Chapter 5: The Grandmaster

“Damn it! Pig-headed William!”
Peter was on the verge of losing his mind as he watched the RPG veer off course.
A seasoned driver behind the wheel of a Dodge Charger, a slightly chubby Chinese-American youth driving a beat-up truck, a hell-born harbinger of death, and a man with a simple, honest face—who was the main target, who was secondary? Wasn’t it obvious?
RPGs may come with more than one shot, but they’re expensive—William, are you footing the bill?
The real issue was the hassle of getting one. Stark Industries’ models were outrageously pricey and barely circulated in the market, impossible to buy. Hammer Industries’ versions were more common and cheaper, but dangerously unreliable—use them and you might end up witnessing a spontaneous explosion, believe it or not...
Most crucially, a second shot would take time, and the madman chasing from behind was moving with terrifying speed!
How could they possibly keep up?
Was William deliberately trying to get Peter killed so he could inherit his Facebook account?
Peter’s thoughts spun wildly.
The relentless pursuer was clearly immune to ordinary firearms; fighting was futile, the only hope was to escape and plot revenge later.
Should he drop to his knees and beg for mercy?
No!
Peter was, after all, the number two of the Fifth Street Gang, a notable figure in Los Angeles. If word got out, how could he show his face again?
Never—ever—beg—for—mercy!
Wait, his backside was burning!
His back was burning, his head was burning, his whole body was burning!
Was he on fire?
Was he running through flames?
A jolt ran through Peter, and everything he’d learned about fire safety in elementary school flooded his mind.
He dropped and rolled, trying to smother the flames, but it was useless.
Hellfire could not be extinguished!
Peter was beyond panic, he was in despair.
He scrambled up, collapsed to his knees with a thud, banging his head against the ground, feeling no pain at all: “Spare me! Spare me! Name your price, I’ll pay! Take anything you want from the Fifth Street Gang! I’ll tell you who sent me—please, let me live...”
He froze.
He saw the back of the pursuer.
A flaming chain dragged along the ground, its end wrapped around Peter’s ankle, inflicting not physical but spiritual agony.
But now, he forgot the pain completely, as if the pursuer had forgotten him too.
They both witnessed a scene they would never forget.
A cheap suitcase sat on the ground. The slightly chubby youth sighed, his face full of melancholy.
A shabby trench coat billowed in an unexpected gust of hot wind. His hands, previously buried in his pockets, suddenly rose.
Faded jeans hugged his long legs as he bent at the waist, knees flexed, feet slightly apart—the toes of sneakers worth less than twenty bucks bore his weight, heels lifted. His hands moved smoothly from below, rising rapidly to chest level, and in that instant his entire aura transformed.
For a fleeting moment, Peter remembered the jaguar he’d seen two years ago in the city park.
No, this young man was far more terrifying than any jaguar!
In the distant truck, Skye’s heart pounded wildly, her wide, beautiful eyes locked on Old Wang. In her mind flashed the scene from three years ago, a starlit night when a fifteen-year-old boy took down seven burly men in ten seconds.
She’d stood less than fifty meters away, having just escaped a group of street punks. In the chaos and despair, she saw the boy’s silhouette—saw the courage and hope to survive.
“Watch closely!”
“Tiger Style!”
Two terse voices reached Skye’s ears, sending a shiver through her.
Old Wang was demonstrating!
He was using real combat to show her!
Such opportunities were rare. Her pale fingers instinctively switched from taking photos to recording video.
Robbie was even more focused, more astonished.
At first, he sensed no danger at all, didn’t even give Old Wang a second glance. The spirit of vengeance inside him remained silent, indicating the young Chinese man was innocent and not subject to punishment.
Only now did Robbie realize that this seemingly ordinary youth, with just a simple movement, radiated a chilling, awe-inspiring presence.
Through his burning eyes, Robbie saw not an ordinary young man, but a tiger—a saber-toothed king as if risen from the Ice Age!
The feeling was even clearer from the spirit of vengeance.
The demon within was paying attention!
What was this?
Was it mysterious Eastern martial arts, or something, like his own power, not of this world?
Old Wang steeled his heart.
The reactions of the others meant nothing to him.
Raising his hand and lifting his foot, he instantly returned to the battle-hardened state of his days in the World of Warcraft—years spent fighting for Azeroth and himself, ten years of experience and eighteen years of growth perfectly fused in this moment.
His hand led his elbow, elbow led his waist, waist led his leg, leg led his foot.
A verdant glow shimmered, the mark of specially cultivated true energy.
His body spun, barely touching the ground as his left leg swept horizontally. In a split second, with uncanny precision, he kicked the RPG’s side.
The warhead spun a perfect 180 degrees, buffered and accelerated by the force of true energy, flying back the way it came.
A hundred meters away, the Fifth Street Gang’s truck was sent soaring, spinning twice in midair before landing upright. Leaked gasoline caught fire, igniting despair and summoning death.
A thunderous explosion, brilliant as fireworks.
“Oh my God, how did he do that?”
“Such speed, such lightning reflexes!”
“Tiger Style boosts movement and true energy flow; Crane Kick redirects the rocket, and true energy cushions the explosion—every move executed flawlessly. I’ve learned them all but could never pull that off... Wang, you’re so cool!”
Peter was stunned, Robbie was shocked, the spirit of vengeance stirred, and Skye’s eyes sparkled.
Farther away, the exploding truck claimed over a dozen lives—none survived!
Old Wang landed lightly, brushing imaginary dust off his clothes, his hands behind his back trembling ever so slightly.
His cultivation was still lacking, his physical endurance insufficient, and there was a price for showing off—he must not let anyone see his weakness.
Turning, he winked at Skye, then suddenly raised his hand. A whip, formed from condensed true energy, wriggled like a serpent, reaching Robbie in less than a second. Before the spirit of vengeance could erupt, it looped around and ensnared Peter behind him.
The whip snapped back, dragging Peter before Old Wang with a terrified scream.
“He’s mine!” Robbie shouted, striding forward with his flaming chain.
Vengeful fire blazed in his soul.
All sinners must be punished—that was the rule of the spirit of vengeance, and their contract, which had to be fulfilled.
He had to kill every member of the Fifth Street Gang, not just out of personal revenge, but because the spirit demanded it—even he couldn’t resist.
More than a dozen Fifth Street Gang members were dead, but none by his hand.
Vengeance must be delivered personally.
At least one must die!
“Relax, I’m not interested in men.”
Old Wang smiled, as Peter’s face twisted with terror, removing the necklace from his neck. With a wave, the nearly three-hundred-pound brute flew backward.
Peter tried to raise his gun.
Crunch!
A flaming boot stomped down, crushing Peter’s right hand and pistol together, the agony so intense he screamed, torn apart by pain.
The air began to smell tantalizingly of roasted meat.
Peter’s cries echoed, but Robbie felt a strange sense of relief, a thrill of successful vengeance—even the spirit seemed stronger.
It excited and terrified him.
“I’ve never killed anyone... not even a chicken...” Robbie muttered, head lowered.
Was this really him?
How could he be so ruthless, so unafraid of killing, so willing to decide life and death, to judge others’ crimes?
The fire in his eyes dimmed slightly, and Robbie suddenly felt himself sliding from the world of the living into hell—an irreversible descent into the abyss.
As long as his brother stayed alive, what did killing matter?
What did falling into the abyss matter?
“Don’t just stand there, the police are almost here,” Old Wang reminded him.
Robbie gave Old Wang a long look, then dragged Peter into the car.
The Dodge Charger roared to life, vanishing in a heartbeat.
“We should go, too.”
Old Wang turned, picked up his suitcase, and returned to the truck, lightly patting Skye’s frozen, pretty face.
“Still here? Waiting to have tea at the police station?”