Exiting the main entrance, it was already nine in the evening. Bald Fourth sighed for his colleagues within the hall.
Distinguished underworld bosses, heads of various factions, willingly submitting to a youngster barely in his twenties. Judging by Heilong's actions in Taiwan, it was evident he was a lunatic.
Based on the current situation, it seemed he would be the primary target. Preparations needed to be made swiftly. Although the adage "even a mighty dragon cannot overcome a local serpent" existed, this dragon was exceptionally formidable.
Contemplating this, Bald Fourth felt a twinge of fear and quickened his pace.
"Jia Ren" truly lived up to its reputation as Wuhan's premier nightclub. The parking lot alone could accommodate two hundred vehicles simultaneously. Security was stringent; improperly dressed individuals were denied even approach.
Locating his Mercedes-Benz, an underling ran over to start the car. While awaiting ignition, he retrieved his favored cigar.
Unnoticed, a plainly dressed youth passed by.
Perhaps out of fear, he merely glanced sideways at the bald man before averting his gaze, though his right hand executed subtle movements.
Five meters after the youth had passed, the bald man suddenly clutched his neck, blood erupting almost fountain-like. The unlit cigar fell from his mouth to the ground. His cohorts stared dumbly, failing to comprehend the unfolding events. By the time they reacted, the bald man had already collapsed.
Everything transpired in an instant. The old man standing at the nightclub entrance witnessed it all. He observed the youth passing the bald man confirm the target—the carotid artery—with a peripheral glance. While walking away, his right hand flicked out an exceedingly sharp, thin object. It precisely severed the target; judging by the rate of blood flow, the entire vessel had been cut.
The underlings began shouting. Security guards swarmed around. The bald man's body convulsed ceaselessly. His eyelids fluttered slowly. In his mind, he believed Heilong was responsible, never imagining that his reign of terror would end thus, merely for harassing a young girl and bullying a young beggar, terminated by a fifty-cent razor blade obtained after haggling. If Bald Fourth were still alive, he would likely die of rage again.
The crowd grew larger, densely packed. 13 calmly walked into the empty alley behind "Jia Ren." But after only a hundred meters, he stopped, turning to look at the old man who had been following him for some time, still hiccuping.
"Why are you following me?" Instinct informed 13 that he was perilous.
"Kid's technique is quite elegant. Truly adept at assassination," the old man praised.
"You flatter me. If that is all you wished to convey, I believe I should depart." 13 prepared to leave.
"The younger generation nowadays is truly becoming increasingly discourteous," the old man lamented. "You stole my job; how am I to report back?"
"I was unaware you intended to kill him, otherwise I could have saved fifty cents." 13 felt some regret.
"The kid is indeed amusing." The old man chuckled. "How about this: I haven't encountered a master in a long while. Spar a few rounds with me, and I'll let you go."
"I dislike fighting; it pointlessly expends stamina." 13 had already clenched his fists.
"If you disagree, what you expend might not be stamina, but life." The old man's expression turned severe, his tone carrying a murderous intent. "I dislike killing indiscriminately, especially talented youngsters. After all, formidable individuals are becoming increasingly scarce."
13 ceased speaking and charged towards the old man. He knew escape today was impossible without a fight. Halting before the still-inebriated old man, he threw a simple right straight punch, uncontrolled force seeking a one-punch resolution.
But seeing the old man merely lean slightly aside, the fist missed its mark. 13 realized the naivety of his assumption.
Evading the attack, the old man employed a peculiar hand gesture, neither fist nor palm. A slightly bent backhand struck towards the face of 13, whose forward momentum was unchecked. Forcibly halting his body, 13 retracted his right fist, transforming it into a palm to intercept. Upon contact, immense force transmitted; 13 couldn't help retreating three steps to dissipate the energy, his palm numb.
"Excellent!" The previously listless old man exclaimed. "Never witnessed such a counter-maneuver. Though blocking with the left hand would be superior strategy, seeing your action still compels involuntary praise."
"My knowledge of ancient Chinese fist techniques is limited, but you appear to be using Drunken Fist," 13 stated, flexing his palm.
"This old man has few hobbies besides savoring wine," the old man chuckled.
"Drinking harms the body; perhaps switch to milk in the future." 13 charged again, launching a beautiful spinning sweep kick. The old man bent his knees, leaning backward to an extreme degree, arching his back. He watched the wind-whipped right leg sweep past his face. The right foot landed without purchase. 13's body was now turned away from the old man, completely exposed. The old man straightened, preparing to counterattack. But 13's left leg, still airborne, unexpectedly kicked backward forcefully. 13's posture resembled the number "1" slanted into the ground. The old man clasped his hands together, blocking the suddenly appearing sole, and was forced backward a full meter.
"Magnificent!" The old man applauded. "Creative! If you lack a renowned master's tutelage, it can only mean your combat experience is exceptionally vast. Even my eldest disciple might struggle to defeat you. Unexpectedly, after several years out of practice, such a formidable martial artist has emerged. His death was not unjust."
"Are all old men particularly garrulous?" 13 retracted his airborne leg. "If we're not fighting, I'm leaving."
"You," the old man adopted the Drunken Fist opening stance for the first time. "Allow me to show you what authentic ancient Chinese fist techniques entail."
The old man's expression turned solemn again. He advanced towards 13, his steps seemingly unsteady yet remarkably stable. In moments, he reached 13, attacking with the same hand gesture as before. 13 attempted to block, but just as his right hand made contact, the old man's hand, like flowing wind, deftly evaded, striking 13's undefended chest. Suppressing the urge to vomit blood, 13 retreated to dissipate the force. The old man's second punch arrived instantly. He blocked again with his right arm. The same sequence repeated; 13 simply could not intercept the old man's attacking fists. Each punch bypassed his defense, landing squarely on his body. In the blink of an eye, he had retreated ten meters, yet the old man remained before him, not yielding an inch.
Although 13 was consistently taking blows, the old man's admiration for the youngster grew. He knew the technique employed was named "Flowing Clouds and Water," the pinnacle of close-quarters combat within his self-created Drunken Fist style. Once entangled, escape was impossible, leading only to being beaten to death. Typically, a robust adult male could scarcely retreat five meters without collapsing. Yet this boy before him, seemingly malnourished, had endured no fewer than thirty strikes without showing signs of faltering. Physical resilience was one aspect, but his parrying right hand played an undeniable role. Though appearing to evade the blocks, he subtly altered his arm's posture, disrupting the attack trajectory. The punches landed, but frustratingly, without full force. Otherwise, based on the initial blow that forced a three-step retreat, 13 surviving even five meters would be wishful thinking. Most terrifyingly, the old man noticed, throughout the protracted exchange, he had used only one hand!
Another attack sequence concluded. The old man retracted his right fist as usual, preparing to follow with his left. But an unexpected scene unfolded. 13's blocking right hand suddenly shot out, two fingers locking onto the old man's wrist. Before the old man could react, his concentration momentarily lapsed, and his attacking left hand was also seized. 13 revealed a peculiar smile. Exerting force through his legs, he executed a forward push. The old man was forcibly propelled several meters backward. Fortunately, decades of cultivation were not in vain. He swiftly regained balance and halted, a metallic taste rising in his mouth.
"Tai Chi Push Hands!" the old man exclaimed in amazement. "You know Tai Chi?"
13 wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth.
"Could it be my disciple died at your hands?!" The old man was precisely One-Eye's master.
"I do not know Tai Chi. That technique was taught to me by a former teammate," 13 referred to 36. "He didn't inform me it was Tai Chi; I initially presumed it was merely a technique for generating force."
"Unexpectedly, my self-proclaimed 'Flowing Clouds and Water' was neutralized by your single hand," the old man sighed. "It seems I underestimated you."
"It was not as effortless as you suggest." 13 touched his still heaving chest. "Initially, I could have grasped your movement pattern after the first three strikes. But then you accelerated. Each subsequent strike varied. Only after being struck forty times did I finally discern the pattern. Your so-called 'Flowing Clouds and Water' is not entirely unpredictable."
13 held up four fingers. "You were tracing circles. Forty strikes constitute one cycle. Endure those forty, and you return to the initial attack path, allowing capture."
"Impressive!" The old man cupped his fist in a traditional martial arts salute. "To decipher a technique that took me five years to create after just one encounter."
"May I leave now?" 13 asked calmly, though his internal organs churned.
"Two questions: why do you not use your left hand? And did a master impart this knowledge?" The old man looked steadfastly at 13.
"If I could use my left hand, I wouldn't have fared so poorly against you. I have no habit of holding back. Fighting with utmost effort is how I have survived until now. My only instruction has come from relentless combat." Having answered, 13 turned to depart.
"Wait, lad. If you are willing to become my disciple, I guarantee you can become even stronger than you are now." The old man voiced his true desire; since One-Eye's death, his legacy remained uninherited.
"Actually..." 13 paused, turning back to face the old man, his gaze like that of a king standing at the apex. "I detest power."
The old man did not perceive 13's statement as arrogance; that gaze confirmed his capability.
Upon returning to the main hall, Heilong had concluded his discussions. Everyone had already departed. Only he remained, reclining obliquely on the plush sofa, savoring a century-old French red wine he had brought.
"Mission accomplished? Why did it take so long?" Noticing the old man's altered complexion, Heilong set down his wine glass.
The old man tossed a blood-stained razor blade onto the table before Heilong. "He is dead, but not by my hand. Wuhan harbors unexpectedly skilled individuals."
"Is he stronger than you?" Heilong focused solely on the practical question.
"I held back, but he did not. Theoretically, I am stronger," the old man analyzed.
"What is meant by 'theoretically'?" Heilong disliked the term.
"He will grow," the old man stated profoundly. "Because he said, 'I detest power.'"
"Encountered another interesting person." Heilong smiled and raised his wine glass. "I truly wish I could meet this individual."
"Do not engage in further extraneous activities. Anni's plan leaves no time for diversions," the old man reminded him.
"Ah, such wearisome work." Heilong sighed. "Let us proceed to the next city."