The sky above Shenzhen in the summer of 2005 felt oppressively heavy, as if pressing down on the rooftops and bustling streets. In a simple apartment in the Longgang district, the air was stifling and still, interrupted only by the reluctant whirring of an old fan. Zhao Huang, an eighteen-year-old teenager with a sturdy build and fiery eyes, sat before his parents at a worn-out dining table. In his hand, he clutched a piece of paper—his withdrawal notice from Shenzhen No. 3 Public High School.
"Father, Mother, this is my decision," Zhao Huang said, his voice flat yet firm, trying to hide the slight tremor in his fingertips.
His father, Zhao Ming, an electronics factory worker with hard lines on his sun-tanned face, let out a long sigh. His rough hands took the paper, his eyes scanning every line. "Are you sure, Huang? Education is our only way out."
"Yes, Son," chimed in his mother, Shi Mei, a seamstress whose eyes always held a softness despite their hardships. "We can work harder. Your father can work overtime, I can take on more orders..."
"No!" Zhao Huang interrupted, his voice louder this time. "I'm an adult now. I don't want to see Father come home late at night, exhausted, or Mother sewing until her eyes are red and swollen. Let me be the one to earn money. I can work in a factory, be a construction laborer, anything. Let my younger siblings continue their studies."
The brief argument ended with a bitter resignation. Zhao Ming finally gave a slow nod, tears he refused to shed wetting his eyelids. Shi Mei hugged her eldest son tightly, her whisper faint, "You are too good a son for us, Huang."
Two weeks later, the Zhao family decided to move to a cheaper rental house on the outskirts of the city. The journey was made in their old car, a FAW Vita that frequently broke down. Zhao Ming drove carefully, while Shi Mei sat beside him, occasionally glancing back to check on Zhao Huang and his two younger siblings, Zhao Lei and Zhao Mei. As they crossed an intersection on the Beijing-Hong Kong Expressway, a black BMW sped at high velocity from the opposite direction, running a red light.
Zhao Huang's world stopped at the deafening crash of metal.
He woke to a sensation of piercing pain throughout his body and the whine of ambulance sirens in his ears. Through his blurry vision, he saw paramedics lifting him onto a stretcher. He turned his head with great difficulty, and the sight would haunt him forever: inside the wrecked car, his father, Zhao Ming, was slumped over the steering wheel, his head covered in dried blood. Beside him, his mother, Shi Mei, was still strapped in her seatbelt, but her head lolled limply, eyes closed, her face as pale as wax. A policeman stood nearby, shaking his head slowly as he spoke to his colleague, "The two front victims, deceased at the scene. Lost too much blood."
Death had come too fast, too cruel, and too random. At eighteen, Zhao Huang became an orphan, and simultaneously responsible for his two young siblings. The compensation from the company and the driver who hit them was only enough for the funeral costs and a few months of living expenses. The rented apartment could no longer be maintained. With the last vestiges of his strength, Zhao Huang took Zhao Lei and Zhao Mei to stay temporarily at the house of his maternal uncle, Shi Jian, a man whose life was also a struggle. But the burden felt too heavy. He refused to be a parasite. With resolute determination, he left, telling his siblings, "Take good care of yourselves. Your brother will go earn money and come back."
Shenzhen, the glittering metropolis, turned out to have a cruel, dark side. Zhao Huang, without education, skills, or connections, was thrown into the concrete jungle. At first, he scavenged for scraps, worked as a porter at the docks, or cleaned toilets in nightclubs. His money was barely enough, often insufficient for daily meals, let alone sending home. Yet, every few months, he always scraped together some money and visited his siblings at Uncle Shi Jian's house.
These visits were always brief and filled with silence. He would sit on a simple plastic chair, watching Zhao Lei grow taller and Zhao Mei prettier, while listening to his aunt, Shi Li's, subtle complaints about how difficult it was to support two extra children.
"The money you sent yesterday was for Zhao Lei's tuition," Shi Li said one afternoon, serving tea. "Textbooks are so expensive now, Huang."
Zhao Huang just nodded, placing a brown envelope containing cash on the table. "This is for next month, Aunt. Thank you for looking after them."
He never stayed long. It was too painful to see his siblings living in the same poverty, while he couldn't provide more. And there was shame, because of his shabby appearance and the smell of sweat he couldn't hide.
One night, in a dark back alley in the Futian district, a group of local thugs tried to rob him of his earnings from three days of labor—a handful of small change and a pack of takeout rice. His survival instinct flared. That first street fight was messy, full of punches, kicks, and bites. Zhao Huang was outnumbered and beaten black and blue, but he didn't give up. He held on like a cornered animal. One thug tried to choke him from behind. With his last strength, Zhao Huang stomped on the man's foot as hard as he could, then spun around and punched the thug in the base of the throat, making him cough violently.
His calmness and cold ferocity caught the attention of "Old Man Gao," a middle-aged man who was the right-hand man of the small gang boss controlling that area. Old Man Gao, or Gao Qiang, called for him the next day.
"You fight like a madman, but your eyes are sharp, not like the usual riff-raff," said Gao Qiang, sipping his tea in an old coffee shop. "Want to work for me? Guard the place, collect debts. The pay's better than being a scavenger."
Zhao Huang, with his bleak future, nodded. "I have one condition. I won't hurt women, children, or innocent people. I'll only fight those who are asking for trouble."
Gao Qiang was impressed. "Principles? In this world? Alright, let's see how long you can last."
With his new salary, Zhao Huang's life improved. He could rent a small room and send more money to his siblings. His visits became less frequent, but the envelopes he brought grew thicker. During one visit, Zhao Lei, now a teenager, asked, "Brother, what kind of work do you do? How can you get this much money?"
Zhao Huang looked at his younger brother; they both shared Zhao Ming's steadfast eyes. "I work in logistics. Handle shipping. Sometimes work night shifts." It wasn't a complete lie, just omitting that the "shipping" was often illegal and the "night shifts" meant guarding underground gambling dens or nightclubs.
Years passed. Zhao Huang, now twenty-five, was no longer the impoverished teenager. His body was muscular, covered in scars, and his gaze made anyone who met it uncomfortable. He was known as "Mad Dog Zhao," a fighter who knew no fear and always played clean. He only used his fists, occasionally a club, and never blades or guns. His reputation began to spread, though still within certain circles.
A major change came during a conflict with a rival gang from the Nanshan district. This gang, led by a cruel man named Li Kong, was known for not hesitating to use weapons. In a clash at an old warehouse near Yantian Port, Zhao Huang's group was overwhelmed. Li Kong himself, with a pistol in hand, aimed at his head.
"Goodbye, Mad Dog!" Li Kong shouted.
In a split second, Zhao Huang's instincts took over. Survive or die. The principle of playing clean meant nothing in the face of death. His hand swiftly swept the ground, grabbing sand and gravel, and flung it right into Li Kong's eyes. Li Kong screamed, his hands reflexively rubbing his stinging eyes. That was his chance. Zhao Huang snatched a piece of scattered wooden plank and, with a quick, lethal move, stabbed it into Li Kong's eyesocket while it was still covered. Li Kong's scream turned into a horrifying groan before falling silent. The battle ended with Gao Qiang's group victorious. It was the first time Zhao Huang had fought dirty, and the first time he had killed.
From there, everything changed. A deep regret gnawed at him, but it also opened his mind. In this world, there were only the strong and the weak. Violence had to be answered with greater violence. He began to abandon his old principles. Slowly but surely, with cunning, cruelty, and natural charisma, he rose through the ranks. After Gao Qiang retired, Zhao Huang took over. He formed his own group, "Red Dragon," and with brilliant strategy and merciless enforcement, he began seizing territory after territory.
By thirty-five, the "Red Dragon" controlled Shenzhen's entire underworld. Zhao Huang, now nicknamed the "Shark of Shenzhen," had become a completely different man. He lived in a luxurious penthouse, wore designer suits, and was surrounded by bodyguards and advisors. His face was cold, his words brief and authoritative. His businesses expanded into real estate, nightlife, and even began touching the logistics sector. His expansion knew no bounds. With his growing network and power, he began to look beyond Guangdong.
His immense power and wealth allowed him to secure his siblings' future in ways he had never imagined. Zhao Lei was accepted into Tsinghua University, and Zhao Mei studied fashion design in Paris. He bought them and Uncle Shi Jian a luxurious house, though he rarely stayed there himself. His visits almost completely stopped, replaced by very large bank transfers and the occasional brief phone call. He ensured they were protected and far from his dark world, even without their knowledge. During one rare visit, Zhao Mei asked, "Brother, why don't you ever stay long? We miss you."
Zhao Huang, in his expensive Italian suit, stood by the window, looking down at the city. "Your brother is busy, Mei. The important thing is that you're both well." He couldn't let the bloodstains on his hands tarnish the clean life he had built for them.
By forty, his organization had spread across half of Southern China. A secret meeting with a gang boss from South Korea, Kim Jae-Hoon, on a private island near Incheon, resulted in a lucrative deal. Zhao Huang opened the South Korean black market for narcotics and light weapons, while Kim Jae-Hoon gave him access to international trade networks. Within Three years, Zhao Huang controlled half of South Korea's territory, making him the undisputed underworld king, a true "Shark" who mastered the criminal ocean of East Asia.
Success, power, and wealth, however, could not drive away the shadows of loneliness and emptiness. He often woke at night, remembering his parents' fading faces, or recalling Li Kong's dying scream. He never married, had no children. Trust was a luxury he couldn't afford.
One spring morning, at forty-five, while in a meeting with his subordinates at his Shanghai headquarters, he suddenly coughed uncontrollably. A white handkerchief he held to his mouth came away stained with fresh blood.
His personal bodyguard, Zhang Wei, a man who had served him for fifteen years, immediately approached. "Lao Ban (Boss), we must go to the hospital."
Zhao Huang shook his head, wiping his mouth dismissively. "Just a regular cough. Don't overreact."
But the cough didn't subside, and the bleeding became more frequent. After repeated urging from Zhang Wei and his trusted advisor, a former accountant named Chen Bo, he finally agreed to a thorough check-up at the best private hospital in Shanghai.
Two days later, he sat in a luxurious consultation room. Dr. Liang, a renowned oncologist, looked at him with a serious face.
"Mr. Zhao," said Dr. Liang, his voice trying to remain calm. "The CT scan and biopsy results show a malignant mass in your left lung. Small cell lung cancer. Stage four. It has spread to the lymph nodes and liver."
Chen Bo, who was accompanying him, drew a sharp breath. Zhang Wei, standing near the door, clenched his fist.
Zhao Huang himself just sat quietly. His face was like a stone mask. No expression of shock, sadness, or anger. His eyes stared straight at Dr. Liang.
"How long?" he asked, flatly.
"Without intensive treatment... chemotherapy, radiation... perhaps six months. A year, if you're strong," replied Dr. Liang. "But with your condition, and if you respond well to treatment..."
Zhao Huang raised a hand, cutting him off. "Thank you, Doctor."
He stood up, straightening his expensive suit jacket. There was nothing more to discuss. Chen Bo and Zhang Wei followed him out, their faces filled with a despair they didn't dare express.
In the luxury car driving away from the hospital, Chen Bo finally spoke, "Lao Ban, we must start treatment immediately. There's the best clinic in Switzerland, or..."
"No," said Zhao Huang, looking out the window at Shanghai's skyscrapers. "I will not spend the rest of my life lying in bed, vomiting, and going bald from the poison they call medicine."
"But, Lao Ban..."
"Enough, Lao Chen," Zhao Huang interrupted, his tone final. "Handle all business as usual. Don't let this news leak." However, there was one thing he had to take care of. One last responsibility.
That night, in his spacious office, Zhao Huang summoned Chen Bo and Zhang Wei. His face was paler than usual, but his demeanor was still resolute.
"I have a final request," he said, his voice low but clear. "Not an order, but a request."
His two trusted men remained silent, waiting.
"All of us were forced into this world by circumstances. I don't want there to be another Zhao Huang who has to drop out of school, I don't want any child to lose their parents like I did, and end up choosing the path we did." His breath was heavy for a moment, then he continued. "This world... should not be a choice for anyone."
Chen Bo and Zhang Wei glanced at each other; there was something different in their usually stern boss's voice.
"Therefore," Zhao Huang continued, "I will establish the Zhao Foundation. Not just for Zhao Lei and Zhao Mei, but to help children from poor families, those struggling with medical costs, and anyone who is desperate enough to almost choose the wrong path like we did back then."
He looked at Chen Bo. "Lao Chen, you will head this foundation. Use all of our clean resources for this."
Then he looked at Zhang Wei. "Lao Zhang, for all of you who have faithfully followed me... I have a request. Use the inheritance portion I have prepared for each of your families. Quit this world. Start a new, normal life for your children and wives. Don't let them live in fear like you have."
The magnificent office fell silent. Zhang Wei, a hard man who hadn't cried since he was eight, suddenly felt his eyes moisten. Chen Bo took a deep breath, trying to suppress the turmoil in his chest.
"Lao Ban..." murmured Zhang Wei, his voice hoarse. "We..."
"You have been loyal to me for years," Zhao Huang said, for the first time a soft tone in his usually hard voice. "Now let me repay that loyalty by ensuring you and your families can sleep soundly at night, without having to hold a pistol under your pillows."
Chen Bo nodded slowly, tears finally falling down his usually emotionless face. "We understand, Lao Ban. We... we will do it."
"Thank you," Zhao Huang said simply. It was the first time in thirty years he had said those words to a subordinate.
After they left, Zhao Huang sat alone again. Before him lay a blank sheet of paper. With his expensive pen, he began to write, in his upright, characteristic handwriting.
Last Will and Testament
To Chen Bo and Zhang Wei,
If you are reading this, then I am gone. Do not grieve. I chose this path.
All assets, companies, and funds registered under my name, whether in China, Hong Kong, Macau, or overseas, are to be transferred to the Zhao Foundation. This foundation has two purposes:
First, to ensure the lives of Zhao Lei and Zhao Mei, and their descendants, remain secure.
Second, and more importantly: to help children from underprivileged families continue their schooling, to help families struggling with medical costs, and to provide assistance to anyone on the brink of despair so that no one else has to choose the illegal path we took back then.
Chen Bo, you will be the executor of this will and the chairman of the foundation. Zhang Wei, you will ensure the safety of them all.
For the two of you and all our other loyal members: Use the funds I have prepared to leave this world. Start a new, peaceful life for your families. This is my final request.
We were all forced into the darkness. But we can still ensure our children grow up in the light.
Zhao Huang
He folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, and sealed it with red wax, stamping it with his personal dragon seal. He stored the envelope in a secret drawer of his desk, to be opened only after his death.
And that is what he did. For the next three years, Zhao Huang continued to lead his vast empire. He still chaired meetings, still made strategic decisions, still appeared unshakably authoritative. Only, his cough worsened, his once-brawny body began to waste away, and the dark circles under his eyes deepened. He refused all forms of treatment, even the mildest painkillers. The pain was a reminder that he was still alive, that his death was his own, under his own control.
At forty-eight, his body finally gave out. He died in his Macau hotel suite, after winning a big bet at the Baccarat table. A faint smile was etched on his lips, an expression that made the bodyguards who found his body wonder—was it a smile of victory, or relief at finally being free?
Two days later, in a dark and silent room at the Shanghai headquarters, Chen Bo and Zhang Wei sat facing each other. Between them lay the red-wax-sealed envelope with the dragon stamp they had retrieved from Zhao Huang's secret drawer. The air felt heavy, suffocating.
"He really left this," Zhang Wei murmured, his voice hoarse. His hands, usually steady holding a weapon, trembled slightly as he touched the envelope.
Chen Bo nodded slowly. His usually emotionless face was wrinkled with profound sorrow. "He always had a plan for everything. Even for... this."
Carefully, Chen Bo broke the red wax seal. The sound of tearing paper was loud in the room's silence. His eyes scanned every word handwritten by Zhao Huang. The longer he read, the deeper his frown became. His hands began to shake.
Zhang Wei, seeing Chen Bo's reaction, grew more agitated. "What does it say, Lao Chen?"
Chen Bo didn't answer immediately. He finished reading, then placed the letter on the table, pushing it slowly towards Zhang Wei. "Read it yourself," he said, his voice almost a whisper.
Zhang Wei picked up the letter. His sharp eyes began to trace line by line. When he reached the part about the Zhao Foundation being not just for Zhao Huang's family but for helping children from poor families and those struggling with medical costs, his breath hitched.
When he read the sentence: "We were all forced into the darkness. But we can still ensure our children grow up in the light," something inside him collapsed. The burly man who never feared death bowed his head. His shoulders shook.
"He... he thought of everyone until the end," Zhang Wei whispered, his voice raspy. "Even for our families..."
Chen Bo nodded, his eyes also glistening. "All this time we thought he was just a hard, ruthless boss. But in his final moments, what he thought about was how to save us all from the world he had created."
They sat in silence for a moment, each processing the meaning of the will. A letter that contained not just orders, but a sincere request from a leader who, at the end of his life, realized there were things more important than power and wealth.
"My son is six years old," Zhang Wei said suddenly, still staring at the letter. "Last week he asked why his father always comes home late at night and smells strange. I couldn't answer."
Chen Bo took a deep breath. "My wife has been asking me to quit for years. But I always said, this is all I know." He looked at the will. "Now he's given me a reason to quit. And a way to do it."
The next day, Chen Bo gathered all the core members of the organization. In the same room where Zhao Huang used to lead meetings, now stood twenty men who had built the underground empire together. Hard faces, familiar with violence, were now filled with questions and grief.
"Lao Ban has left us," Chen Bo began the meeting. His flat voice this time held an unusual tremor of emotion.
He then read Zhao Huang's will aloud. Word by word hung in the stifling air. When Chen Bo reached the part where Zhao Huang asked them all to leave the criminal world and start new lives, sharp intakes of breath were heard from several in the room.
A member named Wang Jun, his hands covered in tattoos and a gunshot scar on his cheek, suddenly stood up. "He... he really thought of all of us until the end?"
Zhang Wei, standing beside Chen Bo, nodded. "He prepared funds for each of our families. He wanted our children to grow up normal, without having to be afraid like we have been."
The room, usually filled with plans for territorial seizures and revenge, was now filled with a meaningful silence. Many of them, who had lived with violence for years, were suddenly reminded of the families they left at home, of the children who didn't know their fathers' real jobs.
"My daughter will start elementary school next year," said another member named Liu Feng, his voice soft. "I don't want her to one day ask why her father is in jail."
Chen Bo looked at them one by one. "Lao Ban has given us a way out. This is not an order, but a choice. But I personally will honor his final request. I will head the Zhao Foundation, make sure no more children have to drop out of school like he did."
One by one, they began to nod. Wang Jun sat back down, his eyes glistening. "He always protected us when he was alive. Now he's still protecting us even after death."
In the following weeks, the Red Dragon organization began to disband quietly. Funds were diverted to the newly established Zhao Foundation. Many of the old members used the inheritance from Zhao Huang to start legal businesses—some opened restaurants, some entered logistics, some returned to their hometowns to farm.
Chen Bo and Zhang Wei personally visited each member's family, ensuring they had enough funds to start anew. During one visit to Wang Jun's family, his six-year-old daughter asked Chen Bo: "Do you know my father's boss? Father said his boss was very kind-hearted and is paying for my school."
Chen Bo smiled faintly, his eyes glistening. "Yes, dear. Your father's boss was a very good man. He loved all of you."
Zhao Huang's death indeed marked the end of an era. But his legacy lived on in every child who could continue school because of his foundation, in every family spared from poverty, and in every former subordinate who could now sleep soundly without nightmares.
And for Zhao Huang himself, his death was merely a door to a far greater mystery, a new beginning in a strange darkness, where a nameless skeleton began to realize its existence, far from the ocean he once mastered—a king who ultimately chose to become a root supporting new life, no longer a shark terrorizing the ocean.