Fang Senyan nodded, then rose and walked toward the exit. [Bookmark:] His composure immediately terrified Mother He, who urgently called out: “Big brother, where are you going?” Fang Senyan glanced back slightly, a chilling smile playing on his lips: “Of course, to find Xiaojun.” Mother He was stunned, only realizing with a fluster of helplessness after Fang Senyan had already left: “This… he didn’t even take a sip of water before leaving?” After hearing Mother He’s description, Fang Senyan instantly deduced that the Xinjiang man aggressively selling shaqima was, if not an accomplice, deeply connected to those who kidnapped children.

Xiaojun was already a solid eight-and-a-half-year-old boy; taking a child of this age away silently was absolutely not something one person could accomplish—it had to be a coordinated group effort! During such an act of coercion, they likely even employed unconventional means such as drugs.

The reason they felt helpless facing such situations was that they had to operate strictly according to laws and regulations, emphasizing evidence. Moreover, this involved ethnic minorities, which undoubtedly tied their hands further.

But Fang Senyan was utterly fearless; in fact, since becoming a Contractor, the world’s regulations held little sway over him. The location where Mother He encountered trouble was not far from here, perhaps only about three streets away.

As Fang Senyan walked, he scanned the streets for those Xinjiang men riding small three-wheeled carts. Such individuals were quite common on the streets of Chongqing and had distinct features.

After checking six surrounding streets, Fang Senyan spotted a Xinjiang man passionately hawking shaqima near a bus stop. The man wore a small skullcap, his eyes cunning, appearing to be around forty years old.

He was using clumsy Mandarin, gesturing wildly while selling his goods, yet sadly, no one would even approach him; everyone seemed to actively avoid him. Fang Senyan stood by, observing coldly.

Once several buses had passed and the platform cleared slightly, he sauntered over and used a Henan dialect: “Are these pastries good? Want a taste?” The Xinjiang man immediately thumped his chest, swore to the heavens and earth, and offered Fang Senyan a small piece to try.

Fang Senyan chewed thoughtfully for a few moments and inquired: “How much per jin?” The Xinjiang man’s eyes lit up with joy: “Forty, forty!” Fang Senyan immediately clutched his wallet, feigning heartache: “Too expensive, too expensive. {First release on Hand-typing Bar}” He repeatedly waved his hand, preparing to leave, but the Xinjiang man, who hadn't made a single sale all morning, hastily grabbed Fang Senyan: “The money?” Fang Senyan looked bewildered: “What money?” The Xinjiang man stood his ground assertively: “Didn't you just eat my pastry?

This pastry was originally one piece; once you cut a piece for tasting, it’s broken up, and no one else will buy it. You have to buy the rest of my pastry!” Fang Senyan shook his head like a rattle drum and turned to leave.

However, the Xinjiang man was prepared; he pulled out a whistle from his clothes and blew it with a shrill sound. Several companions immediately appeared from the surroundings—some still wearing filthy aprons from selling Maimaiti lamb skewers, others arriving on similar three-wheeled carts.

They began shoving and yelling at Fang Senyan, gradually pushing him into a deserted and secluded corner. The Xinjiang man blocked Fang Senyan’s path directly, holding the knife used for cutting shaqima in his hand, and snarled in broken Mandarin: “Pastry, four hundred yuan, eight jin!

Quickly!” This was the shrewdness of this gang; the cost price of the shaqima was perhaps only five yuan per jin, yet they were marking up the price tenfold by forcing a sale on Fang Senyan. Furthermore, in this situation, even if they were caught by the police, it would amount to little more than forced purchase—what was the real difference between that and outright robbery?

Fang Senyan looked around, seeing no one. Suddenly, he looked up, his eyebrows parting, revealing snow-white teeth as he smiled: “Fine, I’ll buy it.” The moment the words left his mouth, his right fist slammed down like a heavy hammer onto the Xinjiang man’s shoulder, and at that instant, the sound of a shoulder blade snapping could be clearly heard!

Before the man could utter his piercing cry of pain, Fang Senyan followed through by grabbing the man’s neck and hoisting him up. He swung the man around like a weapon, smashing two other accomplices to the ground.

Just then, a man selling lamb skewers rushed up from behind, looking ruthless, and swung a boning knife used for butchering lamb! Fang Senyan couldn't evade in time, and a searing, fresh gash immediately appeared on his back!

But only the man who swung the knife realized the feel of that strike—it was like slicing into the tire of a heavy-duty pickup truck. He felt extreme resistance after the blade sank in, requiring all the strength he could muster just to drag the blade through.

As for Fang Senyan, after feeling the sharp pain in his back, he instantly counter-gripped. His five fingers were like steel hooks; he seized the knife bare-handed and twisted it away.

At this point, the gang realized they had run into hardened steel. The skewer vendor who inflicted the cut was the first to try and flee, but Fang Senyan caught up and kicked him with such force that he slammed against the opposite wall, sticking to it.

There was a vulgar slang phrase online about being shot against a wall; Fang Senyan’s kick achieved a similar, if not more visceral, effect. After this intimate contact with the wall, the skewer vendor momentarily held a shape resembling the Chinese character for ‘out’ before slumping to the ground moments later, looking at the sky.

He likely wouldn't recover his senses for days. The spirit drained out of the group of Xinjiang men.

They exchanged glances, probably mistaking Fang Senyan for plainclothes police. Suddenly, their mood became agitated, and they shouted in their native language.

Although Fang Senyan didn't fully understand what they were yelling, he guessed they were trying their usual trick of turning an internal conflict into an ethnic one. It seemed this tactic usually caused the police considerable headaches, leaving them with few good options against this group.

However, they made one critical misjudgment: Fang Senyan wasn’t some policeman, so he acted without restraint—never mind an ethnic dispute, he wouldn't bat an eyelid even if it escalated to a Sino-American conflict. Fang Senyan silenced everyone present with a single motion.

He flung out his hand in a slap, targeting the man in the skullcap who was shouting the loudest. This seemingly casual slap struck the man with such force that he spun a full 240 degrees on the spot, sending several blood-stained white teeth tracing parabolas through the air before they clattered to the ground, kicking up dust.

The man remained frozen in place for a long moment, a stream of blood oozing slowly from his right ear canal like a crawling snake, before finally collapsing limply. “I am not the police,” Fang Senyan said softly, lowering his eyelids.

“So don't try to fool me with those tactics. I am here to find someone.

Once I find them, I’ll leave immediately.” The four Xinjiang men nearby were all on the ground, looking up at Fang Senyan with expressions of sheer terror. “Where is the young Xinjiang man who was selling shaqima here ten days ago?” Fang Senyan asked coldly, holding up a stack of red banknotes in his hand.

“Whoever tells me first gets this ten thousand yuan.” The men exchanged glances but still remained silent. Fang Senyan sighed: “Very good.” The word ‘good’ seemed to hang in the air when Fang Senyan suddenly yanked the hair of the nearest man and slammed his head against the adjacent wall!

The impact was so violent that it made one's skin crawl. Undoubtedly, the unfortunate man immediately fell into a deep state of unconsciousness.

Fang Senyan slowly released his grip, letting the bloody hair and scalp drip slowly from between his fingers. A look of bloodlust mixed with sheer brutality surfaced in his eyes: “Excellent.

I hope you can all keep your mouths shut. Even if all four of you stay silent, will I not find others to question?” Fang Senyan slowly squatted down and approached the skewer vendor, who was doubled over, gasping in pain.

He asked calmly: “Where is the young Xinjiang man who was selling shaqima here ten days ago?” The skewer vendor’s pupils instantly dilated. He nervously rubbed his hands on his dirty apron: “That’s Xiri’ahon.

He’s moved to the Jiefangbei territory now.” Fang Senyan tossed the ten thousand yuan directly onto his face. As the red notes fluttered down, a cold voice accompanied them: “Tell me everything you know.

If anyone here dares to betray you, I take responsibility for collecting their corpse.” The skewer vendor swallowed hard, greedily scooping up the scattered bills: “What do you want to know?” Fang Senyan stated plainly: “Xiri’ahon and his group are likely involved in child trafficking, correct? A friend of mine had her child taken.

I need to find this child.” The skewer vendor looked surprised: “Child trafficking? No, no, we don’t do that.

I heard that’s the Henan Gang’s business.” But as soon as he saw Fang Senyan’s face darken, he quickly changed his tune: “However, Xiri’ahon’s group is indeed targeting children. Does your friend’s son have any disabilities?

Or does he look particularly pitiful?” This skewer vendor seemed like a seasoned veteran, perhaps only resembling a Xinjiang man in appearance. Now, he spoke fluent Beijing dialect, so standard it was almost on par with a CCTV anchor.

Fang Senyan was slightly taken aback: “The child has severe lupus erythematosus. His classmates call him Scabby Dog.

He probably looks quite pathetic.” “Then that’s him for sure!” The skewer vendor slapped his thigh, clearly immersed in the role, but inadvertently touching his own sore spot, he winced: “Xiri’ahon’s gang specializes in kidnapping children like that. They train them based on the severity of their disability and then move them to other cities to beg!”