Chapter Forty-Two: Regret Your Mother

“Cut him down, cut him to death for me. I want to see just how tough his life is. If I can’t break you, I’ll kill you!”

The leader, swinging a gleaming machete, was dressed in a black suit, and at first glance, appeared to be a one-eyed brute. His beard was unkempt, his features rugged and far from pleasant, yet his burly muscles betrayed a formidable strength. He looked to be about thirty-five, and he barked out his orders coldly.

“Useless.” As he passed by the fat man, Hua, he spat out the word in disgust and charged ahead with menace.

He raised his machete high, poised for a downward strike, aiming straight for Lin Yang’s forehead.

“Dragon, be careful! That kid’s got a few tricks up his sleeve!” The fat Hua, who had nearly fallen flat on his rear, saw the six men rush past him like a tractor, and called out a warning to their boss.

As Lin Yang watched the six men barreling toward him like a stampede, he remained unmoved. The corner of his mouth curled into a disdainful smile. From their attire and the way they wielded their weapons, Lin Yang could already tell these were nothing more than low-level thugs, the kind who had never made a name for themselves. In fact, calling them gangsters was a stretch—they were more like petty street punks.

“Kid, you dared lay a hand on my brother? You’re courting death.” With these words, the machete came slicing down with a ferocious momentum—clearly, he meant to kill.

“Who’s behind this?” With ease, Lin Yang caught the descending wrist, shifted his weight, and locked the one-eyed brute’s right hand in an iron grip. His voice was cold, not loud, but it carried a chilling edge. Even the one-eyed brute, known as Dragon, famed for his ruthlessness and feared by his own men, could not suppress a shiver.

It was a pressure that struck at the spirit—Lin Yang had unleashed his inner energy for intimidation, and the effect was remarkable.

“You little punk, you dare threaten our boss? Cut him, brothers, cut him!” The five men who had followed up behind saw their leader subdued but did not shrink back in fear. On the contrary, they seemed even more frenzied, swinging their blades down as if fueled by adrenaline.

Lin Yang could handle one or two opponents with ease, but four flashing blades and an iron rod coming down at once—even with his agility—forced him to retreat and defend. In that brief moment, he had no time to keep hold of Dragon, who took the chance to break free as a blade swung perilously close.

“Dragon, are you alright?” The underling who had been bluffing earlier proved shrewd. He darted forward, supporting Dragon with concern.

“Xiao Hai, you’ve done well.”

Those words carried weight, hinting at a promotion once they got back. For a bottom-rung punk, such a reward was monumental.

Xiao Hai, swelling with pride, boasted, “Dragon, it’s nothing. Serving you is my duty.”

“Well, well—‘good’ isn’t enough to express how I feel now.” Dragon, still agitated, turned his hateful gaze on Lin Yang, who stood composed a step back. Seeing his five men gathering around, his confidence surged. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the tall, battered Xiao Yuan finally struggling to his feet, and with a scowl, barked, “Xiao Yuan! If you’re not dead, get over here. If you keep cowering over there, I’ll skin you alive when we get back.”

The tall punk was nearly in tears. His lower body throbbed with pain, his vision blurred with tears. Just as he managed to ease himself up, a fresh wave of agony shot through his tailbone, and he toppled over again, landing hard and blacking out from the pain.

“Pathetic. Useless, just plain useless.” Dragon, now wary, didn’t dare rush in. He signaled the five men to block Lin Yang’s escape. Once sure the kid had nowhere to run, he prepared to strike.

Surrounded, Lin Yang ignored them, his voice icy as he repeated, “Last chance. Who’s behind this? Tell me, and you’ll suffer much less.”

“Last chance, my ass. Let’s see if I can’t chop you to death!” Dragon lunged first, the five others flanking him in a tight, unstoppable assault.

The commotion from Lin Yang’s collision had been loud, and though it was a side street, plenty of residents lived nearby. Soon, those closest were roused from sleep, most peering curiously from their windows, lights off, wary of drawing attention from the thugs below.

Some, braver or simply nosy, dared to turn on their lights, and a few busybodies quickly called the police.

Within moments, the tide below had turned completely. The six men, so fierce and armed moments ago, now lay writhing on the ground, clutching various parts of their bodies, groaning in agony—wrists, ankles, ribs—all struck at the bones.

An angry Lin Yang was terrifying, but a Lin Yang wielding flying knives was even more so—the mark of his signature Bone-Splitting Blade technique.

With a deathly air, his footsteps echoed as he strode over to Dragon, whose wrists were now useless. He patted the man’s twisted, pain-contorted face and demanded, “If you don’t want to be crippled for life, start talking. Otherwise…”

He flashed a cold smile and waved the exquisite surgical blade in front of Dragon’s eyes. This blade, crafted for healing but twice now stained with an assailant’s blood, would surely not see its last use this night.

Staring at the delicate blade, Dragon’s face was awash with terror. He knew well just how dangerous it was—it had ruined his hands. He glanced down at the invisible pain in his wrists, knowing its source was the blade, yet oddly, there was no visible wound. The strangeness of it all only deepened his dread, and he shrank back from Lin Yang’s bloodthirsty gaze.

Just as he gritted his teeth and prepared to beg, several police cars burst onto the scene from both ends of the street, sirens blaring.

Seeing the police arrive, Dragon, who had just been trembling with fear, suddenly became bold, as if he had found a lifeline. He glared coldly at Lin Yang, who was now standing, brow furrowed, and taunted, “Let’s see you run now, kid! You’re going to jail!”

“It was self-defense,” Lin Yang replied, calm and composed.

“Self-defense? Ha! Just wait and see!” Dragon laughed, his pain seemingly forgotten in his triumph. After some effort, he stood and cried out to the lead officer—armed and middle-aged—“Uncle Yang, you’re here! If you’d been any later, your nephew would be meeting the King of Hell right now!”

He sobbed with a drama worthy of an Oscar, twisting the story with practiced ease.

Recognizing his troublesome nephew, the lead officer’s expression soured, especially when he saw the five men still groaning on the ground, plus the tall one knocked out nearby. Scowling, he turned to Lin Yang and demanded coldly, “You did this?” gesturing to the wounded men and the weeping Dragon.

Lin Yang’s blade work was so precise and strange that not a drop of blood or visible wound could be seen, except on the young man before him, who showed no hint of fear. The officer was left unsure of what had happened.

Casting his gaze around, he quickly spotted the crumpled Audi nearby and pointed at it, his tone arrogant, “Whose car is that?”

He didn’t really need to ask; he knew. But since the crying punk was his nephew, appearances had to be kept, so he played dumb.

The officers behind him cast Lin Yang looks full of schadenfreude, as if to say, “You’re in trouble now, kid—don’t you see who you’re up against?”

“It’s mine,” Lin Yang answered with conviction.

“Speeding, drunk driving, or was it premeditated murder?” The officer’s imagination was impressive, but his bias even more so. With a few words, he dumped the weight of all possible charges on Lin Yang’s head.

Dragon, standing nearby, shot Lin Yang a venomous, triumphant glare, mouthing silently, “You’re finished, kid.”

“What a heavy accusation! Are you blind?” Lin Yang’s face instantly darkened. To slap such a charge on him without a second glance—what else could this officer be but blind?

“Watch your mouth, kid, or I’ll charge you with insulting and slandering a people’s police officer,” the officer sneered, eager to provoke Lin Yang and pin any crime on him.

“Xiao Wang, cuff him. We’ll sort it out at the station. And secure the scene—don’t let any lawless punks get away.” With a glare at Lin Yang, he turned and left, clearly unwilling to engage further.

“Tough luck, kid. Let’s go.” A young, somewhat handsome officer stepped up, drew his handcuffs, and waved them at Lin Yang with a mocking smile.

Before Lin Yang could protest or resist, the officer cut him off, “If you resist, you’ll be charged with assaulting an officer and obstructing justice. That won’t look good for you.” The warning, though couched in kindness, carried a threat, which dampened any desire Lin Yang had to fight back.

He raised his hands, wearing a defiant grin, and teased, “The station? Not a bad place. Never been—might as well see what it’s like.”

“Don’t bet on coming out again, kid,” Dragon sneered, stopping in his tracks to taunt the grinning Lin Yang.

His mission was technically accomplished—though not as planned, things hadn’t gotten out of hand, and Lin Yang had been taught a lesson. Compared to the beating he’d been paid to deliver, this outcome was decent enough, and he could expect a bigger commission now.

“Some people might regret this,” Lin Yang replied, still careless and untroubled, as if jail was the least of his worries.

“Regret? I’ll regret your mother!” This time, it was the lead officer, Captain Yang, who shouted back in anger.