Liang Zhongchun

The North Station warehouse under Yonghua Industries was crowded with people today. From general managers like Gu Yongcheng, who held great power, and gang second-in-command figures like Shi Changxing, down through mid- and upper-level leaders from various companies, representatives from factories, restaurants, casinos, rickshaw pullers, and schools, including principals, teachers, and even faculty and student representatives from Datong University—along with vicious gangsters who usually lived by the blade and took lives at the drop of a hat—they all stood packed tightly together.

They formed a circle. At its center stood a platform made from standardized wooden cargo crates, and they all looked up at the man standing above them.

It was already November. The heavy snow from the day before yesterday had yet to melt, and the biting wind cut to the bone. Wang Yan wore large leather shoes and a trench coat that swayed in the wind. He held his hat in one hand, letting the wind ruin his carefully styled hair; otherwise, it would have carried off the hat instead.

His other hand held a microphone wired directly to several large speakers behind him. As he spoke, his voice traveled through the circuitry and emerged from the speakers, the static altering the rich magnetism of his original voice. To his own ears, it had quite a period flavor. Only with comparison could one feel the difference.

He spoke from above their heads. As he turned with his words, all he saw were upturned faces and pairs of eyes.

Yet though he stood above them, he was not their enemy. He was one of them. Perhaps others did not see it that way, but there would always be people who knew...

"Friends among the workers, leaders great and small, teachers and students, I gathered everyone here today because of