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

"The Tak Yee Martial Arts School is located here, on a side street that turns into Nathan Road. It has two courtyards, one in front for teaching boxing and one in back for living. The owner, Liu Pingchuan, is from the Xingyi School and has reached the mid-stage of Dark Strength. He has about ten people under his command, most of whom are at the Ming Strength level. This school doesn't usually cause trouble, but it has close ties with the pro-unification faction behind the scenes. It's an intelligence relay station, and many messages from the mainland pass through here."

The pencil was moved to Mong Kok.

"The Wing On Guild Hall is the most important. It's located in an alley on Sai Yeung Choi Street. The storefront isn't large, but the telegraph room inside connects directly to Nanjing. Most of the Tsing Yi Society's instructions in Hong Kong are sent and received from here. There are seven or eight people stationed here, armed but not trained in martial arts. They are spies that the Tsing Yi Society has transferred from the mainland."

The pencil drew another line in Yau Ma Tei.

"San Yi Tong, the traditional Chinese medicine shop on Temple Street, has an armory in the back. Guns and ammunition are transferred from here to supply the Tsing Yi Society's various strongholds in Hong Kong and Kowloon. There are not many guards, only four or five, but the armory is quite full."

Finally, the pencil landed in Causeway Bay, Hong Kong Island.

"Liqun Trading Company, this is a money exchange. All the funds of the Tsing Yi Society in Hong Kong go through here. The manager's surname is Zhou. He doesn't know martial arts, but he holds most of the Tsing Yi Society's account books. This place is on Hong Kong Island. The Hong Kong British government has strict control over it, so it's not easy to move around here."

After Han Shouyi finished speaking, he put down his pencil and waited for Chen Zhan to speak.

Chen Zhan didn't take the stack of papers on the table. Instead, he folded the map neatly, put it in his pocket, and stood up.

"okay."

He uttered two words, then turned and walked towards the door.

Han Shouyi and Wu Jianglong stood by the table, watching him push open the door and leave. The sound of his footsteps went down the stairs, step by step, getting farther and farther away.

The room was quiet for a while.

Wu Jianglong then unfolded the newspaper he hadn't had time to look at closely earlier and spread it on the table.

The two stood side by side, reading line by line.

The main text is more detailed than the title.

"...Around 7 PM last night, a major bloodbath occurred at the Chinese Martial Arts Association. A total of twenty-four bodies were found on both floors. The deceased were all members of the association and people associated with the Tsing Yi Society..."

"...According to surviving staff members, the perpetrator was a lone individual wielding a short knife. He descended from the second floor and, within a few dozen breaths, slaughtered all the armed personnel in the hall. His methods were extremely brutal..."

"...The perpetrator did not harm any service personnel, and it appears that they selectively targeted specific individuals..."

"...When asked about the killer's face, several people present said they could not see it clearly. The person was wearing a top hat, which covered his face, only revealing his chin..."

Next to the newspaper was a sketch of the killer's facial features based on eyewitness descriptions.

A chin.

The lines are simple, just a few strokes, yet the outline is clear, exactly like Chen Zhan's.

The two of them stared at the sketch for a long time.

Wu Jianglong couldn't help but speak up, his voice extremely low: "Brother, we've all seen his ability to disguise himself. His face that day was completely different from today's. To do something like this... how come he doesn't disguise himself?"

Han Shouyi did not answer immediately.

He folded the newspaper, placed it on the table, and remained silent for a long time.

"Maybe he doesn't need it."
-
early morning.

A cordon was set up on the street in front of the Chinese Wushu Federation. White hemp ropes stretched from the entrance all the way to the pillars of the arcade opposite, forming a large circle.

Mai Qiming stood on the steps of the main entrance, a cigarette between his fingers, the ash long and he forgot to flick it off. There were two dark circles under his eyes, he hadn't slept all night.

He worked in the police station for twelve years. He had been to fights in Kowloon Walled City, brawls at the docks, and even the opium den murders in Tai Kok Tsui. He had seen countless corpses and had never been afraid.

But what happened last night was truly terrifying.

Twenty-four bodies.

Upstairs and downstairs, under the round table, along the corridor walls, on the thresholds of the private rooms, there were dead bodies everywhere.

The forensic doctor squatted on the ground all night, examining one body after another. His notebook was filled with three pages of notes, and his legs were numb when he stood up.

“Mr. Mak, the deceased’s wounds are very strange.”

The forensic doctor was British and spoke broken Cantonese. He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"Most of the injuries were from sharp weapons, with extremely clean cuts and almost no tearing marks. The blades were very sharp, and the force and angle applied by the attacker were extremely precise. A few others were caused by blunt force trauma, with fractured sternums and seven or eight broken ribs, but there were almost no bruises on the body surface..."

"I have never seen such a way of injuring someone."

Mai Qiming threw the cigarette butt on the ground and stomped it out, without saying a word.

I asked several surviving staff members, and they all gave the same answer: I didn't see clearly. The person was wearing a hat, and they moved too fast; I didn't see anything clearly except for their chin.

He had a sketch drawn, which, according to eyewitness accounts, consisted of just a few strokes, the outline of a chin, with clear lines, and nothing more.

After daybreak, he delivered the report to the Hong Kong Police Station.

The British Inspector General was named Crawford, a man in his fifties with a red nose. He had been in Hong Kong for eight years, overseeing security in the Central and Wan Chai districts.

After reading the report, Crawford's first question wasn't about who the killer was.

"Sun Mao is dead too?"

"Yes."

Crawford frowned.

Sun Mao was his man, a bridge between the Tsing Yi Society and the Hong Kong British government. He regularly provided intelligence from the mainland in exchange for the Hong Kong British police turning a blind eye to the Tsing Yi Society's activities in Hong Kong.

This line operated for more than two years, until Sun Mao died, and the line was broken.

"Add manpower to search various districts in Kowloon and Hong Kong Island, with a focus on screening suspicious individuals who have recently entered Hong Kong."

Crawford closed the report and tossed it onto the table.

You have one week to solve the case.

After receiving his orders, Mak Kai-ming came out and stood on the steps in front of the police station, staring blankly at the direction of Victoria Harbour for a while.

One man killed twenty-four armed men, appearing and disappearing without a trace, without even showing his face. Where was he supposed to catch him?
He sighed, stepped down the stairs, and ordered his officers to split up and investigate.

Whether we can find out anything is another matter, but we have to take action. We've been instructed to do this, so we have to make it look like we're doing something.

Causeway Bay.

Liqun Trading Company.

From the outside, it looks like a three-story Western-style shop with a sign that reads "Liqun Trading Company" on the front, and it sells general merchandise from all over the country on the ground floor.

The second floor houses the accounting office and warehouse, with clerks greeting customers at the entrance, much like other shops on the street.

The third floor is not open to the public.

There is an iron gate at the top of the stairs, which is locked all year round. Only three people have the key—the shopkeeper Lao Zhou, Sun Mao, and Shen Tingdong.

Shen Tingdong's office is located at the very back of the third floor.

It wasn't big; there was a rosewood desk, a rattan chair, a landscape painting hanging on the wall, and the Four Treasures of the Study and a black crank telephone on the table.

The curtains are always drawn, and the room is dim even during the day, with only a table lamp on.

Shen Tingdong sat in a rattan chair, his left hand resting on the table, his right hand holding a cup of tea. The tea was pre-Qingming Longjing, and the cup was made of blue and white porcelain, showing his refined taste.

He was about forty-five or forty-six years old, with a thin face, high cheekbones, thin cheeks, a pointed chin, and small eyes with narrow slits. When he looked at people through the slits, his gaze carried a gloomy air.

He wore a dark blue Zhongshan suit, buttoned up to the top, his hair was neatly combed, parted in the middle, and slicked back with hair oil, so shiny it reflected his image.

He doesn't practice martial arts.

A graduate of the fourth class of the Whampoa Military Academy, he served under Boss Dai and rose through the ranks from the intelligence department to the rank of major general. His blood was no less than that of any other martial artist, except that he killed people using intelligence, assassination, and planning, not with fists and feet. Every morning at six o'clock sharp, he would make a phone call to the Chinese Martial Arts Association to confirm the situation of the previous day, without fail.

I called at 6 o'clock today, but no one answered.

He hung up, waited two minutes, and dialed again, but still no one answered.

The third time.

beep - beep - beep -

Empty sound.

Shen Tingdong put down the receiver, picked up his teacup, took a sip, and his face remained expressionless.

He turned to the person standing at the door and said, "Go and take a look at the headquarters."

The person at the door nodded and left.

Half an hour later, he returned, running back. His footsteps pounded loudly on the stairs as he entered, and he was panting heavily when he reached the office door.

"Commander Shen... Commander Shen..."

"explain."

"Something must have happened. The whole family was wiped out. All twenty-four people are dead, including Vice President Sun and Chairman Zheng... The police have already sealed off the scene."

Shen Tingdong's hand, holding the teacup, froze in mid-air.

"How did you die?"

"Most of the injuries were knife wounds, and some were killed with bare hands. There were corpses all over the place, both upstairs and downstairs... The newspapers outside have already published it."

His subordinate handed him a newspaper.

Shen Tingdong took it, unfolded it, and scanned it.

The front page headline, photos of the scene, twenty-four bodies, the killer is nowhere to be found.

He folded the newspaper, placed it on the table, crossed his hands on the table with his fingers interlaced, and his expression was calm.

But my mind has already started working on it.

One man killed twenty-four people, including Zheng Wenda, who was at the peak of internal strength, Sun Mao, who was armed, and a Qingyi Society agent. Not a single one was left alive.

This is not a gang fight.

Gangs would use guns and knives to kill indiscriminately; they wouldn't be so clean, and they certainly wouldn't kill everyone upstairs and downstairs without harming the service staff.

This is targeted elimination.

Have goals, have choices, have plans.

Soviet school?

He frowned. He had been hunting down the remnants of the Su faction in Hong Kong. Ruan Zhi and her group were already on their last legs and couldn't even run anymore, so they couldn't possibly have this kind of fighting power.

Who is that?
Are you from the mainland? Which side are you from?
"Call Tang Fengxian here."

The person at the door turned around and called out.

Before a cup of tea could be brewed, footsteps came from the end of the corridor, and Tang Fengxian pushed open the door and came in.

Thirty-seven or thirty-eight years old, of medium height, neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin, with flat shoulders and arms hanging down at his sides. When walking, his upper body remains motionless, and his center of gravity is low.

His face was angular, with high cheekbones, heavy brow bones, and thick, straight eyebrows that looked as if they had been carved with a knife. His lips were thin and pressed into a line. When he didn't speak, his whole face looked like it had been carved from stone, without any expression.

He came from the Liuhemen sect.

Peak of Transformation Realm.

He spent seven or eight years at this level, just one step away from reaching the Dan realm. After being absorbed by the Military Intelligence Bureau, he worked as an assassin for ten years, taking more than a dozen lives. He followed Shen Tingdong wherever he went.

He walked to the table and stood still, neither sitting nor bowing, waiting for Shen Tingdong to speak.

"Have you seen it?" Shen Tingdong pushed the newspaper forward.

Tang Fengxian glanced down at the title and nodded: "I saw it on the way here."

"Can you stop someone who can do something like that?"

Tang Fengxian remained silent for a moment.

He didn't answer immediately; that was his habit—he wouldn't speak about things he wasn't sure about, and once he did, he was expected to do them.

"I don't know, I've never fought against them, so it's hard to say."

Shen Tingdong glanced at him but didn't ask any further questions.

“Two things.” Shen Tingdong held up two fingers. “First, raise the alert level at all outposts in Hong Kong, with extra security at the Wing On Association and the Sam Yee Tong Armory. Make sure everyone below is on high alert.”

"Second, you will personally go to the Yong'an Guild Hall to oversee things. The telegraph room and telephone lines are there. The intelligence center there cannot be compromised. I haven't informed the Shanghai headquarters yet. Go there together. They can directly call Nanjing and Shanghai from there."

Tang Fengxian nodded, and the two went out together. One group of people secretly protected them, while the other group went along.

Sai Yeung Choi Street, Mong Kok.

The Yong'an Association is hidden deep in the alley. The facade is indeed small, with two wooden doors and a plaque that reads "Yong'an Hometown Association" hanging above the door. The paint is peeling and it looks like an ordinary hometown association.

Upon entering, there is a small courtyard with a central skylight. The courtyard is not large and is surrounded by a two-story brick building. The ground floor is a reception room and a tea room, while the second floor is an office and living area.

The telegraph room and telephone were in the innermost room on the second floor, with the window half-blocked with bricks and never opened.

When Shen Tingdong and Tang Fengxian arrived, the guild hall had already been reinforced with precautions as previously ordered.

There were two sentries at the entrance, four people guarding the four corners of the courtyard, and two people patrolling back and forth on the second-floor corridor. All of them were armed and loaded with guns. Including the seven or eight agents originally stationed at the embassy, ​​there were a total of fifteen or sixteen people.

Tang Fengxian reviewed the personnel deployment, said nothing more, walked into the reception room on the first floor, dragged a mahogany armchair to the position directly opposite the door, and sat down.

His knife lay on the table.

The standard short sword of the Liuhemen is 1.8 feet long, with a thick back and a thin blade. It has a slightly curved shape and the handle is wrapped in coarse black cloth, which is stained with old sweat and blood that cannot be washed off.

He had a Browning pistol tucked into his waistband, with a full seven-round magazine and the safety off.

Shen Tingdong did not linger on the first floor, but went straight to the second floor, entered the telegraph room, closed the door, and sat down next to the telephone.

He plans to make a long-distance call to Shanghai.

Tang Fengxian sat in the armchair with his eyes closed.

With his peak-level perception spread out, he could grasp the movements within a radius of three zhang: the footsteps of the sentries in the courtyard, the creaking of the patrolmen's footsteps on the wooden planks on the second-floor corridor, the sounds of pedestrians walking in the streets outside the door, the shouts of the herbal tea vendors, and the clanging of the tram in the distance.

Every sound was crystal clear, embedded in his perception, like a spread-out net.

If that person is really targeting the Tsing Yi Society, the Wing On Guild Hall is unavoidable. Shen Tingdong's judgment was correct. The intelligence center is the lifeline. If the other party wants to cut off the Tsing Yi Society's roots, they must take this place.

The sentries in the courtyard went about their duties as usual, the patrol on the second floor changed shifts on time, and people came and went in the streets and alleys outside the gate, just like usual.

Tang Fengxian opened his eyes.

He frowned slightly. Just moments ago, there were two guards at the door, their breathing and heartbeats could be heard, but now only one remained.

wrong!

The next instant, they were all gone. (End of Chapter)