Chapter 56: Lady Gao

Night had fallen.

Robbie lay in bed, the events of the past few days swirling through his mind.

When he first arrived in New York, he intended to find a job to support himself and Gabe. But before long, Master Wong sought him out, offering him a position as the deliveryman and security guard for the “Azeroth Specialty Shop.”

No meals or lodging provided, no weekends or holidays, no health insurance or benefits—on call twenty-four hours a day, ready to go at a moment’s notice.

At first, Robbie refused.

Not to mention his identity as the Ghost Rider, which granted him abilities far beyond ordinary people.

Though he inwardly rejected the Spirit of Vengeance, the powers it bestowed did make him feel, admittedly, a touch lightheaded. Under its constant, subtle influence, he began to feel it was both his right and duty to take the place of the state’s enforcers, judging those who deserved death but had escaped it.

Just as Master Wong mentioned a few days ago, quoting a slogan from that book, “The Story of 105 Men and 3 Women”:

“Do justice on behalf of God!”

The feeling of being able to take a life at will, of standing atop the moral high ground looking down on the masses—even though he appeared low-key, he was increasingly developing a loftier attitude. No matter how formidable the person, they were nothing to him—like that showy, aging bachelor who’d just secured a $10 billion military contract and then vanished.

A Ghost Rider, reduced to a security guard and deliveryman?

Even without these powers, he was confident he was the best amateur street racer and professional mechanic in Los Angeles, making a decent monthly income.

How much could a grocery store guard and deliveryman earn?

No way, he thought. Robbie was above that.

But when Old Wong told him he’d receive a drop of “Essence Wine” each month, Robbie agreed without hesitation.

One drop of Essence Wine was worth a million!

That meant earning thirty thousand a day—far more than a mechanic could make in a month!

Where else could you find such a deal?

Of course, Robbie wasn’t stupid. Such a generous reward meant there had to be a catch—like it being dangerous.

But he wasn’t afraid.

As the Spirit of Vengeance said, Ghost Riders are immortal.

Even if he died, he’d just crawl back out of hell. It wouldn’t be the first time…

True, Robbie himself hadn’t done it, but according to the Spirit of Vengeance, his predecessors had plenty of experience.

Truth be told, as long as Master Wong was around, the specialty shop didn’t need a security guard, nor did it require a deliveryman for now.

Robbie had a lot of free time.

Apart from learning kung fu from Master Wong to better harness his Ghost Rider abilities, most of Robbie’s time was spent, under the Spirit’s encouragement, preparing for vengeance.

Robbie felt a sense of mission.

Every minute, every second, people are being hurt in this world, unable to seek revenge themselves.

He would avenge them—that was the Ghost Rider’s purpose!

According to the Spirit of Vengeance, anyone guilty deserved to die.

It was all too melodramatic, too extreme…

But Robbie was not that kind of person.

He had his own code.

Petty thieves and pickpockets—teach them a lesson, maybe break an arm, a leg, or something more sensitive.

But those who truly deserved to die had no right to waste resources in this world.

“Ding!”

A crisp notification sounded: new mail, pinned and marked in red.

Robbie quickly opened his battered five-year-old laptop and scanned the message.

His face grew increasingly grim.

“The Hand—a thousand-year-old organization, the hidden force behind many of the world’s most shocking disasters: the eruption of Vesuvius, the destruction of Pompeii, the Tunguska event, the Apocalypse Bomb…”

“For over a millennium, the Hand has committed countless atrocities. Their sins are immeasurable…”

“Its members are found in every country—white, black, Asian; across Asia, Europe, the Americas, and Africa…”

“Many of the world’s most notorious gangs are actually the Hand’s branches: the Triads, the Yakuza, the Russian Mafia…”

“Madam Gao is one of the Hand’s five leaders, controlling the manufacture and trade of drugs in New York…”

“To prevent workers from leaking secrets, she blinded them all…”

Robbie clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white.

How could such vicious scum exist in this world?

“Madam Gao must die!”

Robbie stood up and strode outside.

…

New York nights were lively and extravagant; beneath the neon and music, endless crime thrived.

Hell’s Kitchen.

A small, hidden processing plant.

Over a hundred blind Asian faces worked silently on the assembly line.

Each had been taught, step by step, their individual task.

Blind, they had no idea what they were making, what others were making, or even thought to wonder.

Like cults or pyramid schemes, they underwent daily indoctrination, a single idea firmly rooted in their minds:

Our work is sacred.

Madam Gao gave us these jobs, allowed us to provide for ourselves, gave our lives meaning.

For Madam Gao, we willingly blinded ourselves, ensuring there would be no leaks, our work undisturbed.

Madam Gao is our faith.

Without her, we would have nothing.

The scene was eerily quiet, with only the monotonous sounds of blind workers, making the place a world devoid of speech.

A dozen armed men of Asian descent guarded every entrance and exit; their leader patrolled the factory floor.

His name was Zhou Cheng, Madam Gao’s right hand, in charge of drug production and trafficking in New York.

Suddenly, the door opened.

An elderly woman, hunched and leaning on a cane, shuffled inside.

She appeared to be at least seventy, wearing a black jacket and skirt, her hair neatly combed—clearly disciplined, intelligent, and cultured.

In fact, she was more learned than anyone in the mundane world—no historian could speak of history before her.

She herself was history.

“Madam Gao.”

Zhou Cheng, surprised, hurried over and greeted her respectfully, “Weren’t you in Hong Kong? How did you return so quickly?”

“That’s not your concern,” Madam Gao replied calmly. “How are things in New York?”

“We’ve seized a third of the drug trade here; another third is in Wilson Fisk’s hands, and the rest with other gangs,” Zhou Cheng reported. “Rand Enterprises is running smoothly. Since Harold’s resurrection, we’ve kept him imprisoned—his children have no idea the company belongs to you. With Rand as cover, no one suspects our operations. Our partnership with Fisk is stable, though he’s been a bit unruly lately, expanding his own power. Should we warn him?”

“No need. Fisk is smart—he knows the limits of my patience.”

Madam Gao was about to continue when she suddenly turned to one of the exits.

A scream of agony rang out. Zhou Cheng tensed, drew his gun, and growled, “That’s Lin Cheng—something’s happened! Is it the NYPD? No, we have people in the precinct, as does Fisk. Other gangs then? The Russian Mafia, the Yakuza, or maybe the Irish?”

“It’s not them,” Madam Gao’s eyes narrowed. “It’s someone far more terrifying.”

Bang!

The door was kicked open. Robbie entered, chains wrapped around him.

PS: The exact age of the Hand is unknown. Mount Vesuvius erupted in AD 79, destroying Pompeii; Madam Gao herself claims to have suffered hardship in the 17th century, making her at least four hundred years old. The Hand has existed for nearly two thousand years—Madam Gao is truly an ancient monster…