Quickly conquer the martial arts world, and let your fists dominate the heavens!

Wu Jianglong was stunned by the blow and couldn't understand why his older brother had suddenly turned against him.

Han Shouyi turned back and remained kneeling.

"Leader, Yuan Sheng has never said it would withdraw from the Chinese Alliance. It's just developing in Hong Kong. It absolutely cannot continue to use the Chinese Alliance's banner. Claiming neutrality to the outside world makes it impossible to establish a foothold here. The Tsing Yi Society's influence is too great; I really have no other choice."

Chen Zhan tapped his fingers lightly on the table.

Han Shouyi's heart skipped a beat.

"Row."

As soon as the word was uttered, Han Shouyi's shoulders slumped, as if a heavy burden had been lifted.

"Do me a favor."

"Please speak, Alliance Leader."

"I need the detailed addresses of all the properties in Hong Kong owned by the Tsing Yi Society and the pro-unification faction. If you can't find the information, then forget it."

He picked up his teacup and took another sip.

"The Chinese Martial Arts Association in Sheung Wan is no longer in use; I know where they are."

Put down the teacup.

"I'll come pick it up tomorrow at noon, is that alright?"

“No problem.” Han Shouyi said without hesitation, “I’ll send someone to verify it right now; I’ll go myself.”

Chen Zhan nodded, stood up, and turned to walk towards the door.

Reach the door, open it, and leave.

Han Shouyi had already stood up from the ground, but his expression hadn't calmed down yet. Sweat still clung to his forehead, and his eyes held a mixture of excitement and fear.

"Big brother, why did you hit me?" Wu Jianglong rubbed his chest, his voice tinged with grievance.

"If I don't hit you, you won't be alive to speak right now."

Wu Jianglong was taken aback.

"Who was that person just now? Wasn't it Chen Zhan from yesterday?"

"You know his name is Chen Zhan?"

"Yes, I know. He gave himself the name."

Han Shouyi looked at him, his tone turning serious.

"Then why didn't you tell me his name yesterday?"

Wu Jianglong opened his mouth.

"This... I didn't care, anyway, he couldn't possibly be..."

He suddenly remembered something halfway through his speech.

Han Shouyi's reaction just now flashed through his mind one scene after another.

Wu Jianglong's expression changed drastically: "Impossible, right? He can't really be that person, can he?"

Han Shouyi did not answer directly, but said, "Hurry up and get on with your business. You should have heard what he said at the end."

Wu Jianglong's hands were trembling: "Brother, if that person really comes back..."

"Stop talking nonsense, go."

Wu Jianglong swallowed hard, turned around, and went out the door.
-
night.

Sheung Wan, Hollywood Road.

In 1946, just one year after the Japanese surrender, Hong Kong was slowly emerging from the ruins of war.

The British Hong Kong government returned, order was restored, and the bullet holes and burn marks on the streets had not yet been repaired before the shops had already reopened.

Hollywood Road is a century-old street that stretches from Sheung Wan to the edge of Central. It is a place where Chinese and foreigners live together and where people come from all walks of life.

The shops on both sides of the street were densely packed together: antique shops, secondhand bookstores, tailor shops, teahouses, liquor stores, general stores, fortune tellers, one after another, with signs crammed together haphazardly, in Chinese, English, or a mix of both, all colorful under the dim streetlights.

Even at night, there are still a lot of people.

Groups of sailors emerged from the seaside bar, arms around each other, speaking fluent English, and staggering drunkenly through the streets.

Locals in long gowns squatted by the roadside eating bowls of shark's fin soup, slurping and slurping as the soup steamed.

Several women in cheongsams and high heels walked past from the opposite side, their perfume scent wafting across half the street.

The newspaper boy ran around with his newspaper in hand, shouting "Today's Headlines!" in a shrill voice that cut through the noise of the entire street.

The streets were brightly lit, and pedestrians were coming and going in an endless stream.

Chen Zhan was walking on the street.

Despite the lively atmosphere, he felt a chill in his heart.

The mainland is still engulfed in war. The north is in turmoil, and the south is not peaceful either. Cities are destroyed and then recaptured, only to be destroyed again. Ordinary people are either dying or fleeing.

Hong Kong, however, can enjoy this kind of life.

The streets were brightly lit and bustling with activity, filled with singing and dancing, as if the war had never happened.

Heaven and hell are separated by the Luohu Bridge.

Chen Zhan walked through the crowds and bought a string of candied hawthorns from a roadside stall.

took a bite.

The sugar coating is thin, allowing you to taste the original flavor of the hawthorn. It's a blend of sweet and sour, a style typical of northern China.

The stall owner was probably from the mainland as well.

After taking a couple of bites, I held the bamboo skewer in my hand and continued walking.

I stopped in the middle of Hollywood Road. There was a three-story stone building across the street.

This was a place he had glimpsed from afar during the day.

Chinese Wushu Federation.

A black plaque with gold lettering hangs above the main entrance, and the light shining from inside the door illuminates the four large characters on the plaque.

The two thick wooden doors of the main entrance were wide open, and the inside was brightly lit and noisy. The sounds of people clinking glasses could be heard from across the street.

During the day it looks like half a government office, but at night it looks like a restaurant.

It was very lively.

Chen Zhan bit off the last hawthorn on the candied hawthorn, tossed the bamboo skewer aside, crossed the road, and walked towards the main entrance.

Two young men were standing at the door.

They looked to be in their early twenties, dressed in short training clothes with blue cloth strips tied around their arms, and stood on either side of the doorway.

He didn't look like a gatekeeper, but rather like a gatekeeper apprentice. He stood fairly properly, but his eyes were unfocused, and he would glance at the street every now and then.

The Chinese Wushu Federation does not receive outside visitors; visitors must present identification.

Chen Zhan stepped forward.

As soon as they saw someone approaching, the two instinctively straightened up, about to speak.

popping.

Two soft sounds, like swatting mosquitoes twice.

No one saw how he made his move; both of them simultaneously lost focus, their bodies went limp, and their knees bent halfway down.

Chen Zhan grabbed one person's arm with each hand and lifted them up.

The two of them suddenly stood up straight again, like two marionettes being lifted up, their four legs stiff as they backed away.

The two took a few steps back, retreating to the inside of the threshold at the entrance of the headquarters.

Chen Zhan followed him inside.

From the outside, it looked as if two apprentices at the door were backing away to welcome the guests in, respectfully and without any sign of anything unusual.

Upon entering, there is a spacious front hall.

The ground was paved with stone slabs, and directly opposite was a screen wall with a large "武" (martial) character carved on it in a vigorous, flowing style. On either side of the screen wall were corridors leading to the back.

Chen Zhan leaned the two apprentices against the corner of the wall behind the screen wall, where they stood like two wooden stakes, eyes open, mouths closed, and motionless.

He wouldn't wake up within half an hour.

The corridor to the right of the front hall leads to the backyard, where lively noises can be heard.

Chen Zhan walked down the corridor.

The walls on both sides of the corridor are covered with photos and banners, all of which are group photos, competition souvenirs, and official awards from the Chinese Wushu Federation.

He recognized several of the photos, including Wan Laisheng and Gu Ruzhang, as well as a few others he didn't recognize, all dressed in suits and standing with members of the Hong Kong British government, all with smiles on their faces.

At the end of the corridor was an arched doorway, behind which opened up a bright and spacious area.

A large hall.

The two-story atrium, which was originally intended to be a training ground, has now been converted into a banquet hall.

Twenty or thirty round tables were covered with white cloths, and the tables were filled with cups, plates, bowls and dishes, as well as roast goose, poached chicken, steamed fish, and stir-fried shrimp—a sumptuous feast.

Several bottles of foreign liquor were placed on each table, with glasses filled to the brim.

There were more than a dozen people sitting in the hall.

People of all kinds mingled together—some in long gowns, some in suits, some in shorts—eating, drinking, talking, and laughing, their noise making the roof vibrate.

Recently, news of victories in Nanjing has been frequent, with several major wins. When the news reached Hong Kong, the Tsing Yi Society and the Tongpai faction treated it as a joyous occasion, throwing a grand banquet at the Chinese Martial Arts Association to celebrate. Amidst the clinking of glasses and toasts, flushed faces huddled together, playing drinking games, offering toasts, banging on tables, and boasting—a chaotic scene indeed.

Most martial arts practitioners are rough and uncouth men, lacking in cunning, and often displaying unsightly behavior.

A small stage was set up in one corner of the hall, where two women sat, one playing the sanxian (a three-stringed plucked instrument) and the other singing a folk song.

They were singing a Japanese song.

It has only been a year since the Japanese left, and many Japanese geisha are still in Hong Kong. Some are unable to leave, while others do not want to.

The members of the Tsing Yi Society don't shy away from this; it's an age-old tradition that women stay behind to serve defeated generals.

Two singers were called in to perform, their sanxian (a three-stringed plucked instrument) playing a Japanese-accented tune that sounded particularly jarring amidst the Cantonese and Mandarin chorus filling the hall.

At the end of the hall is a staircase leading to the second floor.

The second floor is a circular corridor with doors to several private rooms, from which light shines and louder laughter can be heard.

The main characters are upstairs.

Chen Zhan stood at the entrance of the arched doorway and glanced around the hall.

Nobody noticed him.

A dozen or so people were busy drinking and eating meat, and no one would notice the unfamiliar face in the gray cloth shirt.

He walked into the hall.

I walked slowly from the archway to the center of the hall, passing one round table after another, brushing past people drinking.

Someone glanced at him but didn't take it seriously.

Chen Zhan walked to the stairwell and went up to the second floor.

Several men stood in the corridor, thugs guarding the entrance to the private rooms. They were much more energetic than the people drinking downstairs, with weapons tucked into their waistbands—some short knives, others bulging with guns.

Chen Zhan walked past them.

The first person saw him and just opened his mouth to shout.

A hand rested on his shoulder and pressed down gently.

The man's gaze wavered, his body went limp, and he slid down the wall, sitting on the ground with his head lolling to one side, as if he had drunk too much and fallen asleep against the wall.

The second person heard the noise and turned around.

Before I could see anything clearly, someone tapped me on the back of the neck with a muffled thud, and I fell forward, face down on the corridor floor.

The third.

the fourth.

the fifth.

One by one, the thugs in the corridor fell down, without a sound or struggle, like paper figures blown over by a gust of wind.

In just over ten breaths, the second-floor corridor was empty.

Chen Zhan walked to the door of the innermost private room. The door was ajar, and voices and laughter could be heard coming from inside.

He didn't rush in; he stood at the door and listened for a moment.

There were about seven or eight people inside.

One of the voices was loud and clear, with a northern accent, saying something like, "Nanjing has been taken..." Others chimed in, and some offered toasts, their glasses clinking together.

The other voice was deep and didn't speak much, but every time it spoke, the people around it would fall silent; it was someone whose words carried weight.

There was another voice that was high-pitched and that laughed loudly, as if he had drunk too much.

Chen Zhan stood at the door and waited for a while.

The laughter inside gradually subsided.

It wasn't deliberately suppressed; someone noticed something was wrong.

"What's going on? Why is there no sound outside?" a loud voice asked.

The noise in the lobby downstairs was still there, but the second-floor corridor was unusually quiet. Just a moment ago, there had been the sound of thugs walking back and forth, but now there was nothing.

"Go take a look," the person with the deep voice said.

The door opened a crack, and a person peeked out.

The corridor was empty.

Five or six people were lying haphazardly on the ground. They were all the thugs who had been on guard duty earlier. They were all slumped against the wall in different positions, as if they had all gotten drunk and collapsed on the ground.

The man's expression changed instantly.

Something happened—

He hadn't finished speaking.

A hand reached in through the crack in the door, grabbed his collar, and pulled him back.

The man was dragged out of the door, slammed against the wall in the corridor, groaned, and collapsed.

The private room fell silent instantly.

The laughter stopped, the wine glasses were put down, and everyone turned to look at the door at the same time.

The door was pushed open from the outside.

Chen Zhan walked in.

His steps were slow, and his expression was indifferent, as if he were casually visiting a friend's house.

The private room was small, with a large round table laden with dishes, several overturned wine bottles, and a mess of cups and plates.

There were six people sitting at the table, plus the one who had just been dragged out, making a total of seven.

Among the six people, the one sitting in the main seat was a man in his fifties with a square face, graying temples, wearing a gray long gown, and sitting upright.

He had only drunk half a glass of wine, unlike the others who were flushed from drinking. His complexion was normal, and his eyes were clear.

This man is the president of the Hong Kong branch of the Chinese Wushu Federation. His surname is Zheng, and his name is Zheng Wenda.

The Tongpai faction, Wan Laisheng's lineage, was in charge of the daily affairs of the Hong Kong Martial Arts Association.

His kung fu is quite good; he comes from the Xingyi school and is said to have reached the peak of dark energy, just one step away from transforming into power.

To Zheng Wenda's right sat a tall, thin man in his forties with a square face, deep-set eyes, and high cheekbones. He was wearing a black Zhongshan suit, with the top button fastened neatly.

This man doesn't look like a martial artist, but more like a soldier; he sits upright with a cold, hard gaze.

The deputy head of the Hong Kong branch of the Tsing Yi Society was surnamed Sun and named Sun Mao.

Sun Mao is the actual operator of the Tsing Yi Society in Hong Kong. The society's president is often away from Hong Kong, and Sun Mao manages the daily affairs.

This man is not known for his martial arts skills, but he has guns and men under his command, and his influence in Hong Kong is deeply entrenched.

The others included pro-unification military men, members of the Tsing Yi Society, and a man in a suit who was probably a middleman connecting with the Hong Kong British government.

Chen Zhan glanced at them but didn't pay them any attention.

He walked to the table, pulled out an empty chair, and sat down.

He reached for a pair of chopsticks on the table, picked up a piece of poached chicken, put it in his mouth, chewed it a couple of times, then poured himself a glass of brandy, picked it up, and took a sip.

They ate meat and drank alcohol, oblivious to everyone else.

Six people were looking at him.

Zheng Wenda frowned, but did not immediately react. His gaze swept over Chen Zhan twice, observing his posture, his hands, and the way he held his chopsticks.

Sun Mao's reaction was more direct; his right hand had already reached his waist, and he silently unfastened the holster's buckle.

A burly man sitting to Chen Zhan's left was the first to lose his composure.

The martial artist from the Tong faction, who had drunk quite a bit and was red-faced and swollen-necked, immediately exploded when he saw a stranger sitting down to eat and drink casually.

"Who do you think you are? How dare you?"

He reached out and grabbed Chen Zhan's shoulder.

Chen Zhan was holding a piece of chicken between his chopsticks, constantly bringing it to his mouth.

With a slight movement of his left hand, he twisted the chopsticks on the chicken, and a piece of chicken bone came out of the meat, was pinched by two fingers, and his wrist flicked.

The bone flew out.

"Snapped."

A crisp sound rang out, not loud, but exceptionally clear in the quiet private room.

The chicken bone pierced the burly man's wrist.

It didn't just graz you; it pierced through your hand, the tip of the bone protruding halfway from the other side of your wrist, covered in blood, stark white.

The burly man opened his mouth, wanting to shout, but the pain came too suddenly and violently, and the sound got stuck in his throat, only a hoarse groan escaped.

His hand hung in mid-air, unable to grab down or pull back, blood flowing down his wrist and dripping onto the white cloth on the table, seeping in drop by drop.

Chen Zhan put the piece of chicken in his mouth, chewed it twice, and swallowed it.

He picked up his glass and took another sip.

Then he looked up and glanced at everyone at the table: "Yeah, you guys eat too."

The voice was casual, as if greeting friends at the dinner table.

"The last meal, the final drink, the last meal of the night." (End of Chapter)