parentshiftbook Chapter 143 Lin Family Flour Factory
Chapter 143 Lin Family Flour Factory
Chapter 144 Lin Family Flour Factory
The sudden cold snap in Tianjin during spring is even more unbearable than the coldest days of winter.
The wind was blowing from the Bohai Bay, carrying moisture and shards of ice that hadn't completely melted. It whistled through the gaps in the Western-style buildings of the concession, like a broken suona, drilling straight into the bones of people.
The news that Master Lu had been "assassinated and was in critical condition" on Qianmen Street spread like wildfire throughout the lower reaches of the Nine Rivers.
Some sighed, some lamented, and some hid in the gutter, baring their venomous fangs.
On the edge of the French Concession, right next to the Chinese-controlled area, there was a large expanse of red-brick factory buildings.
The tall chimneys should be billowing white smoke and roaring with activity at this time, but today, the place is deathly silent, like a giant graveyard.
Above the main gate hangs a black plaque with gold lettering: "Lin's Minsheng Flour Factory".
This flour mill was the culmination of Lin Shiyuan's life's work, and it was one of the few national industries in Tianjin that could compete with foreign-owned flour mills.
In those days, a bag of flour sold for two and a half silver dollars on the black market, but the Lin family stubbornly kept the price down to only one dollar and eighty cents, saving countless poor lives.
But at that moment, the two heavy iron gates of the flour mill were blocked by several military green trucks.
"Clang!"
A bag of high-quality white flour was roughly thrown out of the factory and landed in a muddy puddle, the white flour mixed with black mud, splattering all over the ground.
"Hurry up and seal off all the machines, you Chinese pigs! Anyone who dares to touch them will die!"
A group of Japanese men dressed in black ronin outfits and wearing wooden clogs were wielding samurai swords and wantonly smashing things in the factory area.
Hundreds of workers dressed in coarse cloth and short jackets were herded like sheep, armed with bayonets fixed, and forced to an open space in the center of the factory area. They were all shivering from the cold, and dared not speak out in anger.
But at the very front of this group of Japanese ronin, there were no Japanese people standing.
Those were twenty-odd Belarusian strongmen, each over two meters tall, with blond hair and blue eyes, and resembling bears.
These men were remnants of soldiers who had fled from Russia years ago. They ended up in Tianjin and would do any dirty work, including murder and robbery, as long as they were paid.
They were all wearing heavy military overcoats, and carrying American goods that were extremely rare even on the black market these days.
Remington shotgun.
The dark, thick gun barrel exuded a violent aura, as if a single shot could turn a person into mincemeat.
The leader of this group of White Russian mercenaries was named Igor.
He stood in the mud where the rain had just stopped, wearing high-top leather boots, not holding a shotgun, but carrying a heavy Czech-made light machine gun in one hand.
The machine gun, which required two people to operate, was as easy for him to handle as a fire poker.
Igor grinned, revealing his large, bushy beard, and exhaled a thick cloud of cigar smoke as he laughed wildly in broken Chinese.
"Listen up, Lin family members."
"Today, the French Chamber of Commerce and the Black Dragon Society have jointly taken over this flour mill. Anyone who doesn't want to die, you'd better squat down."
This is not just about seizing industry; it's a blatant test.
The Japanese wanted to force Lu Cheng out so they could see if the so-called "Light of Chinese Martial Arts," the Living Yama, was truly useless.
If he could still move, this flour mill would be his final resting place.
If he doesn't come, then Tianjin's national industries, the backbone of the martial arts world in the north, will be trampled into the mud by them today, never to rise again.
Meanwhile, in the French Concession, at the Lin Mansion.
The copper brazier in the study was burning very brightly, but Lin Shiyuan felt a chill all over his body.
This comprador, who had been navigating the business world for thirty years, was now pacing anxiously back and forth on the expensive Persian carpet, his gold-inlaid walking stick poking deep dents into it.
"Sir, word has come from the factory that the Japanese and White Russian mercenaries have welded the gate shut, and there are more than 300 workers being held hostage inside."
"They threatened that if we didn't hand over 60% of Lin's Trading Company's shares, they would start killing people before nightfall today."
The butler, Lao Liu, rushed into the study, tears streaming down his face.
"The police station took bribes from the foreigners and didn't even show their faces, claiming it was a security dispute in the Chinese-controlled area and that it was none of their business."
"This is outrageous! They're trying to wipe out the Lin family line!"
Lin Shiyuan slammed his cane down abruptly, his face turning ashen with anger, his chest heaving violently.
He knew this was retaliation for his bailing out Lu Cheng at the police station that night.
The Japanese were telling all of Tianjin that anyone who dared to associate with Lu Cheng would die.
"Old Liu,"
Lin Shiyuan gritted his teeth, a resolute glint in his eyes.
"Prepare the car, let's go to the National Hotel."
"Master, are you going to ask Master Lu for help?" Old Liu was taken aback.
"Besides him, who else in Tianjin can keep these wolves in check?"
Lin Shiyuan sighed deeply, as if he had aged ten years in an instant.
"I know he is seriously injured, but he is, after all, the leader of the martial arts world in the north."
"As long as he's willing to step forward, even if it's just to use his calling card to invite those Grandmasters of Internal Energy he saved, there's still a glimmer of hope. Even if it means giving away all my wealth, I have to save those workers' lives."
Just as Lin Shiyuan was about to step out of the study, a slender hand wearing a white glove blocked his way.
"Grandpa Lin, you're really getting senile."
Song Ziqi, dressed in a sharp British three-piece suit, with his hair slicked back and covered in expensive cologne, strolled leisurely in from outside.
Lin Yudie followed behind him, her eyes slightly red and her expression complicated.
"Ziqi, get out of the way! This is not the time to fool around!" Lin Shiyuan shouted angrily.
"Grandpa Lin, I'm saving you, and I'm saving the Lin family too."
Song Ziqi sneered and took out a pocket watch from his pocket to look at it.
"You're going to beg that opera singer? He's just a useless person lying in bed waiting to die now."
"Even if he's not dead, what would you send him to do? To take up broadswords and spears and fight against White Russian mercenaries with Remington shotguns? That's suicide!"
Song Ziqi snapped his pocket watch shut with a crisp click, his tone brimming with an air of superiority.
"Times have changed, Grandpa Lin. This is the industrial age, the age of firearms. Those old tricks of those thugs are nothing but a joke in the face of real modern force."
"Then what can you do?!" Lin Shiyuan laughed angrily.
Song Ziqi straightened his tie smugly and snapped his fingers.
"Snapped!"
Immediately outside the study door, the sound of uniform military boots could be heard.
A group of fully armed men stood in formation in the courtyard of the Lin Mansion.
These people were not Chinese; they were all foreign retired soldiers, wearing black tactical windbreakers and helmets, and carrying nothing but American-made Thompson submachine guns.
This is also known as the "Chicago Typewriter".
"Grandpa Lin, Yu Die. To deal with today's events, I specially spent ten thousand silver dollars to hire this Blackwater security team from the Shanghai International Settlement."
Song Ziqi's face was flushed, as if he could already see himself saving the Lin family and winning the heart of the beauty.
"Martial arts? That's low-class stuff. Today, I'll show you what real modern force is, and what real diplomatic skill is."
""
"My father is a big shot in Nanjing. White Russians and Japanese alike, once they see this kind of pomp and circumstance and know my status, they immediately have to hand over the factory!"
Looking at the well-equipped foreign mercenaries and then at the confident Song Ziqi, Lin Yudie felt a little uneasy, but in this desperate situation, it seemed to be the only lifeline.
"Grandpa—why don't we let Ziqi give it a try? Mr. Lu—he's already seriously injured; we can't burden him any further," Lin Yudie said softly.
Lin Shiyuan stared at the dark, gaping barrel of the submachine gun, remained silent for a long time, and finally dejectedly put down his walking stick and closed his eyes.
"So be it, so be it—"
Seeing this, Song Ziqi was overjoyed and waved his hand triumphantly: "Let's go, to the flour mill!"
Meanwhile, in a suite on the third floor of the National Hotel.
The room was filled with a strong, pungent smell of Chinese medicine.
The curtains were drawn tightly shut, and the room was dark and oppressive, with no lights on.
Lu Cheng was sitting on that large leather sofa.
He was wrapped in a thick wool blanket, his face was as pale as a sheet of paper, and even his lips were bloodless.
Occasionally, a cough or two would escape from his throat, making his whole body tremble slightly.
If someone who didn't know the details saw this, they would definitely think it was a sickly ghost who had one foot in the grave.
But only Lu Cheng himself knew the earth-shattering changes taking place in his body.
The marrow cleansing process has reached its most critical moment.
That century of refined internal energy had thoroughly seeped into the depths of his bones.
His current weakness is because all his vital energy and blood have been drawn inward to the extreme, and he is accumulating energy before "breaking out of his cocoon and becoming a butterfly".
His divine light was contained within, and his physical body was without flaw.
This is the "fetal breathing" state of a master of internal energy during a breakthrough; it looks like death, but it is actually a state of great life.
"Master."
The door was gently pushed open, and Shunzi and Lu Feng walked in one after the other, both with extremely grim expressions.
Especially Lu Feng, that wolf cub, whose hands were tightly gripping the hilt of the single-edged sword at his waist.
"Something's happened outside?"
Lu Cheng didn't open his eyes, but gently pulled the blanket around himself, his voice weak but extremely steady.
"Master, those Japanese devils and White Russians have shut down the Lin family's flour mill."
Shunzi gritted his teeth.
"They're like a weasel paying respects to a chicken; they're up to no good."
"On the surface, they're robbing the factory, but behind the scenes they're spreading rumors that our Qingyun troupe are cowards, and that you—you're so scared you're hiding in a restaurant pretending to be dead."
"Moreover, they detained more than 300 workers, saying that if they didn't give an explanation before dark, they would kill people as a sacrifice to the flag."
Lu Feng suddenly drew half of his single-edged sword, its cold light reflecting on his face, exuding a murderous aura.
"Sir, we can't swallow this insult."
"That's the Lin family. Old Master Lin just protected us a few days ago. We can't let this favor go unavenged! You rest, I'll take a few junior brothers with me. Even if it costs me my life, I'll take a piece of their flesh!"
"Nonsense."
Lu Cheng slowly opened his eyes.
Those eyes, which had shone brightly on stage, now appeared somewhat cloudy and dull.
He has embodied the spirit of a "sick tiger" to its very core.
"Cough cough————"
Lu Cheng coughed twice. "What good will you do? Be a target for the foreigners' shotguns?"
"But Master—"
"You go."
Lu Cheng interrupted Shunzi and leaned back on the sofa.
"Take the brothers from the Qingyun Troupe to the flour mill."
Shunzi and Lu Feng were overjoyed, thinking that their master was about to order a fight.
However, Lu Cheng's next words were like a bucket of ice water poured over their heads.
"Once you get there, find a place with a good view and stay there. Unless I give you orders—"
Lu Cheng's eyes swept over his two disciples in the dim light.
"You can look, but you can't touch."
"No matter how much they curse or provoke you, even if they spit in your face, you are not allowed to draw your sword."
"unless----"
Lu Cheng lowered his eyes slightly, his voice so soft it seemed a gust of wind could dissipate it.
"Unless someone is going to die."
"Master?!"
Lu Feng and Shunzi were both stunned, their faces filled with disbelief.
Is this still the same master who killed Hua Che with a single spear at Guanghe Tower and caused a bloodbath at Dengying Tower?
Everyone else is pooping on your neck, and you're just watching without doing anything?
"That's my rule."
Lu Cheng closed his eyes and said no more.
"Go."
Shunzi and Lu Feng gritted their teeth, their eyes red-rimmed. But a master's orders are absolute; in the Qingyun Class, Lu Cheng's words were law.
"yes!"
The two clasped their hands in a deep fist salute, turned around and walked out of the room, their backs conveying endless repression and grief.
As he heard the door close, Lu Cheng's lips curled into a barely perceptible smile in the darkness.
He stretched out a pale hand and looked at the lines on his palm.
"No rush—this fire needs to be burned even brighter."
"How can we wipe them out completely if we don't force them to reveal all their tricks?"
In the afternoon, the sky grew increasingly gloomy, and a strong wind swirled fallen leaves and waste paper bags in the open space in front of the flour factory.
-
The atmosphere outside the Lin family's flour mill was extremely tense.
The area outside was surrounded by Tianjin residents who had rushed to the scene after hearing the news, as well as reporters from major newspapers, all with their cameras and microphones.
Everyone's heart was in their throat.
"Beep beep—!"
A long string of car horns blared arrogantly.
Song Ziqi, sitting in a convertible Ford, led his team of "Blackwater" foreign mercenaries, whom he had hired at great expense, and drove in a grand procession to the flour mill.
Lin Yudie sat in the car behind, her face pale, her fingers tightly twisting the hem of her clothes.
On a small hill not far from the flour mill gate, Shunzi and Lu Feng, along with a dozen or so disciples from the Qingyun Class, stood silently in the cold wind, dressed in black short-sleeved shirts.
They carried no weapons, but simply stood there like statues, watching everything as Lu Cheng instructed.
The local people were initially excited when they saw the Qingyun Troupe, but when they saw that there were only a few apprentices, and that they were all hanging their heads without any weapons, they were immediately disappointed.
"Alas, it seems the rumors are true; Master Lu is truly finished."
"The apprentices have all withered like wilted eggplants; what hope is there left?"
The whispers reached Lu Feng's ears like needles. He gritted his teeth, staring intently at the door, barely suppressing the urge to draw his sword.
"Splash!"
Song Ziqi jumped out of the car, straightened his suit, and looked triumphant.
Behind him, the twenty foreign mercenaries, armed with Thompson submachine guns, lined up in a row, their guns pointed directly at the White Russian and Japanese ronin at the gate.
This display is indeed intimidating.
"I am Song Ziqi, a special commissioner of Jinling Customs!"
Song Ziqi held a tin megaphone and shouted at the flour factory gate, his voice filled with arrogant arrogance.
"Listen up, you people inside! Your acts of robbery have seriously violated international law and the regulations governing the concessions."
"I order you to immediately release the workers and withdraw from the flour mill, or I will use modern force to execute you on the spot."
These words were spoken in a grand and imposing manner.
Hearing this in the car, Lin Yudie couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope in her eyes. Perhaps, Ziqi's method really would work?
however.
At the main gate, Igor, the two-meter-tall Belarusian leader who resembled an upright brown bear, picked at his ear.
He glanced at Song Ziqi, then at the mercenaries carrying submachine guns, and suddenly grinned, revealing a set of yellowed teeth.
"Yellow-skinned monkey".
Igor slammed the Czech-made machine gun he was holding onto the ground and spoke in broken Chinese.
"You talk too much nonsense."
Before he could finish speaking...
Igor charged out like a raging bear.
His speed was completely disproportionate to his massive size; he covered a distance of more than ten meters in just two or three steps, appearing directly in front of Song Ziqi.
Song Ziqi was shocked. He hadn't expected that the other party would still dare to make a move when dozens of submachine guns were pointed at them.
"Shoot! Shoot now!" Song Ziqi shouted in terror.
But it was too late.
"Snapped!"
A crisp, clear slap echoed across the open space.
Igor's large, fan-like hand slapped Song Ziqi's greasy face hard.
That slap was incredibly powerful.
Song Ziqi was like a baseball hit with a home run, spinning twice in mid-air before spitting out several bloody teeth with a "plop" and then crashing into a muddy ditch not far away like a broken sack.
That expensive British haute couture suit was instantly covered in foul-smelling black mud.