Chapter Fifty-Six: Where Did the Gun Come From?

“Young Master Long, Second Miss Long, I heard my men had the nerve to cause you trouble, so I hurried over as fast as I could. I’m not here to beg for mercy on their behalf—deal with them however you see fit! Consider it my thanks to the Long family for helping me clean house,” Zhai Dacheng said, his face beaming, his tone light.

Hearing this, Zhao Hai and the others turned pale with shock. What had Long Teng just said? They’d only be let off after having a leg broken and then kneeling to beg for forgiveness! And now Zhai Dacheng was just handing over his own men?

But Zhai Dacheng wasn’t just paying lip service. He reached out, and a subordinate at his side immediately pulled a tactical telescoping baton—commonly called a “whip baton”—from his pocket, flicked it open to half a meter in length, and handed it over.

With a smile, Zhai Dacheng held out the baton to Long Teng, both hands presenting it. “Young Master Long, if you’re going to break their legs, you’ll need the proper tool. This will be much more convenient for you.”

Was he really selling out his own men? Of course not.

When Zhai Dacheng had first received Zhao Hai’s call, he’d been just as stunned, but quickly regained his composure. Long Teng was certainly formidable, but he’d never heard of him oppressing the weak or bullying women. These scions of powerful families didn’t resort to street thug tactics. He was just blowing off steam. Breaking a man’s leg? Zhai Dacheng had seen plenty of spoiled heirs; they were all talk when it came to real violence.

Producing the baton was just to show his attitude and feign submission. If Long Teng didn’t dare act, he’d just say a few conciliatory words and smooth things over.

Long Teng stood up, glanced at the baton in Zhai Dacheng’s hands, and shook his head.

Zhai Dacheng felt a flash of relief, quickly saying, “My apologies for being inconsiderate. Violence is the work of rough men like us; someone as distinguished as Young Master Long shouldn’t dirty his own hands. And what are you all still standing here for? Have you no shame? Get out, all of you!”

Hearing this, Zhao Hai and the others’ faces lit up with hope. Now they understood: Zhai Dacheng was giving them a way out! Zhao Hai was just about to seize the opportunity when Long Teng spoke: “Boss Zhai, you misunderstand me.”

Zhai Dacheng’s brow furrowed slightly, but he forced a smile. “Then what do you mean, Young Master Long?”

Long Teng strode over to He Kui and delivered a low, sweeping side kick to his shin. A sickening crack echoed through the room as He Kui collapsed, clutching his shattered leg, shrieking in agony.

Long Teng said coolly, “What I mean is: I don’t need a baton to break their legs. My bare hands are more than enough.”

Yang Meng applauded from the side. “Now that’s more like a national champion. Shame it’s only karate he’s trained in.”

Long Xixiang, curious, asked, “Wasn’t my brother’s kick just now powerful enough?”

Yang Meng nodded. “Did you notice the technique? That was a low side sweep. It’s common to all martial arts schools—a practical move that saves energy while maximizing speed. His execution was decent, but nothing exceptional.”

“Why?” Long Xixiang asked, puzzled.

Yang Meng, having inherited Huang Feihu’s martial legacy—a path forged in battle, far beyond common martial understanding—explained, “You’ve studied math, haven’t you? The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Don’t believe any nonsense about punches needing to be circular. As long as you’re even a fraction faster than your opponent, with equal physical strength, your chances of winning go up fifty percent. That kick just now was a ‘full swing’—it added some force but sacrificed a bit of speed. Against an equally matched opponent, even being a fraction slower could mean defeat. At his level, he’s only good for bullying amateurs.”

Long Xixiang pouted. “My brother’s a national karate champion! You make it sound like he’s just a bully.”

Yang Meng nodded. “His opponents are all amateurs. There’s a perfect phrase for them—what was it? Oh, right: ‘chickens pecking at each other.’”

Hu Erleng and the others couldn’t listen any longer. Was this guy for real? Especially Ling Feng, his expression twisted; he was unsure if he should point out that Yang Meng wasn’t even his match.

While He Kui writhed, clutching his broken leg, Yang Meng stood serenely beside Long Xixiang, dissecting Long Teng’s flaws as if nothing had happened. Everyone present was left speechless—how thick-skinned could one be?

Even Zhai Dacheng couldn’t hold back. “And you are, sir?”

Yang Meng blinked. “You mean me? I’m Yang Meng.”

Zhai Dacheng was taken aback. “You’re the one who injured Haizi—Yang Meng?”

Yang Meng replied, “Boss Zhai, was it? You can eat whatever you like, but don’t speak nonsense. We were just sparring in the ring; the way you say it, you make it sound like I deliberately hurt him.”

When Zhao Hai had called Zhai Dacheng, it was all in a rush—he’d only mentioned offending Long Teng, not that Yang Meng was there too. But Zhai Dacheng remembered that name well. After Zhao Hai was injured by Yang Meng and sent to the hospital, all the subordinates who’d been present at the gym had exaggerated the story to Zhai Dacheng, making Yang Meng out to be some King Kong atop the Empire State Building, fighting for a woman.

Zhai Dacheng had made it this far by knowing when to bend and when to stand tall. He still found it hard to believe that anyone could toss Zhao Hai around like a sack, but with so many eyewitnesses, he couldn’t afford to doubt it. He’d even sent someone to check up on Yang Meng, and after learning he lived in Xinmin Alley, had already told his men not to cause trouble there.

If he couldn’t afford to provoke someone, he’d just steer clear.

Yet, fate had thrown them together again—and even more unexpectedly, Yang Meng was here with Long Teng! Weren’t they supposed to be enemies?

He looked at He Kui writhing on the ground, a wave of anger washing over him. But he couldn’t really blame He Kui—he’d approved He Kui’s actions himself.

Running the streets wasn’t free. Zhao Hai’s medical bills had to be paid; the lost BMW X5 wasn’t a gift from the heavens. And most of all, he couldn’t stomach the loss of face. Their entire existence relied on the fear and respect of others, and this time, he’d lost both.

How to make up for it? The ‘Focus’ nightclub became his target. Every nightclub had its connections, but they all dreaded trouble. People came to nightclubs to enjoy themselves; if there was constant chaos, who would come? So he’d instructed Deng Chao to be “a little wilder” during his nights out, which led to all that followed.

Yet, for all his calculations, he hadn’t anticipated that both Yang Meng and Long Teng would be present, or that the reckless He Kui would provoke them both. In all his years, this was the first time things had become so complicated.

Just then, Deng Chao—who’d been knocked out by a flying glass—came to, swaying as he rose. “Who hit me? You want to die? Uncle! You’re here! Someone hit me! You have to get revenge for me! Who threw that glass at me? If you’re a man, stand up! I’ll show you what death means!”

Yang Meng smiled faintly. “I threw it. Care to teach me?”

Deng Chao’s eyes bulged when Yang Meng admitted it. “Good…good…you’re all dead! My uncle’s here! Do you even know who he is? What are you all standing around for? Get the one who hit me! I’ll make sure he never gets to be a man again!”

The men he pointed at looked miserable, casting helpless glances at Deng Chao. Didn’t he have any sense? Couldn’t he see his uncle was already in over his head?

Yang Meng looked at Zhai Dacheng with a half-smile. “Boss Zhai, you really are something. Your nephew’s first instinct is to send a man to the eunuch’s quarters!”

Zhai Dacheng took a deep breath and slapped Deng Chao hard across the face. “Shut up!”

Deng Chao, holding his face in astonishment, blurted, “Dad, you hit me? You’ve never hit me before!”

The room erupted. Wasn’t he his uncle? How had he become his father?

Maybe it was time to grab a bench and some sunflower seeds and watch the show.

Zhai Dacheng’s face flushed. “What nonsense are you spouting? I’m your uncle!”

But Deng Chao wailed, “Give it a rest! You think I didn’t hear you and my mom whispering under the covers that night? I’m not stupid! You and my mom are real siblings—so what if we’re double-related?”

Yang Meng couldn’t hold back a snicker. Who could take such a fool seriously? It was embarrassing even to argue with him.

“You dare laugh at me?” Deng Chao, hearing Yang Meng’s laughter, leapt up in rage.

No one noticed that the subordinate Zhao Hai had sent out earlier had quietly returned, carrying a travel bag. Seizing his chance, he opened the bag and set it at Deng Chao’s feet.

Hearing Yang Meng’s laughter, Zhai Dacheng finally lost his composure and slapped Deng Chao again—this time with all his strength, knocking him to the floor.

As Deng Chao lay face down, he noticed the travel bag nearby. Seeing what was inside, his eyes lit up. He reached in, pulled out the contents, and brandished them overhead.

When everyone saw what he was holding, panic erupted—even Zhai Dacheng’s face drained of color. “Where did you get a gun? Deng Chao, put it down—now!”

What Deng Chao held aloft was nothing less than a homemade shotgun.

Though firearms were strictly controlled domestically, getting hold of one wasn’t impossible—a skilled enough machinist could cobble together a lethal weapon on any old lathe. The real challenge was finding ammunition.

Deng Chao seemed to know this as well. He aimed at the ceiling and fired. The deafening blast sent the onlookers in the nightclub fleeing in terror.

Now emboldened, Deng Chao leveled the shotgun at Yang Meng. “You! Kneel down and kowtow a hundred times, or I’ll turn you into a sieve!”