I searched and fought in America.

Chapter 110 Theocracy

at the same time.

Deep inside an abandoned factory in Houston's East Side.

In the dim light, a makeshift altar stood out conspicuously.

The altar was covered with strange symbols drawn in blood, and a thick wooden pillar stood in the center.

A person was tied to the pillar.

Reverend Meyer.

His priest's robes were tattered, his face was bruised, and there was blood at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes remained calm.

Venomous Fang stood before the altar, staring at him.

His eyes were bloodshot, and his expression was frantic.

"Pastor Mair," his voice was hoarse and cold, "it will be soon. At 2 p.m. this afternoon, at my brother's funeral, you will be there to keep him company."

He reached out and patted Mair's face: "Aren't you a saint? Aren't you the best at praying? Tomorrow, you'd better pray for my brother with your life."

Meyer looked at him without saying a word.

But a hint of pity flashed in those calm eyes.

Enraged by that look, Fang grabbed Mair by the neck. "Don't look at me like that! Who do you think you are? A poor priest, do you think you deserve my pity?"

Meyer did not struggle.

She just kept watching him.

Venom slowly loosened his grip, took two steps back, and gasped for breath.

Then he turned around and waved to his men behind him: "Keep an eye on him. Hold a memorial service first thing tomorrow morning."

He strode away.

Only Mair remained beside the altar.

Meyer closed his eyes.

His lips twitched slightly.

I don't know if they were praying or waiting for something.

At the Fang Gang's East District outpost, which also served as the Fang Gang's headquarters, there was a man present.

Poisonous fangs.

Fang's younger brother, the true second-in-command of the Fang Gang, no, now he should be called the number one.

He was five years younger than Fang and much thinner. In front of him was a map of the factory, covered with various markings, and next to him was an ashtray filled with cigarette butts.

Venomous Fang stared at the map, motionless.

He had been sitting like that for almost an hour.

Countless thoughts were racing through my mind.

My older brother is dead.

He died so suddenly, so pathetically.

One bullet—no, countless bullets. He had seen the corpse, the body that had once been as strong as an ox, riddled with bullets.

Venom closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

pain.

Of course it hurts.

That was his older brother, the one who had protected him since childhood.

But Venom knew that now was not the time to cry.

The members of the gang were filled with anxiety.

Those old brothers, while saying they wanted to avenge their boss, were actually eyeing him, wondering if this younger brother, who had always lived in his brother's shadow, could carry the Fang Gang.

He had to do something.

A memorial service.

A grand memorial service that everyone will remember.

Venom slowly opened its eyes, its gaze landing on the old workshop at the deepest part of the factory.

An altar has already been erected there.

Reverend Meyer, that poor saint, was tied to the post.

Arresting him was certainly not to vent anger.

At least it wasn't just for venting anger.

Poison Fang knew that his elder brother had indeed mentioned that pastor a few times before he died, saying things like "that old man is different" and "he is a true saint," and had thought about inviting him to do a prayer for the gang.

But that was just a casual remark.

What truly motivated him to take action was another idea that rallied people's hearts.

With Fang dead, the gang was in a state of panic. The lower-ranking members, while outwardly shouting for violence, were secretly plotting their own escape.

He needs one thing to tie everyone back together.

Hatred is the best rope.

By holding a memorial service, they turned the death of their elder brother into everyone's hatred, and used that saint as a sacrifice.

Let everyone remember that the person who killed their leader was their common enemy.

Let everyone participate, and use the blood of that saint to swear a blood oath.

Venomous Fang tapped lightly on the map with his finger.

But this is only the first step.

His gaze shifted to several red dots marked on the map.

Those were the hidden sentries he had set up.

Three floors.

The outermost layer consisted of ordinary gang members, twenty people in total, scattered in the abandoned buildings around the factory. They didn't need to be particularly skilled fighters; their job was simply to sound the alarm when someone approached.

The middle level consists of elite gunmen, twelve men, all of whom are veterans of the Fang Gang for more than five years. Each of them has killed someone and seen blood.

They were lying in ambush at several key locations inside the factory, ready to give anyone who broke through the perimeter a taste of real firepower.

As for the inner layer, the corner of the fang's mouth curved upwards.

The innermost layer contains five people.

Five mercenaries he hired from Mexico.

Those five men, each one a survivor of drug cartel shootouts, each a veteran of real battles, were loyal to no one but to money. They would kill anyone for the right price.

These five people are now hiding in the shadows around the altar.

Their guns were already loaded.

If anyone came to rescue the saint, Venom's gaze fell on the high piles of flammable materials around the altar, and the remote-controlled explosives buried underneath.

As soon as he presses the remote control in his hand, boom!

Then everyone will be buried with the eldest brother.

Venom's fingers gently caressed the small remote control.

This was the last card he had prepared for himself.

But Fang didn't tell anyone that this card wasn't just for dealing with the rescuers.

It was also to deal with those old brothers in the gang who didn't submit to him.

At tomorrow's memorial ceremony, he will show everyone the ruthlessness of the new gang leader.

Those who disagree will die.

Anyone who dares to have a disloyal heart shall die.

Those who want to leave, die.

Venomous Fang leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

He suddenly remembered his childhood, when his older brother always protected him. Back then, they lived in a favela on the Mexican border, fighting with stray dogs for food and other children every day.

The eldest brother always rushed to the front, protecting him from behind.

"Don't be afraid," the older brother said then, "with me here, no one can bully you."

The corners of Venom's eyes were slightly moist.

He opened his eyes and looked into the darkness outside the window.

Brother, don't worry.

I will make sure everyone remembers your name.

fangs.

Not that inflated, arrogant fang.

It's that one—

Fang, forever living in everyone's memory.

To ensure that everyone remembers him, he needs more than just a memorial service.

He needs a miracle.

Venom's gaze fell on a piece of paper in the corner of the map.

That was a string of numbers.

The number of a cult.

Those people called themselves "followers of Kchina" and specialized in all sorts of mystical and superstitious things. The sewer explosion was their doing; although it ultimately failed, Venom Fang still highly regarded their methods.

He contacted them.

At tomorrow's memorial ceremony, those people will wear strange robes, dance eerie dances, and use a special powder to ignite a "sacred fire" around the altar.

His elder brother's coffin would remain intact amidst the flames.

At least that's how it appears.

Then he will tell everyone that his older brother is not dead.

My older brother was taken away by God.

Their Fangs Gang is a family favored by God.

The corners of his fanged mouth curved into a sickly arc.

Theocracy.

This is true power!