Chapter Forty-Three: Villains Meet Their Match

Just as the man exposed his ugly thing to the air, fantasizing about how obedient the little lamb beneath his hips would be, a large, powerful hand landed on his shoulder.

“Damn!” His pleasure interrupted, the furious man spun around, eager to see which fool dared ruin his fun at such a moment. As he turned, a fist the size of a bowl filled his vision, and then everything went black. There was a crisp sound—the unmistakable snap of his own nose breaking. Before the pain even registered, he was sent flying like a severed kite, crashing headlong into the wall, just as Zou Lin had moments before, finally coming to rest in a dazed heap.

Without sparing a glance at the man, whose face was now a mess of tears, snot, and blood as he whimpered on the ground, Zhao Qiang strode over, gently helped the stunned Zou Lin to her feet, straightened her clothes, and asked in a calm voice, “Are you alright?”

Zou Lin finally regained her senses. When she saw who it was, she flung herself into Zhao Qiang’s arms and began to sob. In no time at all, his shirt was soaked through with her tears. Zhao Qiang patted her back softly and spoke in a gentle tone, “It’s alright now. With me here, nothing will happen to you.”

He then gently pushed the still-crying Zou Lin away and handed her a bulging backpack. She opened it to find it was filled with women’s clothing—everything from underwear to puffer jackets and jeans, all with their tags still attached.

“There should be other rooms here. Go get changed—though I’m not sure if they’ll fit. And take this bottle of water. It’s cold, but you can at least wash your face,” Zhao Qiang said. Zou Lin nodded lightly, mumbled a “thank you,” and hurried away with the bag and water bottle.

Once Zou Lin had disappeared through the door, Zhao Qiang grabbed the man on the ground by the hair and hauled him up. “Quit playing dead. I’ve got a few questions for you!” With that, he delivered a savage kick to the man’s gut.

The man was a street thug, notorious for his ruthlessness and the fighting skills he’d picked up at a sports academy in his youth. He’d made quite a name for himself in the underworld. This time, caught off guard by the sneak attack and not even seeing his assailant clearly, he decided to play dead and avoid further loss. But seeing he couldn’t get away, he got up stiffly, wiped the blood from his face, and a fierce glint flashed in his eyes. Sizing up his opponent—a chubby lad barely over five foot seven—he sneered, “Kid, do you know who the hell I am? Do you know which crew I run with?” As he spoke, he swung a slap at Zhao Qiang’s face.

Zhao Qiang remained impassive, raising his hand to block the blow. The man struggled, but Zhao Qiang’s grip was like iron, and no amount of effort could break free. As the man tried to kick out, Zhao Qiang deftly shifted his weight, sending him stumbling headlong into the wall again.

A true fighter can spot another at a glance. After being bested twice, the man realized he’d picked the wrong target. He ignored his bruised, battered face, stopped talking, turned to square up, and with a growl, charged at Zhao Qiang.

His reputation in the underworld was built on the solid skills he’d honed at the sports academy. Over the years, he’d become a recognized enforcer, unfazed by violence and pain. The minor injuries on his face were nothing, he thought. The first two losses were just lapses in caution; this time, he would show this punk what he was made of.

A trained fighter is something else entirely. As the man grew serious, his bearing changed—fists loosely clenched, stance steady, radiating the confidence of experience. He saw Zhao Qiang standing still, seemingly unprepared, and felt a surge of satisfaction. Look at this kid—scared stiff already. But remembering that this opponent had already outmaneuvered him twice, he dared not be careless. His footwork quickened, mimicking a boxer’s shuffle, circling Zhao Qiang, testing him with a few probing jabs.

But Zhao Qiang—trained by Wei Tao, that living weapon—barely considered the man’s clumsy moves worth noticing. A cold smile played at his lips as he watched the man hop around like a clown.

The man was goaded by Zhao Qiang’s smirk. For years, no one had dared look down on him like this. Usually, pretty boys like Zhao Qiang would cower and flatter him in the bar, yet today he’d been humiliated. How could he swallow such an insult? With a low growl, he launched a sweeping roundhouse kick—a move he’d mastered over years of hard practice, one that had left many in the underworld crippled or worse. To unleash it on this pretty boy was almost a waste.

Yet before his leg could rise fully, Zhao Qiang moved—so quickly the man couldn’t even see how. The next thing he knew, another mighty kick landed squarely in his gut.

The blow was so powerful the man couldn’t even scream—his breath was kicked right out of him. Who knew how many ribs were broken? All he could do was collapse on the ground, groaning in agony.

“Ready to answer my questions now?” Zhao Qiang asked with a smile, crouching beside the man and reviving him from his daze.

The man opened his eyes to see Zhao Qiang’s mocking face looming over him. Swallowing the pain in his chest, he spat, “Ask your damn questions. You’ve got no idea who you’re messing with!” He broke off, coughing violently, blood bubbling from his lips.

All brawn and no brains, was Zhao Qiang’s assessment. At this point, who cared what crew you ran with? Your boss might already be zombie food by now. Zhao Qiang snorted, grabbed the man’s mop of yellow hair, and slapped his lecherous face hard.

“No more, boss, no more. Ask me anything, I’ll tell you everything,” the man whimpered at last, blood, tears, and snot pooling on the floor, several yellowed teeth knocked loose, pleading with Zhao Qiang to stop.

Zhao Qiang grunted, let go, and wiped his hands on the man’s collar, staring at him with cold indifference.

“So, which crew are you with?” Zhao Qiang asked, his tone dripping with malice.

The thug shrank back, his voice trembling, “Boss, you’re just messing with me now. I’m just a bouncer at a bar, a nobody.”

“Oh, really?” Zhao Qiang responded noncommittally, rummaging through the man’s pockets and pulling out a handful of trinkets. He picked up a ZIPPO lighter and toyed with it. “Where’d you get all this stuff?”

“Boss, if you like them, take them. My gift to you,” the man said eagerly, hoping to curry favor. All of it had been scavenged from corpses, but if this killer wanted them, he’d give them up in a heartbeat.

“Was it you who grabbed that woman earlier?” Zhao Qiang flicked the lighter, the orange flame dancing.

“It was… it wasn’t—it was the others, the fourth and his crew, nothing to do with me… Ah! Boss, please, don’t—don’t do anything rash!” The man cried out mid-sentence as Zhao Qiang doused his head with ZIPPO lighter fluid.

“So what was all that just now?” Zhao Qiang put away the lighter fluid and asked coolly, “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. You saw I was here and still went after my people?”

The man, his face now slick with fluid, was a pitiful sight, but dared not wipe it away. Whimpering, he replied, “Big brother, I didn’t know it was you—if I’d known that woman was with you—no, sister-in-law, and she hadn’t said a word! Even if you gave me two extra lives, I wouldn’t have dared!”

When Zhao Qiang saw the lighter fluid on the man’s face had mostly evaporated, he poured a little more over him and said calmly, “Give me a reason not to kill you. If I’m satisfied, I’ll let you walk away.”