Didn’t think I’d need company.”
The first thug came running. Jin stepped aside and sent a Wing Chun chain punch into his ribs, tat-tat-tat-tat, before finishing with a spinning backfist that dropped him cold. A second came from behind; Jin ducked, rolled over the poker table, grabbed a bottle, and smashed it against the man’s skull.
Three more advanced. Jin grabbed a fish hook from a crate, wrapped the line around his arm, and spun it like a whip, it cracked against one’s face, the hook burying into his cheek. The scream echoed through the market. Jin yanked, dragging him forward, then crushed his throat with a heel stomp.
The others hesitated now. Wei just smiled.
“Still the same angry dog,” Wei said, drawing his blade, a folding dao, black as night.
Jin exhaled, hands open, feet sliding apart into Northern Shaolin stance.
“I learned to bite harder.”
They clashed. Steel against skin. Blade flashing like lightning. Jin dodged, parried, countered with palm strikes that cracked ribs. Wei’s footwork was surgical, military precision, but Jin’s rhythm was chaos, flowing like the river around a stone. When Wei slashed high, Jin rolled under and drove his shoulder into the man’s ribs, sending them both through a rack of old fish crates.
They rose in the mist. Wei kicked a knife across the floor. Jin kicked it up mid-air and caught it by the handle, backward grip. They circled. The city outside moaned with sirens and thunder.
Wei lunged.
Jin trapped his arm, twisting the wrist. The blade flipped, reversed, and found Wei’s side. The colonel gasped. Jin whispered near his ear:
“The monks say every death feeds the wind.”
He let go. Wei staggered backward, blood spilling from his side. The rain poured through the ceiling now, washing crimson into the drains.
Jin stood still, breathing hard, his reflection flickering in the neon puddle.
He didn’t bow. He didn’t pray.
He just walked into the street as the storm swallowed the city whole, a man born from violence, cleansed only by the rain.
He was here for blood.
Down on Dragonbone Alley, a convoy of black sedans idled. The Zhen Triad waited inside the old fish market, now a den for money and death. Jin adjusted his gloves. His fists were taped. His breath steamed in the air. He cracked his neck and stepped into the alley.
Two guards spotted him instantly, one lit a cigarette, the other reached for his machete.
“You lost, boy?” the smoker said.
Jin smiled, faint and dangerous.
“Yeah. Lost everything.”
The first guard swung. Jin caught his wrist mid-strike, twisted, and drove a rising elbow into the man’s jaw, a brutal Chin Na move that shattered bone and sent him spinning into the wall. The second guard came low with the machete. Jin stepped forward into a Tiger Leap, driving his knee into the man’s chest, forcing the blade free, and slashing upward in one clean arc. Blood hit the neon light like ink.
He kept walking.
Inside the market, bodies lined the gambling tables. The hum of generators echoed over dripping water. The air smelled like old fish and gun oil. At the far end, Colonel Wei, silver suit and cold eyes, sat beneath a paper lantern. Around him were ten men, all killers.
“You came alone?” Wei asked, voice low.
Jin shrugged off his jacket, muscles glistening under the red lights.
“Didn’t think I’d need company.”
The first thug came running. Jin stepped aside and sent a Wing Chun chain punch into his ribs, tat-tat-tat-tat, before finishing with a spinning backfist that dropped him cold. A second came from behind; Jin ducked, rolled over the poker table, grabbed a bottle, and smashed it against the man’s skull.
Three more advanced. Jin grabbed a fish hook from a crate, wrapped the line around his arm, and spun it like a whip, it cracked against one’s face, the hook burying into his cheek. The scream echoed through the market. Jin yanked, dragging him forward, then crushed his throat with a heel stomp.
The others hesitated now. Wei just smiled.
“Still the same angry dog,” Wei said, drawing his blade, a folding dao, black as night.
Jin exhaled, hands open, feet sliding apart into Northern Shaolin stance.
“I learned to bite harder.”
They clashed. Steel against skin. Blade flashing like lightning. Jin dodged, parried, countered with palm strikes that cracked ribs. Wei’s footwork was surgical, military precision, but Jin’s rhythm was chaos, flowing like the river around a stone. When Wei slashed high, Jin rolled under and drove his shoulder into the man’s ribs, sending them both through a rack of old fish crates.
They rose in the mist. Wei kicked a knife across the floor. Jin kicked it up mid-air and caught it by the handle, backward grip. They circled. The city outside moaned with sirens and thunder.
Wei lunged.
Jin trapped his arm, twisting the wrist. The blade flipped, reversed, and found Wei’s side. The colonel gasped. Jin whispered near his ear:
“The monks say every death feeds the wind.”
He let go. Wei staggered backward, blood spilling from his side. The rain poured through the ceiling now, washing crimson into the drains.
Jin stood still, breathing hard, his reflection flickering in the neon puddle.
He didn’t bow. He didn’t pray.
He just walked into the street as the storm swallowed the city whole, a man born from violence, cleansed only by the rain.
