Master of Chinese Martial Arts: I Can Steal the Skills of a Grandmaster from the Republic of China E

Chapter 97 You understand Hua Bu, but you don't understand Zhou Xing

The moon was bright and the stars were few; the mountain wind whistled through the bare branches.

Zhou walked ahead, holding the prisoner named Ma San by the back of his collar with his left hand, like he was holding a chicken with its neck choked.

Hans followed behind with a limp and a tumor, his face pale, glancing occasionally at the figure ahead, his complex gaze carrying a hint of awe.

The mountain path was rugged, but the scattered lights of the distant city of Tianjin and the clear moonlight overhead illuminated the way.

Zhou Xing's mind raced as he went through the events of the evening from beginning to end.

Magnetic carrier pigeon.

The prisoner, Ma San, was terrified and blurted out everything.

A special magnet was stuck under the chassis of their Ford sedan.

This is a traditional method: the magnet is mixed with mineral powder that pigeons can sensitively identify.

At several pre-set points along the route, people used pigeon whistles of a specific frequency to drive homing pigeons into the air. The pigeons had a vague directional sense of the mineral powder, which allowed them to roughly indicate the direction of the vehicle's movement.

Based on the assessment of the roads leading out of the city, it was not difficult to pinpoint the ambush route.

Old-fashioned, but covert and effective.

The ambushers were ruthless bandits who were paid to do their bidding, former warlord soldiers who had fled the battlefield.

The methods were ruthless and professional, and the teamwork was impeccable, yet from beginning to end, there wasn't a trace of folk magic or sorcery. The explosives used were also from a previously prepared stockpile.

The scope of those who could accurately track his movements, and who had the motive and ability to tamper with police vehicles, was very small.

Renault?

Zhou Xing is out of the running. That cat-eyed witcher is extremely goal-oriented and acts according to his own cold but direct logic.

If someone really wanted to get rid of themselves, they would either do it themselves to ensure everything went perfectly, or they would use a more powerful force. They wouldn't resort to such a treacherous, unreliable method of hiring thugs.

That leaves only one person.

DuPont.

This person has a motive to eliminate himself, and is not so clear about his methods.

Zhou Xing sneered.

He was publicly humiliated at the flower arrangement site during the day, and when he failed to recruit anyone in the meeting room in the evening, the order to hire a hitman was issued that same day.

Such a sharp knife, such a anxious heart.

French Concession, Central Police Station Building, third floor, Senior Inspector's Office.

Light streamed through the glass windows, casting dim, yellowish patches across the corridor. It was late at night, and most of the building was dark, except for this office, which remained lit.

Renault leaned back in his chair, his legs crossed and resting on the edge of the desk, toying with a silver letter opener in his hand.

The blade twirled deftly between his fingers, reflecting the light of the chandelier and occasionally grazing his gray-green pupils.

DuPont sat on the sofa opposite him, his body sinking deep into the soft leather backrest.

He was smoking an expensive Havana cigar, the smoke rising slowly under the light, making his face appear somewhat blurred.

He was wearing a silk bathrobe with a suit jacket over it, clearly having rushed over from home after receiving the news.

"—So, Captain Renault, it's good for young people to have vigor, but they also need to know how to restrain themselves."

DuPont exhaled a smoke ring. "Tianjin is a treacherous place. Some troubles can't be overcome by just being quick with your fists and feet or having good marksmanship."

Some dogs may look fierce and bite, but if they forget who their owner is, or attract too much unnecessary attention from their owner, they're not as good as a docile old dog that knows when to bark and when to shut up.

He chuckled and tapped the air with his cigar: "Detective Zhou is a capable Chinese man, I admit that. But you're overestimating him. It's lonely at the top, Captain."

Look, after his outburst at the flower arrangement site yesterday, he offended the Japanese, and the Public Works Department has been calling non-stop.

What about tomorrow? What about the day after? He always acts so recklessly, bringing so much attention and trouble to you—to our French Concession. Is it worth it?

Renault stopped spinning the knife, and the silver blade tapped softly on the table with a "tap".

He raised his eyes, his gaze calm, and looked at DuPont, his voice revealing neither joy nor anger: "Deputy Director DuPont, did you send someone to kill Zhou Xing?"

DuPont's cheek twitched slightly, then he made an exaggerated expression, a mixture of astonishment and amusement: "God! Captain Renault, how could you think that? We are the police of the French Concession, the enforcers of the law! How could I do such a thing?"

I'm reminding you, Captain, that dogs are for guarding your home, not for going out and biting people, and eventually attracting wolves to your doorstep.

"6

He dusted off his bathrobe and said dismissively, "Besides, even if something really happened to him, he's just a constable. He'll die if he dies. Many people die in Tianjin every day; one more won't make a difference."

The important thing is that you need to understand, here,

He tapped his temple lightly with the finger holding the cigar, then pointed to his feet. "It's all about this and this. Some people, some positions, can't be secured by solving a few cases or catching a few scoundrels. If your foundation isn't solid, the higher you climb, the harder you fall."

His words implied that DuPont had been operating within the police force for over a decade, with intricate connections, and that DuPont, a witcher who rose to power through special means, was too green to challenge his authority.

Zhou Xing was your outstretched claw, probing us. I chopped it off as a warning: don't reach out again.

Renault listened quietly, and when DuPont finished speaking, a faint smile suddenly appeared on his face. This made DuPont's heart tighten inexplicably.

"Perhaps you know Huabu, the deputy director of DuPont."

Renault said slowly, his voice low, "But you may not understand Zhou Xing."

DuPont frowned, about to retort.

Thump, thump, thump.

A steady, moderate knock sounded on the door.

"Come in."

Renault raised his voice.

The door was pushed open.

A strong, pungent stench, mixed with the smell of gunpowder, was the first to rush in.

Immediately afterwards, Zhou Xing stepped in.

The uniform had some dust on it and some burn marks on the hem, but overall it was neat.

His face was expressionless, but deep in his eyes lingered a chilling coldness.

He casually carried a limp, ashen-faced man in his left hand. Behind him followed Hans, pale-faced and with a wound on his forehead.

The office fell silent instantly.

DuPont's fingers, which were holding a cigar, trembled suddenly, and a long piece of ash fell onto his expensive silk robe, burning a small hole, but he didn't notice.

His eyes widened instantly, his pupils contracted, first in astonishment, then in disbelief, and finally in a barely concealed sense of dread.

His mouth opened, but a fishbone stuck in his throat. It was as if he had seen a ghost in broad daylight.

A dozen or so warlord gunmen, well-known figures in the black market, and they were lying in ambush beforehand. How could they possibly let him come back alive and even capture a prisoner?

He stared intently at Zhou Xing, his mind filled with the accidental death report, the explanation for reprimanding Renault, and the carefully cultivated composure and sense of superiority, all shattered by the living, breathing man who walked in, radiating murderous intent.