The kick appeared deceptively light, yet the gunman’s lower leg immediately snapped at a ninety-degree obtuse angle facing forward. The stark white shards of broken bone clearly protruded, sending the man tumbling and screaming on the ground, clutching the shattered limb. Cold sweat streamed down his forehead; the thought of fighting back had entirely vanished!

Fang Senyan ignored him for the moment. With another casual step, just as he was about to turn away, he looked intently at Crab and said earnestly, “My apologies for my poor manners; I’ve neglected to introduce myself for so long. I am Fang Senyan. And, in another capacity, I happen to be the older brother of San Zai, whom you kidnapped.”

Crab stumbled back several paces, disbelief etched onto his face. “You… you… how is that possible?”

Fang Senyan raised a single finger and shook it gently. “Anything is possible.”

When the advertising slogan left Fang Senyan’s mouth, it carried absolutely no trace of humor.

“Right, I must regretfully inform you of something: if you don’t tell me where San Zai is within ten seconds, you’ll need to start figuring out how to apply for a disability certificate.”

Crab gasped raggedly for air. Perhaps the gun still in his hand provided a false sense of security, as he hadn't grasped the implication of Fang Senyan’s words immediately. Since Fang Senyan usually kept his word, ten seconds later, Crab’s screams echoed throughout the gambling den. Fang Senyan stomped down on Crab’s left foot just below the ankle, causing a comminuted fracture and pulverizing the muscle—it looked highly likely the foot would require amputation.

Though Crab managed to fire three shots at Fang Senyan, he watched in horror as the bullet aimed at Fang Senyan’s head deflected completely, while the other two penetrated the flesh. Fang Senyan, however, seemed utterly unfazed. With a ripple and contraction of his muscles, the mangled fragments of the bullets were ruthlessly expelled by the powerful muscular movements, clattering onto the floor! This bizarre and inexplicable sight completely shattered Crab’s mental defenses, causing him to tremble and stammer out the entire story.

It turned out that the ‘goods’ Crab moved in the establishment were always sourced from the boss’s boss, layered down through a hierarchy with discounts applied at each level, meaning his profit margins were thin. Once, he befriended several members of the Big Circle Gang and, through them, established a line to Vietnam. Dealing directly with the sellers from Vietnam meant cash flowed in torrents.

However, such matters could not be hidden forever. Crab’s activities did not escape his boss’s notice, who intended to mete out internal punishment. Crab, being no saint, seized the opportunity with the support and help of his Vietnamese contacts to violently overthrow the boss, succeeding in killing him. Armed with guns and money, he easily subdued his underlings, entirely unaware that he was gradually becoming a puppet for the Vietnamese. The two bodyguards flanking him were gunmen dispatched from Saigon, Vietnam.

A while ago, news arrived from Vietnam advising caution regarding a group of fishermen, providing Fang Senyan’s group with their names and descriptions. Then, just yesterday, a tip came in that individuals matching the description were spotted at a nearby dai pai dong (open-air food stall).

When they went, they caught San Zai just as he was wolfing down a bowl of fish balls. Moreover, San Zai was nothing like the weakling they were told; he had a tough bone. They tortured him for a full day but couldn't extract a single piece of information.

Naturally, Fang Senyan managed to pry loose the most crucial detail from Crab: San Zai’s confinement location—a high-end, luxury clubhouse not far from their current spot. Since it was a place where scum like Crab operated, it was naturally stocked with gambling, vice, and drugs. Finding Crab had no further utility, Fang Senyan interrogated the remaining gunman, only to find this one equally stubborn. Fang Senyan, not bothering with further pleasantries, snapped the man’s neck. Even Crab’s desperate pleas couldn't save the gunman’s life.

Fang Senyan casually tidied his appearance. His only annoyance was his ruined clothing, peppered by bullet holes, which made him look too conspicuous when walking outside. He simply found a replacement garment on one of the corpses and changed. He wasn’t worried about the police trailing close behind, either. Homicides like this—internal gang vendettas, especially violent gunfights—were often tacitly welcomed by many officers.

If these armed gang members didn't kill each other off, the police would eventually have to risk facing their bullets during arrest, bearing immense danger. Even if the police got serious, Fang Senyan wasn't concerned. Despite movies and TV portraying police as brilliant detectives, the actual crime clearance rate averages less than twenty percent. Where would they find so many crime-solving super-geniuses like Sherlock Holmes? Furthermore, if the police did manage to trace the incident back to him, they should be the ones worried…

(A side note on the notoriously low clearance rate: If you don't believe it, just consider the murderers who foolishly participate in television talent shows or dating contests and are subsequently identified. From those pitiful examples, you can infer many harsh truths: there are likely more murderers who participated in those shows but weren't recognized, and even more who are level-headed enough not to join such programs at all… Good heavens! Why are so many murderers not caught by the police!)

The luxury clubhouse where San Zai was held was not far—it took Fang Senyan a mere five minutes. Upon entering, he tossed a 3,000 Hong Kong dollar tip and effortlessly gained access to the top floor. This level immediately projected an atmosphere of exclusive security, where entry was restricted to only two types of people: VIP guests or prisoners.

Inevitably, Fang Senyan’s attempt at low-key entry was halted by two burly guards. Even the bribe didn't work. So, when a guard rudely shoved back the drink Fang Senyan offered as a toast, Fang Senyan decided to treat them to a harsher penalty. Fortunately, while Fang Senyan had been on a killing spree today, he wasn't about to harm innocent bystanders; he merely knocked them out and shoved them into a nearby storage closet.

The top floor of the clubhouse was decorated entirely in Japanese style: pristine, neat tatami mats covered the floor, elegant paper screens served as partitions, and vase-shaped sconces illuminated the space, lending a profound tranquility. A closer look revealed dozens of rooms. Since Crab had only mentioned keeping San Zai on the top floor for the convenience of the Vietnamese when they came to collect him, he hadn't specified the exact location. Fang Senyan hadn't anticipated the floor being so vast. Fearing he might alert the gang members guarding San Zai and endanger him with premature action, he couldn't simply search room by room, leaving him feeling utterly stumped, like trying to catch a turtle in the dark.

Out of options, Fang Senyan dragged the two guards inside, attempting to wake them. Unfortunately, his initial blows had been too severe; both unfortunate men seemed to be in a deep coma. Realizing this approach was futile, Fang Senyan dumped them into an adjacent utility room to continue sleeping. He then stripped one guard’s uniform and put it on, standing by the door to monitor anyone entering or exiting.

Clubhouses typically came alive after 6 PM; it was barely past noon now, leaving the floor eerily quiet. Fang Senyan waited a while before a graceful woman entered from the hallway outside. She carried a tray bearing exquisite tea ware. She appeared refined and beautiful, possessing a rare, distinguished air—clearly one of the club’s top-tier service staff.

Seeing her, Fang Senyan stepped out and blocked her path. “Miss, may I ask where Brother Crab resides?”

The woman glanced with disdain at the guard uniform Fang Senyan wore, raised an eyebrow, and tried to walk past without acknowledging him. Fearing delays might lead to trouble, and unwilling to let this opportunity slip, Fang Senyan’s expression darkened. He grabbed the woman’s clothing forcefully. “Where does Crab live? Tell me!”

“Nireru du jiu li du er wang guang cai gong wang gu (Speak, loudly and sternly.)”

Fang Senyan froze, momentarily stunned. He hadn't expected the woman to be Japanese.

As Fang Senyan stood there bewildered, two young men in black suits emerged from the forward corridor, peering around cautiously. Seeing the scene, they immediately shouted curses and sprinted over. Fang Senyan grabbing the woman’s clothing was highly inappropriate, easily suggesting illegal predatory behavior.

One of the men shouted in Japanese, while the other spoke Taiwanese Hokkien—both demanding Fang Senyan release the woman, along with a few unpleasantries. As they approached, they launched into action: slapping, punching, and kicking simultaneously. If Fang Senyan had been an ordinary person, he would have been downed instantly.

Fang Senyan, feeling somewhat guilty for mistakenly confronting her, initially evaded and parried several blows without retaliating. However, the Japanese man realized his punches were landing on air, likely fueling his rage. He suddenly drew a gleaming dagger from behind his waist and lunged, stabbing toward Fang Senyan’s chest. Fury ignited in Fang Senyan’s heart: Even if I’d insulted his mother, did he have to try and kill me? Having fought his way through so much bloodshed, the murderous intent surged anew. He released the woman and rapidly retreated backward.

The two thugs had no idea they were stepping into a deadly trap. They pursued relentlessly, but as they chased into the adjacent power distribution room, Fang Senyan, who had been hiding, stepped out and blocked the doorway. The Japanese man roared and thrust the dagger forward again. A bloodthirsty glint flashed in Fang Senyan’s eyes, and he countered with a powerful punch, meeting the steel head-on!

Flesh versus steel!