At the Tuojiang docks in 1988, Chen Fei was a notorious drunk, the laughingstock of the neighborhood.
Who could have guessed that those hands, now only good for holding a wine bowl, had once wielded the steadiest blade on the docks?
Then came an abrupt upheaval. Red oil splashed across the hot pot restaurant, and his brother's blood was still warm. In that moment, Chen Fei dropped his bottle, his gaze colder than steel.
If the tide of the times was going to swallow people whole, then let us see who's fiercer: the outsiders, or the sly “local snake” of this old port.
In this boiling cauldron of the Sichuan-Chongqing underworld, now that I, Chen Fei, have woken up, no one will sleep easy.
