There were guilds in Malaysia that people argued about.
Guilds whose reputations sparked debates in coffee shops, on university campuses, and across late-night online forums. Some inspired admiration—symbols of heroism in a dangerous world. Others stirred envy or resentment, their strength and wealth placing them far above ordinary citizens. A few inspired fear, their methods questionable even if their results protected the country.
But at least those guilds were discussed openly.
Their actions were visible.
Their leaders gave interviews.
Their battles appeared on the news.
Then there was Chinese Communist Company.
They were spoken of rarely.
And when they were, voices dropped to whispers.
Not because the name itself carried supernatural danger.
But because everyone understood what careless words could bring.
A missing person.
A shop destroyed overnight by "unidentified vandals."
A body discovered days later in a drainage ditch, barely alive long enough to remember what regret felt like.
In a country already strained by Gates, monsters, and the slow erosion of normal life, Chinese Communist Company represented something darker.
They were not chaos.
They were control.
And that difference made them far more dangerous.
The Empire No One Could Touch
Chinese Communist Company—often shortened to CCC—did not begin as a superhuman guild.
It began as a corporate network.
Backed by several top-tier corporations across Malaysia and mainland China, the organization built influence slowly and quietly through ownership, partnerships, and layered investments designed to hide the true extent of its reach.
On paper, CCC appeared harmless.
A logistics group.
A private security contractor.
A shipping conglomerate.
A chain of medical facilities specializing in post-Gate trauma care.
Perfectly legal.
Perfectly respectable.
But beneath those visible operations existed dozens—perhaps hundreds—of shell corporations nested inside one another like endless mirrors.
Tracing responsibility through them became nearly impossible.
If a warehouse burned down, it was blamed on electrical failure.
Insurance paid out.
A new company bought the property.
And that company somehow traced back—three layers removed—to CCC.
If a whistleblower vanished after accusing a shipping firm of illegal relic smuggling, investigators would discover nothing except coincidental travel records and disconnected bank transactions.
When politicians abruptly changed their stance on regulatory oversight, the explanation was always the same.
Pragmatism.
Compromise.
Economic necessity.
There was never proof.
Only patterns.
Patterns everyone recognized.
Patterns no one dared challenge.
That was CCC's true strength.
Not merely power—
But deniability.
Their military strength was undeniable.
Five A-ranked superhumans openly stood at the helm of the organization.
In Southeast Asia, that number alone was terrifying.
Most guilds struggled to support even one A-ranked individual.
Maintaining two was considered extraordinary.
Five placed CCC in a category all its own.
Against such concentrated force, even respected organizations like Peacekeeper or Outcast Society had limited options.
Not because they lacked courage.
But because courage alone did not stop annihilation.
Peacekeeper fought for ideals.
They believed in rescue, stability, and protecting civilians from the chaos brought by Gates.
Outcast Society fought to survive.
They were refugees, abandoned superhumans, and people discarded by institutions too frightened to accommodate them.
Chinese Communist Company fought for something else entirely.
Domination.
And domination required cruelty.
The Blood Chain
At the center of it all stood Cii Pan Zee.
Codename: Blood Chain.
His office tower in Kuala Lumpur rose above the skyline like polished glass and steel perfection.
From the outside, it resembled the headquarters of a thriving multinational corporation.
Inside—
It was a throne.
Cii Pan Zee ruled not through loyalty, but through fear so complete that even senior executives measured every word carefully in his presence.
His ability allowed him to manipulate blood—his own or others'—into solid crimson chains.
Those chains could restrain targets.
Pierce flesh.
Crush bones.
Or worse.
He could bind contracts directly into a person's bloodstream.
Blood contracts.
Agreements enforced not by law—
But by biology itself.
Anyone who violated such contracts suffered catastrophic organ failure.
The body simply shut down.
Sometimes slowly.
Sometimes instantly.
Cii Pan Zee used his ability openly.
Publicly.
Without apology.
He did not inspire loyalty.
He enforced obedience.
He was cruel to enemies because cruelty was effective.
He was cruel to subordinates because fear was efficient.
Within CCC, discipline had nothing to do with morale or respect.
It was survival.
Failures were not corrected.
They were erased.
Sometimes physically.
Sometimes financially.
Sometimes socially.
Executives who disappointed him could lose everything overnight—bank accounts frozen, political allies disappearing, reputations destroyed beyond repair.
Others were executed publicly inside the organization.
Not always violently.
Sometimes humiliation alone was enough.
But the lesson never changed.
Everyone inside CCC understood the same truth.
You were useful.
Until you weren't.
The Five Nightmares.
Beneath Cii Pan Zee stood his five executives.
Each one an A-ranked monster whose reputation stretched far beyond Malaysia.
Meng Kar Rung — The Lizardman
Tall, scaled, and cold-eyed, Meng Kar Rung rarely spoke during meetings.
His body had partially mutated after exposure to an unstable Gate environment years earlier. Dark green scales covered portions of his skin. His pupils were vertical like a predator's, and his teeth looked capable of tearing through steel.
Rumors followed him everywhere.
One story claimed he had eaten a rival alive during a territorial dispute.
Whether it was true hardly mattered.
The reputation alone silenced entire neighborhoods whenever his patrols appeared.
People lowered their heads automatically when he walked past.
Not respect.
Instinct.
Har Ri Mau — The Mad Beast
If Meng Kar Rung represented controlled intimidation, Har Ri Mau embodied violence without restraint.
Massive even among superhumans, he fought with overwhelming physical power and complete disregard for collateral damage.
Where other executives negotiated or manipulated events from the shadows, Har Ri Mau was deployed when terror itself needed demonstration.
When districts resisted CCC control.
When guilds refused submission.
When fear needed reinforcement.
Har Ri Mau did not negotiate.
He destroyed.
Stories about him spread through working-class districts like urban legends.
Walls punched apart.
Vehicles overturned with bare hands.
Entire gangs disappearing after provoking the wrong convoy.
No one knew which stories were exaggerated anymore.
That was part of the fear.
Ke La War — The Vampire
The only woman among the executives.
And perhaps the most feared.
Unlike the others, Ke La War rarely appeared publicly.
Her strength lay in precision.
People vanished under her watch.
No witnesses.
No bodies.
No crime scenes.
Only absence.
Entire investigations collapsed because there was simply nothing left to investigate.
She smiled often during meetings.
A calm, pleasant smile.
That unsettled people the most.
Because everyone understood the same thing:
Someone who could smile that gently while making people disappear was far more terrifying than a monster who screamed openly.
Be Ru Du and Be La Lang — The Death Twin
No one ever remembered which brother was which.
Even their own subordinates struggled to tell them apart.
They moved together.
Fought together.
Killed together.
Their coordination bordered on supernatural.
Entire squads had been eliminated without witnesses—only carefully arranged aftermaths remaining behind.
Bodies positioned with eerie symmetry.
Perfectly mirrored wounds.
Precise cuts so clean they resembled ritual markings more than combat injuries.
Investigators once described the aftermath of a Death Twin operation as looking less like a battle—
And more like a ceremony.
Together, these five executives formed a leadership structure that did not negotiate.
They dictated.
And when they wanted something—
Entire districts learned obedience quickly.
There had once been another.
A sixth A-ranked superhuman.
Zee Ra Fah.
People remembered his name quietly.
The way families remembered relatives whose stories ended badly.
Zee Ra Fah had been powerful enough to stand among monsters.
But he had also been foolish enough to believe strength could serve something better.
He argued for restraint.
For boundaries.
For cooperation with authorities instead of coercion.
He believed Chinese Communist Company could become legitimate.
A real guild.
One that protected citizens instead of exploiting them.
He believed power carried responsibility.
He was wrong.
One night, Zee Ra Fah was summoned to a private meeting with Cii Pan Zee and the other executives.
No one knew what was discussed inside that room.
No recordings existed.
No witnesses survived.
But the next morning, workers discovered a body floating in an industrial canal outside the city.
It took hours for authorities to identify him.
His combat gear was gone.
His powers had somehow been drained.
His bones were shattered beyond recognition.
The message required no explanation.
Change was betrayal.
Decency was weakness.
And strength without cruelty had no place inside CCC.
After Zee Ra Fah's death—
Dissent disappeared.
Not reduced.
Not suppressed.
Gone.
Fear finished what violence had begun.
Among ordinary Malaysians, CCC was never discussed openly.
Shopkeepers lowered their eyes when CCC patrols passed.
Parents called children indoors early if armored convoys appeared nearby.
Street vendors packed their stalls immediately when unfamiliar insignias emerged at the far end of the road.
Everyone learned the rules quickly.
Don't film.
Don't ask.
Don't interfere.
There were always stories.
A shop owner refusing protection payments before losing his business overnight after mysterious inspections shut it down.
A university student posting criticism online before disappearing for a week.
When he returned—
He never spoke about what happened.
His friends said he stopped using social media entirely.
A family relocating without warning.
Neighbors later discovered their home unlocked, meals still half-cooked in the kitchen, their lives abandoned mid-sentence.
No one openly accused Chinese Communist Company.
But everyone knew.
And knowing without proof was the most suffocating kind of fear.
Because fear without evidence could never be challenged.
Only endured.
Yet beneath that fear—
Something else survived.
Hope.
Not loud hope.
Not the kind shouted through protests or painted across banners.
Quiet hope.
The kind whispered between family members late at night over dinner tables.
The kind that surfaced when certain names entered conversation.
Ultimatum.
Sky Fist.
Murim Union.
Legends powerful enough to crush enemies once thought untouchable.
People who had already defeated monsters, tyrants, and horrors the world once believed unbeatable.
Malaysians did not expect rescue.
They were too practical for fantasies like that.
What they hoped for was something simpler.
Balance.
They hoped that one day Chinese Communist Company would simply—
Stop.
That patrols would disappear.
That whispers would fade.
That fear would loosen its grip just enough for ordinary life to breathe again.
No one knew how.
No one knew when.
But in a world where demon kings had fallen and ancient fortresses had crumbled—
Even the most entrenched tyrants no longer seemed eternal.
And so Malaysia waited.
Carefully.
Silently.
Hoping that the most feared guild in its history would someday become nothing more than a warning told to future generations.
A story parents would share with their children about darker times.
A reminder—
Of what happens when power is left unchecked.
And somewhere beneath the sleeping lights of Kuala Lumpur—
Hidden far from public sight—
Jury had already begun sharpening the knife.