Chapter 4 – The Wuwen Council (The Five Plagues)
The Council's Sanctuary
Beneath the ruins of an old colonial theater, a secret passage led to a subterranean rotunda.
At its center, a circular table of black stone, polished by centuries of oaths.
Around it, five thrones carved from onyx, each marked with a seasonal character: Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter… and that of the Overseer.
The air was thick with incense and silence. Only the crackling of torches cast moving shadows on the mural frescoes depicting the bloody exploits of the founding masters of the Wujian (無間) clan.
The Clan's Origins
Shi Wenye, the central Overseer. A mysterious man whose face remained hidden under a pale hood, rose.
His deep voice echoed through the hall:
"Brothers, remember.
Three centuries ago, Lo Lung Po, the true heir to the Great Martial Sūtra, the Vajra Codex, revealed the forbidden path to the world: the Wujian Dao Quan.
This art, nourished by cruelty and implacability in combat, elevated our ancestors above mere men.
From this fire, the Wujian clan was born.
We were first the blades of the Qing Empire, then the masters of the seas and of blood.
Even today, the underworld bends to our law."
A heavy silence fell, as if even the walls were holding their breath.
The Five Scourges – The Wuwen (五瘟)
Around the table sat the five heads of the Wujian clan's star-shaped branches, called the Wuwen, the Five Scourges.
Each bore the name of a deity and a season.
Wong Po, nicknamed Zhang Yuanbo, head of the Eastern branch — the Scourge of Spring.
Massive, a dark silhouette, a surgical mask concealing a cruel grin.
Dressed in a traditional emerald green robe, he rolled a cinnabar rosary between his fingers.
He ruled the nightlife and red-light districts of Hong Kong.
Gu Xinku, nicknamed Liu Yuanda, head of the Southern branch — the Scourge of Summer.
A man in his fifties, broad-shouldered, a cigar on his lips.
His dark suit, tailored with precision, revealed a sure taste for power and restraint.
The immaculate collar of his shirt contrasted with the surrounding darkness.
His face, weathered by time, remained impassive, but his eyes betrayed a disturbing depth.
Lo Jianming, nicknamed Zhao Gongming, led the Western branch — the Scourge of Autumn.
Elegant, cold, his eyes hidden behind tinted amber glasses.
On his fingers, discreet jewelry: ancient jade, a fine gold signet ring.
The youngest of the Wuwen, but the most powerful economically: he controlled shell companies, arms trafficking, and port logistics from Hong Kong to Southeast Asia.
Lo Jiayuan, called Zhong Shigui, head of the Northern branch — the Scourge of Winter.
A thin, austere man, hands joined like a monk's.
His face was calm, but his eyes burned with a contained intensity, a flame nothing seemed able to extinguish.
His sober attire evoked ancient discipline.
Shi Wenye, the central Overseer, remained an enigma, guardian of balances and ancestral laws.
The Debate
Shi Wenye spoke in a measured voice:
"Zhao Gongming's daughter, Lo Meiqi, has been struck by the Poison of the Six Roots.
In twelve days, her six senses will extinguish: voice, hearing, smell, sight, touch… and finally, her mind."
A murmur ran through the room.
Zhong Shigui, leaning in the shadows, replied in a grave voice:
"That poison has but one antidote.
Only the Ngàu Tay tribe possessed it.
But the tribe… has vanished."
Zhang Yuanbo straightened abruptly, his fist slamming on the table:
"The Ngàu Tay are ghosts of the past!
Someone has awakened them—or seized their secrets.
Who?! The Baolong, perhaps?!"
His words ricocheted off the stone.
Liu Yuanda slowly crushed his cigar in a golden dish.
"Calm yourself, Yuanbo. The dead do not rise without reason.
If they struck, it's because someone guided them.
And that someone… may be sitting among us."
A shiver ran through the room.
All eyes turned to Zhao Gongming, but he did not move.
The torches danced red gleams across his face, like a contained fire.
Zhang Yuanbo sneered, his voice sharp:
"What are you insinuating, Yuanda?
That one of us would want to kill a brother's daughter?
Absurd.
Gongming knows I still owe him my life."
Zhao Gongming slowly raised his head.
His tone was calm, but each word seemed carved from ice:
"Yes. You still owe it to me.
And some debts are never erased."
A long silence fell.
Shi Wenye straightened, cutting the tension with a wave of his hand.
"Enough. Words are blades even blood cannot wash away."
Liu Yuanda continued, in a more neutral tone:
"Ahsan, the Wushang, guardian of the Móhē Wǔjīng.
He alone holds the knowledge that can save Lo Meiqi."
The torches flickered, as if the name alone carried misfortune.
Shi Wenye frowned:
"Ahsan is linked to the Baolong.
Approaching him… risks open war."
Zhang Yuanbo clenched his teeth:
"The Martial Sūtra belonged to the Wujian!
It was Ahsan who stole it, twenty-three years ago."
(He touched the scar on his cheek.)
"This mark… is his gift.
I swear on my blood he will answer for his crimes."
No one spoke.
The silence weighed like a verdict.
Liu Yuanda stifled a scoff, and even Zhong Shigui looked away.
Zhao Gongming finally spoke, his voice deep and slow:
"A team will depart.
Michael. Lucie.
And Sonam, son of Anastasia D'Aureval.
Michael will receive my orders in due time.
I will retrieve the Martial Sūtra.
And it will regain its place… for the glory of the clan."
Shi Wenye struck the floor with his staff; the sound cracked like thunder.
"So be it. Whatever the risks.
Michael, Lucie, and Sonam will carry this mission."
Zhang Yuanbo added, his voice vibrant:
"I have a disciple.
She stands in for me in my affairs… in France.
I lend her to the cause.
She will guide you, with discretion."
Then, raising his head toward Zhao Gongming:
"And if fate demands it… I will follow this team myself."
The Blood Ritual
At these words, Shi Wenye produced a small jade bowl, placed at the center of the table.
Each of the five leaders drew a thin dagger.
In a heavy silence, they sliced the palm of their left hand and let a drop of blood fall into the bowl.
The dark liquid mingled in the jade, forming a deep red that seemed to absorb the torchlight.
Shi Wenye declared in a solemn voice:
"By blood, we swear.
If any among us betrays the Wujian way, may his heart wither and his name be erased."
The five raised their bloodied hands, then closed them into fists before pressing their mark onto the stone table.
The silence that followed was an oath in itself.
Zhao Gongming, without a word, placed his clenched fists on the table.
Blood seeped between his fingers.
His eyes burned with a mute rage.
"Meiqi is my flesh.
If her mind extinguishes, I swear to take Ahsan's with me… in death or beyond."
Then, in a strong voice:
"Brothers of the Wuwen! By blood and by oath!
Nothing breaks us, nothing diverts us.
The clan endures, even in ashes."
All repeated in unison:
"Nothing breaks us, nothing diverts us.
The clan endures, even in ashes."
Lo Jianming left the rotunda unhurriedly, flanked by his two men, dark silhouettes blending into the shadow of the arcades. The procession slipped through the hidden passage, then emerged into the pallid light of a narrow street. He entered the black sedan and said in a cold but steady voice:
"Prepare a flight to France."
One of the two agents, already hunched over a phone, nodded without looking up. Lo Jianming gave a brief order to the driver, a different route, secondary streets, moderate speed, and the car set off, sliding between buildings like a shadow on the wet asphalt.
The rain had stopped recently; the air still smelled of steam and ash. Here, torches were but memories; neon and headlights took over. Lo Jianming's two men remained silent, scanning the mirrors and blind spots, muscles ready. Lo Jianming, behind his tinted glasses, watched the city scroll by, already calculating risks, gains, the next move.
The sedan turned onto an avenue lined with warehouses.
In the rearview mirror, Lo Jianming noticed a shadow following at a distance, the flickering headlights of an unmarked vehicle.
Then nothing. Only the steady rumble of the engine and the contained breathing of his guards.
The headlights of the few vehicles crossing their path extinguished too quickly, as if swallowed by the mist.
An almost imperceptible shiver ran down the driver's neck.
Suddenly, without warning, a black van shot out from a loading dock, blocking the road diagonally. It was too fast, too assured. The headlights blinded him.
The side door slid open: figures leapt out, heavy-shouldered, hands clawed with metal. They were armed with clubs, bars, a few long weapons gleaming. A cry, a guttural order, and chaos erupted in the darkness.
The blood had not yet dried on the asphalt when, thousands of feet below the city, the corridors of the Red Spring were already murmuring the news.
Wan Chai District, Hong Kong, in a back room of the Red Spring, Wang Po was on the phone with his disciple assigned to the mission.
His face was half-drowned in shadow.
In a soft, almost paternal voice:
"You will accompany this expedition.
In the eyes of the Wuwen, you are now one of us."
Then his tone darkened, becoming an icy whisper:
"But do not forget: it was you who planted the needle in Meiqi's flesh.
You who hold her life in your hands."
One of his men knocked and entered after Wang Po's permission.
"Sir, Mr. Lo Jianming's vehicle was ambushed on the road leading to his residence. His driver and two agents were killed. Mr. Lo was injured and is currently in intensive care at the clan's facility. His condition remains critical."
"What exactly happened?" he asked, his voice trembling but contained.
The man lowered his eyes:
"The assailants were numerous and well-armed. They targeted the vehicle directly. Mr. Lo survived, but he is seriously injured."
Wang Po was silent for a moment, feigned emotion, then slowly spun his rosary beads between his fingers.
"Very well," he finally replied calmly. "I will go to France in his place."
A thin smile played on his lips as he stood.
"And before my departure… go pay a visit to my dear brother."
His men exchanged a glance before nodding. Wang Po's smile widened, cold and calculated.
---
Back in Digne‑les‑Bains — Anastasia D'Aureval's House —
Two days had passed since the events in Monaco.
In the room bathed in golden light, Émilie sat, features still pale, watching Lucie play the violin. The bow trembled a little, caught a string, let out a wrong note… then another, which Émilie could no longer hear. To not shatter the moment, Émilie smiled, a gentle, feigned smile. Lucie returned the smile… but understood her "big sister" could no longer hear.
In the hallway, Michael finished gearing up. He tightened his gloves around his hands, gaze fixed straight ahead, ready for action. Beside him, Anastasia D'Aureval approached, accompanied by a massive young man wearing a Tibetan coat with red and gold patterns.
"Michael, let me introduce Sonam Dorje (སྲོང་གམ་རྡོ་རྗེ), my adopted son from Tibet. He will accompany you to Ahsan, in his domain in the Vercors mountains in the Auvergne–Rhône-Alpes region."
Sonam stood straight, an imposing figure with perfectly sculpted musculature, every muscle ready to tense at the slightest threat. And yet, despite this evident power, his face remained surprisingly gentle, illuminated by a tranquil serenity that contrasted with the tension of the moment.
Their eyes met, and the silence grew dense, almost palpable. In that brief exchange, an electric energy seemed to course through the air, each man measuring the other with an intensity that rendered the surrounding world strangely silent. No words were necessary: the strength and determination of each spoke for themselves.
Then, with surprising grace for such a colossus, Sonam bowed deeply.
"Allow me to offer my humble assistance," he murmured, eyes lowered, but this reverence did nothing to diminish the contained power in his gaze.
Michael nodded in agreement, then opened the door a crack.
"Lucie. Get ready. We leave soon."
In the bedroom, the violin had fallen silent. Lucie set down the bow. Her eyes shone with a fierce resolve.
"Hold on, big sister Meiqi… we're going to save you, I promise."
Émilie slowly raised her gaze. A smile brushed her lips, calm, confident, as if, despite the silence, she had heard Lucie's promise.
Michael, with Lucie and Sonam, was about to enter the vehicle headed for Ahsan's hidden domain in the Vercors massif when a message arrived on his phone:
"The boss has been ambushed; he is in care at our hospital. Wang Po has been chosen by the Wuwen to lead operations in his place. The boss's priority is his daughter. No error will be tolerated."
Then a second message:
"One of Wang Po's agents awaits you at the family chalet in Provence; he will accompany you on your mission."
Michael let nothing show, but his fist clenched so hard his knuckles cracked.