Chapter Twenty-Three: Battle in the Night

The late autumn night was extraordinarily silent and still. Aside from the howling wind and the occasional stray cat prowling for food, the hush was so profound it sent chills down the spine. Any slight movement would have been inaudible to ordinary people, but not to Lin Yang, whose internal energy cultivation rendered his hearing preternaturally sharp.

Footsteps—Lin Yang was certain. And not just one pair. Though the sounds were faint, clearly made with deliberate care, they did not reach the level of supernatural stealth. He crouched lightly beside the window, eyes peering out. Through the dim glow of the streetlights, he could make out a dozen or so shadowy figures creeping toward his room, moving to encircle him.

Glints of cold steel flashed as machetes caught the weak light, exuding a murderous aura. The black-clad figures blended seamlessly into the darkness; had Lin Yang not been channeling his energy to his eyes, even he would have struggled to notice them.

"Boss, it's that room," whispered a barely audible voice, like the buzz of a mosquito, into the ear of the leader—who wielded a pistol equipped with a silencer. The finger pointed unerringly at Lin Yang's room.

No reply came—only a series of hand signals, so familiar as to need no words. The group's disciplined movements betrayed their professional training—these were seasoned killers.

Lin Yang's brow furrowed, the lines nearly bleeding with tension. After a quick scan of his surroundings, he quietly opened the rear window, vaulted out, and landed softly on the grass outside. He did not wish to disturb the building's residents or cause innocent casualties; he would have to take the risk upon himself and lure these lawless men to some deserted place, to deal with them one by one.

His actions were far from subtle, and as expected, they immediately drew the attention of the black-clad assailants. That was precisely his intent. As they converged on him, Lin Yang swiftly counted—fifteen, no more, no less. Satisfied that there were no others who might threaten Leng Nini, he relaxed a little and dashed toward the park behind the residential complex—the perfect battleground for a counterattack, the true arena of the night.

A silent gesture sent the assassins in pursuit. They, too, wished to avoid alarming the residents. Moving like phantoms, they chased after Lin Yang, not disturbing a single light sleeper.

To avoid attracting attention from any late-night passersby, Lin Yang kept to the side paths, his intimate knowledge of the terrain giving him a considerable advantage. He easily outpaced his pursuers, widening the gap between them.

One fleeing, several chasing—a wild and vivid tableau painted across the night.

Suddenly, a machete flashed with murderous intent, spinning toward Lin Yang from a treacherous angle, aimed precisely at his head. Ever since he realized one of them carried a silenced gun, Lin Yang had pushed his senses to the limit. Giving his back to the enemy was dangerous, but sometimes necessity left no choice. The slightest disturbance behind him, he sensed immediately.

Throwing knives too? He cursed inwardly. With a slight tilt of his head, the blade grazed past, shearing off a few strands of hair. He caught its shape in the corner of his eye, but his feet never paused, his body surging forward in a final sprint.

"Don't let him get into the park." At last, the leader with the silenced pistol spoke, his tone low but audible to every assassin. He had noticed the dense trees ahead, the complex terrain—once inside, it would be difficult to find anyone. The sign above read "Beishan Park."

Bang—a shot sounded as the leader fired at Lin Yang's retreating form.

This was a contest of speed against speed, madness against audacity, an indirect and direct confrontation—Lin Yang alone acted out this perilous assassination drama.

The bullet struck the hard concrete wall, sparking brightly in the dark. In the nick of time, Lin Yang twisted his body ninety degrees—a risky maneuver while running, one that could easily wrench a muscle. But he was skilled enough and bold enough to pull it off flawlessly, evading a fatal blow.

With a final burst of speed, he reached Beishan Park, slipping into the dense trees and, like a lion awaiting prey, watched the group of men gather at the park gate.

"Boss, what now?" someone asked in a low voice.

"Be careful. No matter what, we must finish this tonight—otherwise, there will be trouble," the leader commanded, waving his silenced pistol and issuing quick, decisive orders. The fifteen men spread out, beginning a meticulous search of the park.

Never without his blade, Lin Yang drew his exquisite little throwing knife—the same knife that had brought beauty to countless faces in the past, but tonight, it was destined for blood.

Aided by his heightened senses, he locked onto the nearest assassin. No dramatic clash, no thunderous struggle—only a silent fall, a soul departing in terror and disbelief.

One knife, one life. A blade to the throat, and another black-clad man crumpled. Lin Yang felt neither fear nor guilt. His principle was simple: Do not offend me, and I will not offend you; cross me, and you die. This was far from his first kill.

These days, too many fools, blinded by greed, sought death at his hands. Lin Yang considered it almost a charitable act to oblige them.

One down, fourteen to go—a daunting task.

Before another had time to cry out, Lin Yang broke his neck with ruthless efficiency. Yet another corpse sank into the night, silent and unavenged.

One or two deaths sparked no alarm, but when five had fallen—nearly a third—the remaining assassins, hard-hearted though they were, could not hide the fear in their eyes.

“Damn it, boy, if you’re a man, come out. Hiding in the shadows—what kind of man does that?” Not every killer was fearless. Watching their comrades drop one by one, some could no longer contain their panic, and a furious roar broke the silence.

Lin Yang was no fool; he would not reveal his position by responding. Hidden behind a pine tree, he crept toward another assassin five meters away, muttering inwardly, “Calling me a coward? Aren’t you all here for a sneak attack? And you call yourselves men? The lot of you are cowards—your whole family’s nothing but cowards.”

Just as he moved to strike, a cold shiver ran through him—a trap! He cursed himself. As expected, a bullet came whistling toward his head from twenty meters away, fired by the black-clad leader.

Without hesitation, Lin Yang took a desperate gamble. He seized a nearby assassin, pulling him into the bullet’s path. The muffled thump of the slug hitting flesh, a grunt of pain—the unwilling shield glared in disbelief into the darkness as he died, felled by his own comrade’s hand. A most ignominious fate.

From a distance, Lin Yang noticed that the leader now wore night-vision goggles. No wonder he could track Lin Yang’s movements so accurately. This complicated matters, forcing Lin Yang to abandon his plan of silent ambush.

A quick glance around confirmed that the remaining eight did not have night vision. Lin Yang's tense nerves relaxed a fraction—there was still hope.

After a swift reckoning, Lin Yang came to a mad conclusion: take out the leader first, then handle the rest. Decision made, he acted without hesitation.

To expose himself deliberately was reckless in the extreme, but Lin Yang was both daring and decisive. He stepped into view. As he expected, a bullet tore through the darkness toward him. In response, Lin Yang hurled his beloved throwing knife, the force of his energy behind it. The blade shot forward at supersonic speed to meet the incoming bullet.

There was no sharp clang—only the effortless slice of steel through butter. The bullet was split in two, falling harmlessly to the ground, while the knife continued unstopped, streaking toward the leader’s brow.

The leader was no novice; realizing he could not dodge in time, he made a ruthless decision—raising his left arm as a shield. Blood dripped onto the ground, each drop clearly audible in the stillness. With a sigh of regret at his missed opportunity, Lin Yang vanished once more into the night.

Now, Lin Yang was filled with regret for not bringing an extra knife. With another, he could have launched more attacks.

The injured leader crouched behind a tree, teeth gritted as he pulled the exquisite blade from his arm. He tore a strip of black cloth to bandage the wound with practiced skill.

“Boy, it seems I underestimated you,” the leader said at last, his tone almost baiting.

Lin Yang wasn’t foolish enough to reply and reveal his location—not with eight pairs of eyes still hunting him.

“No answer? Fine. I wonder if you can spare a thought for that little girl. Eight of us can keep you busy long enough, I’m sure,” the leader intoned, his words heavy with implication before falling silent.

“Bastard,” Lin Yang cursed inwardly, for the thing he most dreaded was now about to happen.