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

The distinctive, dense, and continuous firing sound of the Type 56 assault rifle instantly drowned out the crackling of the flames and the groans of the wounded, like the rapid drumbeats of death, exploding wildly in the confined space!

The gun muzzle spewed out a blazing tongue of fire that was half a meter long!

The scorching hot shell casings bounced merrily out, landing on the ground and rolling into a pool of blood!

The metallic storm created by the 7.62mm bullets mercilessly swept through the remaining space in front of them!

The subordinate who tried to raise his gun to fight back was the first to be hit!

At least five or six bullets hit his chest and abdomen almost simultaneously. The enormous kinetic energy sent him flying backward, his shotgun flying out of his hand. He lost all life in mid-air and crashed heavily onto the still-burning ruins like a rag doll. Blood gushed from several huge wounds and quickly turned into a pungent, burnt smell due to the high temperature!

Square-faced men were not spared either.

He barely managed to hide half his body behind a pillar when a storm of bullets came hurtling towards him!

The wooden pillars were smashed to pieces, offering absolutely no effective protection!

Several bullets pierced through the thin brick pillar and hit his shoulder and side!

He screamed and fell backward, the machete in his hand clattering to the ground.

Chen Feng did not stop firing.

He crouched behind the earthen wall as steady as a rock, his body trembling slightly from the recoil of the gun, but his arm holding the gun was frighteningly stable.

The gun barrel moved slightly, then it opened fire!

Da da da! Da da da!

The short bursts of fire accurately sprayed onto the other two guys who were injured by the blast and were struggling to get up, as well as the one lying in the corner, seemingly dead.

The bullet tore through flesh and shattered bones, sending up plumes of blood mist!

The screams and groans were drowned out by the more intense gunfire.

A drum magazine, with 71 bullets, was emptied in less than ten seconds!

The gunfire stopped when the last spent cartridge bounced and landed on the ground with a crisp "clang".

The world seemed to have been muted.

Only the crackling of flames, the occasional sound of building debris falling, and... an overwhelming, pungent smell of blood and gunpowder, mixed with the horrifying odor of burnt human tissue, permeated and fermented in the air.

Chen Feng slowly released the trigger, the muzzle still pointing forward, his cold gaze sweeping across the entire "battlefield".

Near the entrance, at the epicenter of the explosion, lay two (or rather, two charred remains) that were barely human, mixed with broken furniture and bricks.

In the middle, three corpses lay scattered about, their bodies riddled with bullet holes, and blood was rapidly pooling beneath them.

Beside the load-bearing pillar, the square-faced man slumped in a pool of blood, his shoulders and ribs mangled and bloody. He was still alive, his eyes wide with extreme fear and pain as he stared at Chen Feng. He made a "hoarse" sound in his throat, as if he wanted to say something, but only blood foam kept gushing out.

Chen Feng stood up, holding the submachine gun that had missed its target, and walked over step by step.

The boots made a sticky sound as they stepped over the pool of blood.

He stopped in front of the square-faced man, looked down, and watched his dying struggle indifferently.

The last glimmer of light in the square-faced man's eyes was rapidly fading. He looked at Chen Feng's expressionless face and at the muzzle of the gun that was still emitting faint blue smoke, and seemed to finally understand something.

They thought that by setting a trap and taking all his weapons, they could easily take control of this "fat sheep".

Little did they know that from the moment they became greedy and set up this trap, they had already stepped into the slaughterhouse meticulously prepared by death.

Chen Feng bent down and took a bulging canvas bag from the square-faced man's waist—it was the bag they had originally prepared to carry their "spoils of war".

He opened it and saw that, besides some loose change and miscellaneous items, there were indeed ten small yellow croakers wrapped in red silk cloth that he had bought from the fat boss, as well as the five hundred yuan "deposit" he had given to the fat boss that afternoon.

The gold bars were cold, the banknotes were stained with blood.

Chen Feng took out the gold bars and money and stuffed them into his pocket.

Then, he picked up the machete that the square-faced man had dropped on the ground.

The last glimmer of hope in the square-faced man's eyes turned into utter despair.

Chen Feng raised the knife and looked at the firelight reflecting off the blade.

"I said it,"

His voice was low, as if he were giving a final statement to a dying man, or perhaps reiterating it to himself.

"I just want to leave."

Hand up, knife down.

A flash of cold light, and then all was silent.

Chen Feng threw away his machete and took one last look at the dilapidated house that had become a bloody inferno, and the six gradually cooling corpses inside.

There was no pity, no pleasure, only a cold emptiness.

He slung his empty submachine gun over his shoulder, turned, and walked into the deeper darkness outside.

The wind still carried the salty smell of the harbor, blowing across the ruins, but it couldn't dispel the intense, nauseating stench of blood.

In the distance, the lights of Tianjin Port remained bright, and the port whistles sounded continuously, as if nothing had happened.

But deep in the darkness, a pair of cold eyes had already opened, locking onto a new direction.

The fat boss... and the possible "snakehead" behind him...

Accounts must be settled one by one.

Not a single one can be left alive.

Jingang, the old western district of the city, Catfish Lane.

Night had fallen, and the daytime hustle and bustle of the alley had long since dissipated, leaving only a mess on the ground and a lingering, foul smell in the air.

Most shops were closed, with only a few oil lamps flickering in the darkness, like will-o'-the-wisps.

The lanterns at "Fuhai Teahouse" were still lit, their dim yellow light barely illuminating the stained stone steps at the entrance.

The curtains were drawn low, but instead of the usual sounds of mahjong or noise, there was an unusual quiet inside.

Behind the counter, Fatty San—the always smiling teahouse owner—was under a brighter kerosene lamp, head down, holding a small notebook in one hand and fiddling with the beads on an abacus in the other.

His oily face no longer wore the professional, kind smile, but rather a focused, even somewhat greedy, shrewdness.

The crisp clinking of the abacus beads was particularly clear in the quiet teahouse.

He muttered to himself, "Two thousand four hundred and fifty gold bars... five hundred as a deposit... the square-faced guy said he'd split it thirty percent... that means... um..."

He calculated rapidly, his chubby face trembling slightly with the sound of the abacus, his small eyes sparkling with excitement.

Those in their line of work would be letting down their ancestors if they didn't fleece a "fat sheep".

Especially for out-of-towners like this one, who clearly have "problems," are in a hurry to get things done, and are loaded with money, they are practically easy targets.

The square-faced gang is the most ruthless and vicious in this area; they're experts at handling these double-crosses.

After they "deal with" that guy named "Wang Jianguo," they will not only get back the money from selling the gold bars (of course, the actual cost of the gold bars is far lower than the selling price), but they will also get a 500 yuan deposit for free, and even get a share of the "spoils of war" that Fang Lian and his gang have stolen...