Chapter 91: Soul and Body Divided, Transfer

Far below the earth.

“He’s done for!”

At the sight of the ruins piled high with mud and shattered stone, Sowanda, his thick black curls bouncing as he laughed, could not help himself. His face and eyes were alight with smug delight.

He gestured grandly to the men beside him and their weapons. “Dynamite, firearms, shells—all top-grade Hammer Industrial merchandise. Straight from the factory, brought in through Fisk’s channels, not some cheap junk from a corner workshop. These men are all specialists I personally trained, experts in demolition and firearms. Every one of them has dozens of kills to his name!”

Murakami sneered. A crude brute.

Buto chuckled. A nouveau riche fool.

Hammer Industrial products were junk to begin with, all right...

Alexandra said nothing. She kept her eyes fixed on the collapsed ruin.

Sowanda was ruthless; from the start he had meant to kill the Immortal Iron Fist. With so many guns, so many explosives, and now all this rubble and earth burying the place, this generation’s Iron Fist—who possessed only decades of the power of the ancient immortal—should be dead by now, shouldn’t he?

Murakami waved a hand. More than twenty ninjas stepped forward, each carrying a Japanese sword. His voice was dark with vicious malice. “Sowanda, the people of Kunlun should trust the qi within their bodies and the cold steel in their hands, not these modern weapons. Ordinary firearms can’t deal with the Iron Fist. Bullets are nowhere near as powerful as the finest Japanese blades!”

Buto, dressed in a suit and tie, stood to one side. The immortal old man, who fancied himself a gentleman, suddenly shrugged. “Sowanda, the Iron Fist cannot die.”

If he died, who would open the seal? Who would open the gate to Kunlun?

“Alive or dead, it makes no difference. The Iron Fist’s power does not vanish with death. We can take the Dragon Heart from his corpse and become the new Iron Fist.”

A minute had passed, and the ruins still showed no movement. The Immortal Iron Fist should already be dead. Alexandra let out a slight breath of relief, though she still said, “Be careful. The Immortal Iron Fist is not so easy to deal with.”

Sowanda could not help snorting. “A thousand years have passed. Humanity has gone through agricultural society, industrial society, and technological progress beyond what anyone could have imagined a thousand years ago. The same is true of weapons. And you people still cling stubbornly to this so-called qi. If Lao Zhe himself came here, a single atomic bomb would kill him!”

Murakami gave a cold huff. “That depends on how many years Lao Zhe has lived!”

The two men did not seem to get along.

Sowanda was an African warlord, and believed in the power of modern technology. Murakami was the head of the Yakuza, and placed his faith in the ancient force of qi.

For centuries and millennia, the Five Fingers had seldom kept in contact. Each represented a different power.

Especially in ancient times, before technology had advanced, some were in Africa, some in Europe, some in the Americas, some in China or Japan. Separated by thousands upon thousands of miles, they found it truly difficult to communicate, and there was little common interest binding them together.

Only at the most crucial moments would they join forces.

For example, to cause the catastrophic eruption of Mount Vesuvius and destroy the city of Pompeii.

During the First World War and the Second World War, they had also worked together. Their shadows could be found behind those two world wars:

The Hydra served the Axis powers, while Murakami’s ninjas served the Japanese militarists.

In modern times, during peace, even with travel so convenient and communication so effortless, they still had little contact with one another—until now.

To deal with the Immortal Iron Fist, to obtain the dragon-bone fossil sealed deep underground, to gain immortality and return to Kunlun, they had gathered once more. Yet new conflicts had emerged as well:

The Immortal Iron Fist was dead.

There was only one of him.

The Dragon Heart within him could be transferred to only one person, making that person the new Iron Fist.

Madame Gao was dead, and without the dragon-bone fossil there was no way to revive her.

Now there were four of them here.

Who would receive the Dragon Heart and become the new Iron Fist?

Alexandra, Murakami, Buto, Sowanda.

The four kept their distance from one another. Each had dozens of men at his side, not only to deal with the Immortal Iron Fist, but also to guard against one another.

The reason they had not yet turned on each other was that none could be certain whether the Immortal Iron Fist was truly dead, and because there were still greater enemies outside.

Five fingers clenched into a fist were stronger.

But no matter how strong, it was still only a fist—a flesh-and-blood fist.

Yet if one of them obtained the Dragon Heart and became the Iron Fist, then with their thousand years of experience and wisdom, that person would surely surpass every Iron Fist in history.

By then, there would be no need for the Hand to exist.

“All right. Let’s dig the Iron Fist’s body out first. Maybe he’s not dead after all, maybe he still has one breath left. We can force him to open the seal.”

In the end, Alexandra was still the leader. And this was New York, her territory. She had brought the most people, so the others gave her face.

Each of them dispatched several of their men and began to dig.

“Strange. Do any of you feel a little cold?” Alexandra pulled her nearly exposed top tighter around herself, sensing that something was wrong.

She had lived for over a thousand years, and her spiritual perception was still keen.

Her intuition told her that a crisis unseen in a thousand years was descending. The threat of death was hanging over her, and over everyone here.

But what was it?

Even the ever-cautious Buto frowned. “It does seem... the temperature is dropping?”

Suddenly, one of the black men spun around, submachine gun in hand, and shouted, “Who? Who blew on my neck?”

The moment he turned, he froze.

There was not a single person behind him within thirty meters. Who could blow that far? A master of kung fu, maybe!

Wait...

A master of kung fu?

Thirty meters away was the area where Alexandra and her men stood. The black man’s heart fluttered at once. Could that woman who had lived for more than a thousand years be interested in me?

At the thought, a lewd grin spread across his face.

At that very moment, an invisible hand silently closed around his own and squeezed the trigger.

Rat-a-tat-tat!

The bullets, not yet spent, poured out in a torrent.

Alexandra was stunned.

So this is rebellion? You dare grin at me like that, and now you dare spray bullets with a submachine gun? Have you eaten the heart of a bear, or swallowed Lao Zhe’s heart itself?

With a lift of her hand, a layer of true qi blocked the shots. Her men, however, were not so fortunate.

In just a few seconds of stunned hesitation, three of her subordinates were killed and two more wounded.

“Calm down, calm down! A misunderstanding, a misunderstanding!” Seeing a firefight about to erupt, Sowanda—while Murakami and Buto were already pulling their men back—hurriedly slapped the black subordinate who had fired and sent him flying, then forced a smile at Alexandra. “It was a misfire. Just a misfire...”

Bang!

Before he could finish, another of Alexandra’s armed men, standing guard, had his trigger mysteriously pulled by some invisible hand.

The shot struck yet another black man from Sowanda’s side.

These black soldiers were all men Sowanda had led in carving out his own domain in Africa, each with a fiery temper. We shoot at you and it’s a misfire; you shoot at us and it’s murder. How could they swallow that?

Without even waiting for Sowanda to speak, they relied on their advantage in firearms and opened fire with submachine guns and shotguns.

Murakami and Buto hurriedly led their people backward.

The problem was that the space was so limited. How far could they retreat?

With someone’s covert help, firearms kept misfiring, and people from Murakami’s and Buto’s side were dragged into it as well.

No one could remain uninvolved.

In such fierce crossfire, even if some realized something was wrong, there was no way to stop. If they did not shoot the other side, then the one who died would be themselves.

The fierce gun battle lasted only three minutes.

Because the area was fairly open, with little cover, and because the ammunition ran out quickly, the chaotic fight came to an end.

Since they had been targeted first, Alexandra’s side suffered the worst. Only two of her people were still alive.

Sowanda’s men suffered the least. If not for the lack of bullets, those with the advantage in modern weaponry might well have slaughtered everyone else.

Buto’s side was reduced to fewer than ten.

Murakami’s ninjas fought bravely, but their losses were severe; only five remained.

The Four Fingers were protected by qi, reacted quickly enough, and had their subordinates shielding them from bullets. They all survived, though they exchanged uneasy looks and realized something was very wrong.

But before they could react, they heard a mocking voice.

“Soul-body separation, transfer!”

Old Wang’s invisible soul vanished, trading places with his flesh.

A slightly plump body appeared behind Alexandra.