Courtyard House: First, kill the hypocrites, leave none alive.

Yau Ma Tei, Hong Kong Island.

The morning sun peeked out from behind the clouds, casting a thin layer of gold on the gray exterior of the police station.

The streets were already bustling with activity. Steam rose from the breakfast carts, and trolleys rattled past the street corners as people hurried to work.

Chen Feng stood in an alley opposite the police station, wearing a dark short jacket, black trousers, and cloth shoes.

His clothes were new and clean, and his hair was combed; he looked no different from any other ordinary citizen.

He leaned against the wall, holding a newspaper in his hand, slowly flipping through it.

He looked like he was waiting for someone.

His eyes peered out from above the newspaper, fixed on the drab gray building across the street.

The police station was small, three stories high, with several patches of paint peeling off the exterior walls, revealing the dark red bricks underneath.

Two uniformed Indian policemen stood at the entrance, their red turbans wrapped tightly around their necks, holding old-fashioned rifles, standing straight in the morning light.

Chen Feng shifted his gaze from the main gate and slowly swept it along the wall.

To the left of the police station was a row of shops selling groceries, repairing shoes, and barbering, but none of them were open yet, their roller shutters tightly shut.

To the right is a narrow alley, with several trash cans piled up at the entrance, and flies buzzing around them.

Behind him—he went around to the alley next door and looked through the gap between two buildings—there was a highway behind him, not many cars, and occasionally a truck would rumble past, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Across the road are several old buildings, with a few auto repair shops on the ground floor and tires and scrap metal piled up at the entrance.

Further away is the dock, where you can see the outline of cranes and neatly stacked containers.

Chen Feng folded the newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and walked along the alley. When he reached the back of the police station, he slowed his pace.

This place is indeed remote.

The road was narrow, with only two lanes, and there were several cracks in the surface, from which a few thin weeds grew.

There were no pedestrians on the roadside, only a few dilapidated cars parked in front of the repair shop, propped up with bricks, and it was unclear how long they hadn't been moved.

The police station's wall bends at this point, forming a right angle, with several bags of construction waste piled up at the corner, covered in dust.

The wall is three meters high, with barbed wire on top, but it's almost completely rusted.

On the other side of the wall—Chen Feng took a few steps back and looked up—on the other side of the wall was a detached bungalow with a gray roof, no windows, only a few narrow ventilation openings sealed with iron bars.

Armory.

He spent three days wandering around the area, memorizing the location of every alley, every intersection, and every window.

The police station's layout is not complicated. The main entrance leads to the office building, the left side is the canteen and dormitory, the right side is the detention room, and the back is the armory.

The armory is not large, but its location is special. It is surrounded by walls on three sides, with only one iron door on the front leading into the police station.

This road behind is the only way to get close to it.

Chen Feng stood in front of the repair shop for a while, watching the mechanics squatting on the ground removing tires, their hands covered in oil, cigarettes dangling from their mouths, chatting idly. Nobody paid him any attention.

He turned and left.

Back in the alley, he took out a cigarette, lit it, and slowly smoked it. The smoke rose in the morning light, blurring his face.

He recalled the pile of things in the space—a Type 54 pistol, a Type 56 submachine gun, a Browning pistol, a dagger, a machete, and those homemade bombs.

We're running low on bullets. We blew up a batch in the warehouse last time, and left some for Skinny Monkey and his crew. The rest is only enough for a small skirmish.

Ruan Xiong has more than two thousand men; this amount of supplies is not enough.

How many guns are in the police station's armory?

he does not know.

But it's definitely more than what he has in his space.

If he could get his hands on those guns—Chen Feng stubbed out his cigarette and threw it in the trash can.

He turned around and left.

Two days later, at 2 a.m.

The moon was obscured by clouds, and not a single ray of light could penetrate it.

There wasn't a single car on the road, and the streetlights were far apart, their dim yellow light spreading through the fog and only illuminating a few meters away.

The repair shop had long since closed; the roller shutter was down, and the pile of tires in front of the door looked like several wild beasts crouching in the darkness.

Chen Feng walked out of the alley.

He was dressed in all black, with soft-soled cloth shoes on his feet, making no sound at all when he stepped on the ground.

He had a dagger at his waist, and a machete and several bombs in his storage compartment—but he didn't plan to use those things tonight.

He walked to the outside of the police station wall, stopped, and looked up.

The wall is still the same wall, and the barbed wire is still the same rusty barbed wire.

He reached out and placed his hand on the top of the wall, gently pushed himself up, and landed on the other side of the wall.

The armory is just ahead.

The gray bungalow had its iron gate closed, secured with a large lock that gleamed dimly in the darkness.

The vents on the roof looked like a few closed eyes.

Chen Feng walked to the iron gate, squatted down, and looked at the lock.

It's a regular, large iron lock, not difficult to open, but he doesn't need to.

He reached out, his fingers touching the cold lock, and focused his mind—

The lock is missing.

Chen Feng pushed open the door.

The door hinges were rusty, making a slight creaking sound that was particularly jarring in the quiet night.

He slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

The room was completely dark, without a single ray of light.

The air was thick with the smell of engine oil and metal, mixed with the smell of dust, making one's chest feel tight.

Chen Feng stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and then slowly walked inside.

The armory wasn't large; it was a square room, about thirty or forty square meters.

A row of iron racks stood against the wall, with wooden crates stacked on top. Some of the crates were open, revealing gleaming yellow bullets inside.

In the center of the room were several iron cabinets, their doors locked, with police badges and numbers printed on them.

Several long guns were piled up in the corner, bound with strips of cloth, and leaned against the wall.

Chen Feng walked to the nearest metal cabinet and reached out to touch the lock—an ordinary padlock, similar to the one on the door.

He grasped the lock, concentrated, and the lock disappeared.

He opened the cabinet door.

Inside, there were more than a dozen handguns, both revolvers and semi-automatic, neatly arranged on a shelf. The guns were coated with anti-rust oil, giving them a dim glow in the darkness. There were also several magazines next to them, fully loaded with bullets.

Chen Feng reached inside and took things one by one.

Pistols, magazines, ammunition boxes—everything he touched seemed to be sucked into a black hole and disappeared from his fingertips.

The cabinet is empty.

He closed the cabinet door and walked to the next metal cabinet.

The second cabinet contains submachine guns, short-barreled, with folding stocks, suitable for close-quarters combat.

Six stacks, neatly arranged.

Chen Feng collected them one by one, then the bullets, filling two boxes to the brim.

The third cabinet was the largest; when I opened it, I found rifles inside.

The old Lee-Enfield rifle was much longer than a submachine gun and had a bayonet lug.

A dozen or so guns were leaning against the cabinet, like bundles of firewood. Chen Feng put them away one by one, then the bullets, three boxes in total.

He opened each of the wooden crates on the shelf to examine them—some contained hand grenades, round and plump, with safety pins still sealed in paper; others contained shotgun shells, brass-cased, with red plastic seals; and a few crates contained signal flares and smoke grenades, with English printed on the packaging.