Dock District.
Master Liao, dressed in a formal suit, adjusted his top hat and walked through the gates.
"Master Liao, you came too?" An emaciated old man in a black robe, his finger joints thick as knuckles as he toyed with two iron balls, greeted him.
"So it's Master Hong of Iron Mountain Fist."
Master Liao cupped his hands, stepped forward to exchange a few pleasantries, then lowered his voice. "Why have you come as well, sir?"
He had come because he ran a martial arts school and someone had sought him out; he could not refuse on account of personal ties.
But Iron Mountain Fist was more like an ancestral shrine, passed down only among the family's younger generations. With merely two or three stray cats and kittens, there had originally been no need for them to come.
Old Master Hong's left brow bore a fleshy lump. He said flatly, "An unworthy descendant of mine died. This old man came to take a look..."
"I see. My condolences..."
Knowing he had misspoken, Master Liao said no more and followed Old Master Hong into a hall.
This place had originally been the Black Tiger Gang's headquarters, a spacious three-courtyard siheyuan.
Now it was a complete mess. In one corner sat an overturned soup basin, with several gnawed pieces of dog meat beside it...
Inside the hall, a row of corpses lay neatly arranged, each covered with a white shroud.
When Master Liao entered, he saw quite a few martial arts school masters, with their capable disciples standing behind them.
He stepped forward for a round of pleasantries, inevitably engaging in more social formalities.
"Ahem... everyone."
At that moment, a government constable in official robes cleared his throat, and the entire scene immediately fell silent.
The constable was in his forties,