Madman!

Chapter 33: You Want Them? Drag Them Out!

If Chen Wujun had wanted to flee just now, he could have.

Taking down nine out of twelve in a kill squad would have been more than enough to make his name ring through the streets.

But Chen Wujun had never intended to run. He was seeing red now.

After shoving a wooden crate to block one attacker, he stomped the ground and lunged at the other.

The man took a step back. He didn't swing his bat down — he'd seen clearly what happened before. Chen Wujun used the wooden board as a shield and deflected force to the side; a downward strike would never touch him.

Instead, the man gripped his bat like a spear and thrust it straight at Chen Wujun's chest, both eyes locked on the knife in Chen Wujun's right hand.

A New Arts practitioner's physical capabilities were a cut above an ordinary person's. Even wielding nothing but a baseball bat, one thrust could snap a man's sternum.

Meanwhile, the other attacker smashed his fist into the wooden crate, sending shattered splinters flying at Chen Wujun.

The two men watched Chen Wujun's feet "slide" — and just like that, he'd sidestepped the thrust, his short blade slashing toward the man's throat.

All the man saw was a flash of cold steel before his eyes. He jerked his upper body backward, desperate to dodge the strike.But the other attacker's eyes widened in horror: "Watch out — !"

He swung his bat at Chen Wujun simultaneously.

Chen Wujun's blade had only traveled halfway before he pulled it back. In the same motion, he stepped forward and flicked the wooden board upward with his left hand, driving its pointed corner silently into the man's chin.

The man could dodge the knife. He couldn't dodge the shield bash.

Crack!

The board caught him squarely on the jaw. His mouth filled with blood, and stars exploded across his vision as white-hot pain shot through his face.

A bat smashed down on the wooden board in Chen Wujun's hand — no deflection this time. The board shattered outright. Searing pain tore through Chen Wujun's wrist, and he instantly released the ruined shield, surging forward with rapid steps to crash bodily into the staggering man, driving him backward.

His folding knife punched into the man's lower abdomen, his belly, his side — stab after stab — then a single lateral drag ripped his stomach open. Chen Wujun shifted into a triangle step, pivoting around to the man's flank.

A bat came crashing down exactly where he'd been standing a heartbeat before.

With Chen Wujun's repositioning, the blow slammed squarely into the wounded man's shoulder instead.

Chen Wujun stomped and exploded forward, covering two or three meters in an instant before finally spinning around, gasping for air.

A full night of back-to-back fighting, every engagement a maximum-effort burst — his lungs felt ready to rupture, and his heart hammered so fast it threatened to tear free of his chest.

His left hand was all but useless now.

Though the board had absorbed most of the impact, the area above his wrist had still taken a vicious hit, and the injury was far from minor.

"Now, it's just you and me!" Chen Wujun bared his teeth, eyes locked on his remaining opponent.

Drenched head to toe in blood, he looked like a vengeful demon — the kind that made your blood run cold.

But the last man standing had no room for hesitation. He hefted his bat and charged, swinging at Chen Wujun.

The bat whipped through the air with blistering speed, giving Chen Wujun no opening to close the distance.

Chen Wujun's footwork shifted constantly, his silhouette swaying left and right as he retreated through the dark alley, like a viper biding its time.

The moment the next swing came crashing down, Chen Wujun suddenly planted his foot and reversed direction — retreat becoming attack. His left arm snapped out to trap the bat while the knife in his right hand became a streak of cold light aimed at the man's chest.

The instant the man glimpsed that silver flash, ice flooded his veins. He knew he was in trouble and scrambled backward.

But Chen Wujun closed the gap in two quick bursts, materializing at the man's flank. The knife drove toward his ribs.

The man reacted fast — one hand slapping Chen Wujun's wrist aside, the other releasing the bat to throw a straight punch at Chen Wujun's face.

Chen Wujun simply turned his body, deflecting the arm with his shoulder, and the knife in his right hand slid silently toward the man's side once more.

A jolt of raw terror shot through the man — his soul nearly left his body. His left hand clamped down on the blade in sheer desperation, even if it meant losing every finger.

Chen Wujun yanked the knife back, then drove his knee upward with savage force, slamming it into the man's solar plexus.

Wham!

The impact launched the man straight into the wall.

Chen Wujun trained his knees every single day. That strike hit harder than a sledgehammer, instantly robbing the man of any ability to fight. His mouth gaped wide as he tried to breathe, but he looked like a fish pulled from water — not a single breath would go in.

It was the body's natural response to a heavy blow to the chest and abdomen. Recovery would take at least ten seconds.

He didn't have ten seconds.

Chen Wujun ripped the knife back, slicing the man's gripping palm nearly in half, then drove the blade into his lower abdomen again and again.

As blood poured from the man's mouth in a steady stream, Chen Wujun planted one final stab in his neck.

The man crumpled limply to the ground. Only then did Chen Wujun stagger back two steps and lean against the wall, chest heaving.

In the dim alley, where the only illumination was the faint glow leaking from a distant window, there was no sound but Chen Wujun's breathing — ragged and loud as a bellows.

After roughly a minute of rest, Chen Wujun pushed off the wall and retraced his steps, his silhouette swaying slightly with each stride.

During the fight, he hadn't noticed. Now that the adrenaline was fading, his legs felt like jelly. He was running on fumes.

His palms and the knife handle were slick with a mixture of sweat and blood. If not for the curved horn-shaped grip, the blade would have slipped from his hand long ago.

Chen Wujun clamped the knife under his left arm, fished his phone from his pocket, flipped it open, and called Shark Jiu.

Three rings. Shark Jiu picked up.

"Wujun, something happened?"

"Lidong sent twelve people to kill me!" Chen Wujun panted between every few words.

"You can still make a phone call, so it can't be that bad. Where are you?" Shark Jiu replied.

"One of them ran back to call for backup. The rest are all here. I'm in the alley about a hundred and twenty meters east of the dance hall."

"I'm on my way."

Chen Wujun stuffed the phone back into his pocket, gripped the knife, and walked step by step back to where it all started. Several men were still alive, slumped against the walls and groaning. One man's face was caved in so badly it barely looked human — the result of Chen Wujun's elbow.

Hearing footsteps, they raised their heads, hatred burning in their eyes: "When we catch that little bastard — "

The words died in their throats.

Around the corner stepped a young man in a dress shirt soaked crimson, his face painted in blood, an oversized folding knife in his hand.

"You — "

Chen Wujun didn't waste words. He stepped forward and started stabbing.

Within moments, the remaining survivors were dead — including the New Arts practitioner whose belly he'd slashed open earlier.

When he reached the last one, the man scrambled backward desperately: "Don't kill me — it was the boss who sent us to grab you — please don't kill me..."

Chen Wujun raised his knife, then lowered it. He kicked the man square in the face, then spun around and slashed twice across the backs of his ankles.

A thought had struck him.

If he didn't leave a living witness, who would spread the word?

Leave one alive, and the story carried weight. His reputation would grow.

Wasn't that the whole point of fighting this bloody battle? To make a name, to rise?

Chen Wujun's legs trembled beneath him as he made his way toward the alley's entrance, one unsteady step at a time.

A late-night passerby had just turned into the alley when he saw Chen Wujun — drenched in blood, knife in hand, walking straight toward him. The man spun on his heel and bolted.

Chen Wujun waited at the mouth of the alley for about two minutes before five of the dance hall's runners came sprinting over with clubs in hand, eyes scanning both directions.

When they spotted Chen Wujun leaning against the alley wall, covered head to toe in blood, every one of them flinched.

"Brother Jun?"

If not for the faint outline of his dress shirt still visible beneath all the red, they wouldn't have recognized him.

"What happened? Where are they?"

"Go in there and drag them all out." Chen Wujun split his lips in a grin, baring white teeth that glinted with murderous intent.

"Don't worry. Only one's still breathing."

He pointed at one of the runners.

"You — go get me two bottles of water and a rag."

The remaining runners steeled themselves and headed in. A few dozen meters down the alley, they found bodies strewn across the ground and the sharp, coppery reek of blood assaulting their nostrils.

They exchanged glances. The horror in each other's eyes was unmistakable.

A quick check confirmed it — every single one was dead.

Some had been stabbed in the neck. Others had five or six wounds across their bodies.

Eight corpses in total.

Thinking back to the blood covering Chen Wujun, every man felt an icy chill crawl up his spine, the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

They heard movement further ahead. Creeping forward cautiously, they found one more man on the ground, still groaning, his face a mangled mess of blood and torn flesh.

Nine men. Eight corpses.

...

"Brother Jun, water!" The runner came back with two bottles and a small towel.

Chen Wujun tilted his head back and drained half a bottle, then poured the rest over his face. He ripped off what remained of his shirt and scrubbed roughly at his skin, then grabbed the second bottle and doused his face and torso before wiping himself clean with the towel.

Less than five minutes later, Longjin Street erupted into chaos as Shark Jiu arrived with sixty or seventy men.

Chen Wujun spotted the figures behind Shark Jiu — Ji Xiang, Ah Hao, and a lean, crew-cut man radiating danger. He'd seen him once before. Cun Bao.

From the opposite direction, Wen Long marched in with over a hundred of his own.

The two sides met head-on in the middle of Longjin Street.

"Shark Jiu!" Wen Long's face was dark as a thunderhead, his stare boring into her.

Shark Jiu didn't even glance at him. Her gaze went straight to Chen Wujun at the mouth of the alley.

"Still on your feet. Not bad."

"Shark Jiu, hand over my men!" Wen Long's expression grew even colder, and he cursed silently.

Twelve men to grab one person, and they'd still failed.

Now his people were in Shark Jiu's hands. Get them back first, settle the rest later.

"Your men?" Shark Jiu let out a cold laugh, then turned her head toward Chen Wujun. "Wujun, where are his people?"

"He wants them?" Chen Wujun tossed his ruined shirt aside. Bare-chested, every line of hard-earned muscle on full display, his eyes blazing with killing intent, he walked to Shark Jiu's side. "Since he wants them... drag them out."