Huayu: Don't force me to be a master

Chapter 126 Shooting with either hand is a fundamental skill

4 a.m., Brooklyn.

Most of the streetlights in the warehouse area were broken, leaving it pitch black, with only a few lights from the distant dock shimmering on the water.

Qian Lang parked the rented black SUV two blocks away, turned off the engine, and took out the key.

He didn't turn off the headlights, leaving them on, like another car parked there.

Then he got out of the car, pulled up the hood of his hoodie, and walked towards the warehouse.

The night wind blew across the river, carrying a fishy smell and a chill.

He had his hands in his pockets, his right hand gripping the Glock 17, his thumb on the safety, his index finger extended and pressed against the trigger guard.

This is what the gun expert taught him—a ready stance while moving, preventing accidental discharge but allowing him to enter firing mode within half a second.

He walked to the warehouse door but didn't go in.

I stood across the street and lit a cigarette.

The firelight flickered on his face for a moment, then went out.

Smoke drifted out from under the brim of the hat, dispersing into a faint gray hue under the streetlights.

He is waiting.

It's not about waiting for dawn, it's about waiting for the reaction inside.

Since we didn't kill those four, the other side must be on guard now.

But it's okay.

Only the fiercest dragons will cross the river!

Sure enough, the iron gate opened a crack, and a person poked their head out.

Seeing Qian Lang smoking across the street, he paused for a moment, then shrank back and closed the door.

Qian Lang flicked the cigarette butt onto the ground and stomped it out.

He counted—three seconds later, the door opened.

It wasn't just a crack; both doors were fully open.

There were seven or eight people standing inside, all dressed in suits, lean, and holding guns.

At the front was a man in his fifties, with his hair neatly combed and wearing a dark gray suit without a tie.

He saw Qian Lang without surprise, and even had a slight smile on his lips.

"Mr. Qian Lang?"

He asked in English with a Japanese accent, as if confirming the identity of a guest he had long admired.

Qian Lang didn't answer, but took a step forward. Seven or eight guns opposite him were raised in unison and aimed at him.

He didn't stop, and took another step. The man in the gray suit raised his hand, signaling his men not to fire, then took a step forward himself, facing Qian Lang.

He was half a head shorter than Qian Lang, but his eyes were deep and stagnant, like a pool of still water.

"I am Yamamoto Ichiro's uncle."

He spoke in Chinese, with clear pronunciation and a slight Tokyo accent.

"Yamamoto Ichiro is a good-for-nothing who messed with the wrong people. I apologize on his behalf."

Qian Lang looked at him but didn't say anything.

"Mr. Qian,"

The man in the gray suit bowed slightly.

"I accept that you injured my men. I accept that you killed my men. The rules of the underworld dictate that the victor is king. But you came here tonight—"

He looked up at Qian Lang.

"Are they here to negotiate peace, or to cause trouble?"

Qian Lang pulled his hand out of his pocket.

The Glock 17 flashed under the streetlight.

Seven or eight guns across the street were raised again, the sound of safety being released was particularly crisp on the quiet street.

The man in the gray suit raised his hand again, signaling them not to move.

He looked at the gun in Qian Lang's hand, and then at Qian Lang's eyes.

"Mr. Qian, you're one person, I have ten. You have one gun, I have ten. Can you kill them all?"

Qian Lang finally spoke.

The voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear:

"We can kill them all."

The man in the gray suit's expression changed.

It wasn't fear, it was an accident.

He didn't expect Qian Lang to answer like that.

He was silent for two seconds, then sighed and took a step back.

As he stepped back, seven or eight people behind him surged forward.

A shot rang out.

Qian Lang fired the first shot.

It wasn't hitting a person, it was hitting a light.

The streetlights overhead exploded, scattering shards of glass and plunging the entire street into darkness.

The second, third, and fourth shots—what he pulled out of his pocket weren't guns, but flashbangs—not real flashbangs, but high-powered flashlights he'd bought at the supermarket, with the bulb removed and two wires attached.

When you press it, a burst of white light explodes, so bright it's blinding.

Gunshots rang out in the darkness, bullets hitting iron gates, walls, and the ground, sending sparks flying.

Qian Lang wasn't in those positions.

He had rolled behind a trash can on the side of the street and was firing from the side.

The first shot hit the knee of the man on the far left.

The man knelt down, and Qian Lang fired a final shot, hitting him in the back of the head.

The second shot hit the man on the far right in the chest. He fell backward, hit the wall, and slid down.

The third shot hit the hand of a man who was about to change his magazine. His finger flew off, the gun fell to the ground, and the man crouched down, clutching his hand and screaming in agony.

Qian Lang didn't look at him again, because he was already dead—the bullet had pierced his hand and then entered his throat.

The gunfire stopped.

It's not that the fight is over, it's just that no one can see anyone in the dark.

The voice of the man in the gray suit came from the warehouse doorway, calm and emotionless: "Turn on the lights."

The lights in the warehouse came on.

Light poured out of the doorway, illuminating the street in a stark white light.

Four people were lying on the ground.

Both were motionless; one was convulsing, and the other was clutching its hand, blood oozing from between its fingers.

There are still six standing there.

Qian Lang stood up from behind the trash can, his left hand hanging at his side, and his right hand holding a gun.

The hoodie was stained with blood, but it wasn't his.

The man in the gray suit looked at the person on the ground, then at Qian Lang, and his expression finally changed.

"you……"

Qian Lang didn't let him finish speaking.

He rushed forward, not in a straight line, but in a serpentine pattern.

Gunshots rang out, not just once, but five or six guns firing simultaneously.

Bullets flew past him, hitting the wall behind him, the trash can, and the ground.

He didn't stop, he kept running, his body almost touching the ground.

He fired, hitting the man who was changing the magazine.

The man fell, and the magazine in his hand flew out and bounced twice on the ground.

He fired again, this time at the man who had just raised his gun.

The man leaned back, gun barrel pointing skyward, bullets hitting the ceiling, dust falling in clumps.

He rushed to the warehouse door.

The man in the gray suit stood inside the door, without a gun in his hand.

He watched Qian Lang rush in, watched his men fall one by one, and the expression on his face changed from calm to shock, and from shock to fear.

Qian Lang ran past him without looking at him.

Once inside the warehouse, there were four other people.

They weren't ordinary thugs; they were gunmen.

They had been waiting for him for a long time.

The first and second shots rang out almost simultaneously.

Qian Lang's bullet hit the shoulder of the man on the left, while the bullet from the man on the right hit Qian Lang's left arm.

It's an abrasion.

The bullet pierced through Qian Lang's upper arm, leaving a trail of blood.

Qian Lang didn't stop; the third shot hit the man who had shot him in the face.

The man collapsed without even uttering a sound.

The remaining two hid behind the wooden crate.

Qian Lang also hid behind a pillar.

The warehouse fell silent, save for the sounds of bullets being chambered and blood dripping onto the floor.

Qian Lang glanced down at his left arm—blood was gushing from the wound, soaking through the sleeve of his hoodie.

He tore off a piece of his sleeve, tied it tightly with his teeth, and then switched the gun to his left hand.

My right hand is useless, but my left hand is still usable.

His predecessors taught him that shooting with both hands is a fundamental skill.