"Aim at that boat! Attack with everything you've got!"
As the surrounding fishing boats pulled back—some unnoticed, some rescuing the capsized—the president's vessel became Jiang Hai's sole target.
At his command, the two boats under his control, each armed with four 120mm water cannons, instantly locked on.
Four massive streams of water blasted out, smashing against the ship's hull.
The impact sent the vessel swaying violently. Though the strike hadn't caused serious damage, the shock was enough to terrify everyone aboard. Faces turned pale as the crew clung to railings and walls, their expressions frozen in fear.
"Run! Run!" The president, his age betraying his fear, panicked first. He didn't even care about his son—only survival. At his shout, chaos erupted as everyone scrambled.
The ship swung sharply toward Boston. But this time, Jiang Hai wasn't letting them go.
His goal wasn't to scare them off; it was to make them suffer, to teach them exactly who they should never cross.
"Chase them!" Jiang Hai ordered. Edward Anderson and Maren Rupert immediately surged forward in pursuit.
The president's vessel was slower and clumsy, especially under constant bombardment. Jiang Hai's boats hammered it relentlessly, rocking it as though caught in a raging storm. The other fishing boats, watching from afar, wanted no part of this madness. Most fled outright, though some managed to haul the president's son from the sea before retreating.
Jiang Hai ignored them. Small fry didn't matter—only the ringleader.
Wave after wave struck the vessel. Without years of experience at sea, most of the men aboard would have broken already. Even so, seasickness pills were being swallowed desperately, faces green as the shaking grew unbearable.
Windows shattered under the blasts. Thin sheets of metal dented in. The entire ship creaked as if on the verge of collapse.
Aside from the captain, who fought to keep the vessel steady, everyone else clung to whatever they could grab. Jiang Hai, watching their terror, felt an odd sense of satisfaction.
The chase dragged on for more than two hours. By the time land appeared in the distance, both sides recognized it: the Mitchelson-Green Fishing Company.
The company's people soon spotted the battered vessel as well, relentlessly hounded by Jiang Hai's boats.
If Jiang Hai had truly wanted to sink them, he would have concentrated his attacks on one side. Instead, he was toying with them. His No. 1 boat surged ahead, cutting them off, then circled as his other craft pounded them from the opposite side.
The president's ship lurched like a drunkard staggering across the sea. Even watching from shore was enough to make stomachs churn.
But survival instinct pushed them forward. If they reached Mitchelson's shipyard, they believed they'd be safe—Jiang Hai wouldn't dare cause destruction there.
Jiang Hai's men struck harder, clearly intent on stopping them, but desperation lent speed. The vessel scraped along the dock's metal rails before finally grinding into the shipyard.
The ship was a wreck. Its crew were worse—shaken, pale, trembling, yet grateful to have lived.
The guild president collapsed onto a bench, hands quivering. Never again, he swore silently.
"Boss, do you want to keep going?" Edward Anderson asked, watching the wrecked ship crash into the dock.
Jiang Hai considered, then shook his head. Mitchelson wasn't someone to provoke unnecessarily. There was no need to stir more trouble here.
At his signal, the water cannons went silent. Jiang Hai strode to the bow with a megaphone.
"Tenglong Manor's fishing grounds were sold to me by the Massachusetts government. They are my territory! This was only a small lesson. Step into my waters again, and I'll sink you!"
His voice boomed across the harbor, reaching not only the crew but everyone at Mitchelson's yard.
The fact that Jiang Hai had chased them all the way from Winthrop to Boston spoke louder than his words: this man was not to be trifled with.
Satisfied, Jiang Hai turned back inside. His men steered the boats toward Tenglong Manor.
On the way, they passed several vessels—the same fishermen who had earlier come to cause trouble. Now, stripped of their earlier arrogance, they scattered, steering clear of Jiang Hai's path. Not one dared meet his eyes.
Today, they had witnessed his true strength. They wouldn't provoke him again—at least, not without thinking long and hard.
Because unless they were willing to draw real weapons, there was nothing they could do. And if they did… did they really think the Coast Guard would sit idly by?
The Coast Guard owed Jiang Hai plenty. He paid them well, donated often, and funded more than half their equipment. Winthrop's police department, too, thrived off his "donations." He was their benefactor, their godfather.
Just last year, Jiang Hai had given the Coast Guard $5 million to purchase helicopters. The actual cost of those helicopters? Far less. Where the extra went was anyone's guess.
Would they stand by if armed fishermen threatened him? Not a chance.
So neither hard nor soft tactics would work on Jiang Hai. He was stubborn as a bull, and today had proved it again.
"Boss, they probably won't dare return," Edward Anderson murmured, though his face was still serious. "But they'll pressure the state government. That could be trouble."
"I know," Jiang Hai replied calmly. He already expected as much.
The fishermen had suffered heavy losses. They would cry out, hoping for compensation. Jiang Hai had prepared for it.
As his two boats finally neared the manor's docks, the crew realized afternoon had already arrived. The battle, the chase, and the return had consumed the entire morning.
Now that the tension had eased, fatigue and hunger set in.
"Alright, hurry home! We'll prepare a proper feast. Today was a victory—we must celebrate!" Jiang Hai grinned, pulling out his satellite phone to reassure Qi Jie and the others, then told them to prepare a banquet.
By the time the boats docked, his household had already begun preparations. They cast special nets on the way back, catching a 50-kilogram yellowfin tuna and several salmon. Jiang Hai chose a few prime fish and tossed the rest back to sea. Crabs and shrimp traps were set, left to fill overnight.
Back at the villa, the grounds had been cleared for an outdoor barbecue. After a quick steak-and-bread lunch, Edward Anderson and the cowboys fetched firewood. Dulles Gerard and O'Connor Murphy arrived first, bringing alcohol. Later, Robbins Garcia came with his men after herding the cattle, and even a sheep was slaughtered for the occasion.
Qi Jie, Qi Ya, and the others marinated meats all afternoon—steaks, sausages, skewers—while Philemon Turner's wife brought homemade snacks. By sundown, the feast was ready.
At 7 p.m., the bonfire was lit, its flames illuminating half the sky. The celebration began, laughter and music filling the air late into the night.
Meanwhile, in a Boston bar, the mood was far darker.
The guild president sat drinking heavily, his son beside him, wrapped in bandages and wincing with every movement.
"We… lost this time," the old man muttered bitterly.
"Yes, guild leader, that Jiang Hai is inhuman. Using water cannons, ramming us… He's rich and ruthless—he deserves hell!" someone spat nearby.
But their curses changed nothing. They had lost, plain and simple—lost to Jiang Hai, lost to his manor.
The guild leader's son said nothing. Having nearly died, he finally understood: Jiang Hai was no man to trifle with.
"We've lost, but we can't let it end here," the president growled after finishing another drink. "We'll demand justice from the state government tomorrow. We'll force them to give us an answer!"
The fishermen murmured in agreement. Boats were damaged, men injured, two dead. They needed compensation.
But deep down, despair lingered. Jiang Hai wasn't like others. He didn't care for appearances or compromise. How did one fight a man like that?
While they brooded, Jiang Hai's feast roared on into the night. He drank freely, then slipped away with the women. He didn't sleep until dawn.
Still, despite the late night, he woke around ten the next morning—not from restlessness, but from his phone ringing endlessly.
"Hello, give me a moment," Jiang Hai muttered groggily, glancing at the caller ID: Moses Adams. Wrapping himself in a towel, he left the room quietly, not wanting to disturb the women sprawled across the bed, and sat on the toilet as he answered.
"Moses, what's up?" he asked with a sigh.
"Sorry to bother you, boss," Moses said apologetically. "But I have two important matters."
"Go ahead." Jiang Hai's tone softened.
"First, the Fisheries Association. They went to the Massachusetts state government this morning and filed a lawsuit against you. Charges like murder, persecution, land grabbing… all nonsense. The state didn't accept it. But they hinted at a settlement—just a token payment."
Jiang Hai frowned. "And what do those politicians want?"
"They suggested a hundred thousand dollars."
"Give them two hundred thousand," Jiang Hai said lazily. "And tell them—if they keep bothering me, I'll spend two million buying their lives."
Moses smiled. He knew Jiang Hai wasn't bluffing.
"And the second thing," Moses continued, "Google sent a message…"
That caught Jiang Hai's attention.
In Mountain View, California, inside Google's headquarters, co-founders Larry Page and Sergey Brin discussed a mysterious new shareholder—Jiang Hai, who owned 1.2% of the company's stock. While uninterested in board politics, Jiang Hai had made it clear: they could keep the voting rights; he only wanted the dividends.
Larry Page, intrigued by this unusual shareholder, decided to let him test a new product.
That afternoon, Jiang Hai received an email. Curious, he clicked the attached software.
The screen flashed. After authentication, a game opened.
Three small creatures appeared before him—Charmander, Bulbasaur, and Squirtle.
"Pokémon?" Jiang Hai blinked. Tapping Charmander, the phone's camera activated. On the tiled floor, a tiny red creature stared back at him through the screen, eyes wide and adorable…
(To be continued.)