Chapter 82: The Wretched Struggle of a Trapped Beast

He Zhi Xing suddenly found himself surrounded by four people. Realizing escape was now impossible, he grinned and said, “You all got here fast!” The group didn’t want to give him any chance to slip away. They kept him boxed in from all sides, pressing in slowly. He hastily pulled out a small engraving file, gripping it tightly, ready to fight like a cornered beast. Surrendering was never an option for him.

At that moment, the master of the one-handed uncle moved. Fast—swift as lightning, his hand struck toward He Zhi Xing, aiming for a pressure point with inner energy. The other three attacked in perfect unison. Surrounded on all sides, He Zhi Xing activated his piercing vision, narrowly dodging the master’s hand by a hair’s breadth. He bent low and rolled along the ground, his hand tracing a deadly arc with the file toward Liu Tian, who lunged at him.

Liu Tian left his left side wide open beneath his chest. The file sliced through the air, landing on his exposed waist before he could retreat. As Liu Tian tried to pull back, the sharp file tore through his shirt and flesh, leaving a long gash. He screamed in pain, clutching his wound with both hands. In their first exchange, He Zhi Xing had drawn blood and earned a small victory.

Liu Tian’s father, seeing this, cried out in alarm, asking if he was all right. Liu Tian replied that it wasn’t too deep, so his father turned his furious gaze on He Zhi Xing. “Boy, today you’re dead! You hurt my son—I’ll never forgive you!”

He Zhi Xing had just tried to break through the perimeter, but as soon as he rolled away, the other three closed in rapidly, no longer holding back, striking to kill. He Zhi Xing circulated his inner energy at full speed, pitting himself against three attackers in a desperate and bloody struggle.

The crowd on the street, witnessing such a savage fight, didn’t dare approach. They all kept their distance, hiding far away. The noise of blows and crashes had already drawn many onlookers, but even those who couldn’t bear to watch did not dare help. No one ventured within five meters; this was not a fight that a few bystanders could solve.

He Zhi Xing hung on by sheer willpower, unleashing all thirty-six forms of the Hanyang Blade Technique, combined with the Five Elements Breathing Method. His hands and feet blurred into a series of swift afterimages, battling from one end of the street to the other. Street signs, cars, pedestrians, and utility poles along the roadside became collateral in the chaos. The devastation left in their wake filled witnesses with dread.

“Could these men be from the traditional Shaolin Temple or one of those ancient martial sects?” some distant bystanders wondered.

The fight spilled from the end of the street into another lane, the battle raging on. Suddenly, from a side alley, a man burst out and struck He Zhi Xing’s back. He hadn’t realized there were others beyond the four attackers. The force of the blow sent a surge of energy crashing into his body, making him stagger and spit blood. Gritting his teeth against the searing pain, he summoned his strength, darting into a side street. As he glanced back, he saw his assailant—Park Jung Jin, the Korean monk. Instantly, He Zhi Xing understood the conspiracy: they had all joined forces to seize the treasures he carried.

Using the cover of trees and passing vehicles, He Zhi Xing slipped into an alley beside a row of shops. Just then, a young woman was opening the electronic security door of a commercial building. He darted in behind her. As she was about to cry out, his bloodstained hand clamped over her mouth. She tried to bite him, but the door closed automatically. He whispered urgently in her ear, “Please, help me. Don’t make a sound, don’t let them find me, or we’re both done for!”

With that, He Zhi Xing collapsed. The girl, seeing the blood-soaked young man crumple at her side, was overcome with sympathy and whispered, “Are you all right?”

But He Zhi Xing had no strength left to answer. He was too exhausted to speak.

With no other choice, the girl helped him up to the fifth-floor apartment she rented, tending to his wounds.

Since it was daylight, his pursuers failed to spot where he’d gone. They searched connecting streets for a long time but found nothing and eventually withdrew.

The girl was the owner of a cake shop, jointly run with two or three friends. She had come back to the rental apartment for more cake boxes after running out while preparing a birthday order. She hadn’t expected to run into a gravely injured man. She quickly told one of her partners to buy some medicinal ointment and to be cautious, checking for anyone following her and not letting anyone come upstairs. Then she headed back to the cake shop for boxes.

As the girl returned upstairs, she opened the door and was startled by the sight of an ordinary man, covered in blood, sitting in a chair with his eyes closed, regulating his breath. She almost screamed, “Ah—”

Her friend stopped her at once. “Qin Ya, what are you yelling about? Don’t wake him up!”