You went on a blind date and presented an A-level wanted criminal as a meeting gift?

"Aaaaaaahh ...

Monet let out a roar that sounded inhuman.

There was no anger in that voice, only the desperate howl of a madman who called himself "god" after discovering that he was just a mortal.

His hand reached into the inside pocket of his tuxedo.

The sound of metal rubbing against fabric.

He pulled out a scalpel.

The blade reflected a cold white line under the stage lights.

It was a custom-made German scalpel with a blade only twelve centimeters long, narrow and thin, sharp enough to cut through three layers of skin without the aid of external force.

Monet used this knife to complete his two "masterpieces".

At that moment, the way he held the knife changed.

No longer the precise and elegant scalpel-holding technique of a surgeon, but a reverse grip with the blade pointing downwards, the knuckles turning bluish-white from extreme force.

"You ruined my art!"

Monet's eyes were bloodshot, and his entire demeanor transformed from that of an elegant conductor into that of a mad dog cornered in a dead end.

"You ruined everything I had!"

"Then I will dissect you... this mortal shell of yours! With your bones and muscles, I will create my final, greatest masterpiece!"

He roared and pounced on him.

high speed.

Much faster than the average person.

Monet's physical abilities far surpassed those of ordinary people; his long-term sculpting and anatomical training enabled him to achieve a remarkably high level of arm strength and coordination.

The blade flashed in a strange arc through the air, heading straight for Lin Chen's carotid artery.

If the opponent were an ordinary person, this strike would be fatal.

pity.

His opponent is Lin Chen.

"Art?"

Lin Chen did not back down.

He didn't even turn to the side.

He merely tilted his head slightly, raising his chin by less than two centimeters.

The scalpel passed over his carotid artery, less than three millimeters from his skin.

The gust of wind from the blade ruffled the stray hairs at his collar.

[God-level Danger Perception] precisely marks the trajectory and speed of the blade. In the calculation of [Grandmaster-level Combat Proficiency], the threat level of this strike is D.

It can't even reach C.

"You dare talk about art?"

Lin Chen raised his right hand.

It's not a fist.

It's a hand chop.

The outside of his palm made a very short, precise cut, striking the ulnar styloid process of Monet's wrist as he held the knife.

"Snapped!"

It didn't take much force.

Sixty-five kilograms.

It was exactly equal to Monet's own weight.

However, the effective area is only a narrow line on the outer side of the palm, and the pressure is enough to cause the periosteum to produce a severe pain signal.

Monet's fingers instantly lost control, the scalpel flew out of his hand, spun twice in the air, and "clinked" into the base of the plaster mold next to him.

"My knife—"

Before Monet could react, Lin Chen's left hand had already reached out.

Five fingers precisely gripped Monet's right wrist.

The moment his palms came together, Lin Chen pressed down hard with his thumb.

The pressure was applied to an extremely hidden spot on the inside of Monet's right forearm, at the junction of the interosseous membrane of the forearm and the superficial branch of the radial nerve.

Ordinary people have no idea where this point is.

But Lin Chen knew.

He not only knew, but also knew what would happen after he pressed the button.

"Hiss—! Aaaaaaah—!!!"

Monet let out a blood-curdling scream.

The pain wasn't physical; it was a sharp, tingling pain caused by direct nerve stimulation, as if the entire arm had been electrified.

His entire right side was convulsing uncontrollably, his five fingers opening, closing, and opening again involuntarily, like a gecko whose tail had been stepped on.

"This hand..."

Lin Chen's voice came from above his head, deep and calm, as if stating a fact.

"They skinned two innocent people."

"Click."

A crisp sound of bone cracking.

Monet's right wrist was snapped by Lin Chen with a clean and decisive joint lock.

The break was in the direction of outward fold, and the entire palm drooped down at an impossible angle, like a withered branch broken by the wind.

Monet's pupils dilated to their maximum, his mouth opened but he couldn't make a sound; the pain signals were too dense, and the vocal cord control area of ​​his brain was temporarily overloaded.

Lin Chen did not let go.

He glanced at Monet's left hand.

Monet desperately wanted to do something with his left hand.

They pulled out weapons, pressed remote controls, and even threw punches.

But just as his left hand was halfway up, Lin Chen's knee had already reached him.

It's not the top.

It was a collision.

The combined force of his entire body weight and the explosive twisting of his waist was concentrated on the palm-sized area of ​​his kneecap, slamming into Monet's abdomen without reservation.

"puff--!!"

Monet's body folded in two instantly.

A mouthful of blood mixed with gastric juice spurted from his mouth, leaving a shocking trail of blood under the stage lights.

He flew two meters backward and crashed heavily onto the stage, the sound of his back hitting the floor dull and muffled.

Before he could even settle down, Lin Chen had already followed him.

Lin Chen bent down and grabbed Monet's left wrist, the same action as before.

"This hand..."

"Don't even think about staying."

Monet's eyes flashed with extreme fear at that moment.

He struggled desperately, using the last of his strength to try to break free, but Lin Chen's fingers seemed to be welded to his wrist, remaining completely still.

"No! Please! My hands! My hands are for creating art! How can I... without my hands?"

"Click."

Second sound: bone fracture.

It's crisper than the first sound.

Monet's left wrist was also broken in the reverse direction.

"ah!!!"

This time he shouted it out.

The sound echoed throughout the abandoned theater, reverberating repeatedly in the empty auditorium, like the final lament of a trapped beast whose throat had been pierced by a hunter.

He collapsed to the ground, both hands hanging limply at impossible angles, his fingers twitching slightly uncontrollably.

Blood seeped from his broken wrist, staining his snow-white shirt like an abstract painting.

Lin Chen stood in front of him, looking down at him.

The light shone from behind Lin Chen, casting his face in a half-light, half-dark shadow.

"Your 'artistic' career..."

Lin Chen squatted down and looked at Monet, who was lying on the ground, his eyes level with hers, tears and blood mixed together.

That's enough.

Monet's body was trembling.

It's not because of pain.

It's because of those eyes.

In those dark, bottomless eyes, there was no anger, no pleasure, not even justice.

There was only one thing that made him feel despair from the depths of his soul.

From beginning to end, this man never considered him an opponent.

He had already won from the moment he stepped into the theater.

Acoustic corridor, sulfuric acid trap, detonation threat... everything he had meticulously designed over three months.

In Lin Chen's eyes, it was nothing more than a test question with a standard answer.

Why...?

Monet's voice sounded like a breath squeezed from a crushed throat.

"What...what kind of monster are you...?"

Lin Chen did not answer.

He stood up and took his phone out of his pocket.

Li Mingyu, who was tied to the cross, didn't dare to say a word throughout the entire process.

His face was covered in foam and tears, and he watched the whole thing with wide eyes, his body trembling like a leaf.

Lin Chen stopped a step as he passed by him.

"Still trying to steal the credit?"

Li Mingyu shook his head frantically, his voice trembling with tears.

"No, no, no! Consultant Lin! From now on, whatever you say goes! I'll even carry your shoes for you!"

Lin Chen dialed Su Qingge's number.

"The suspect, Monet, has been subdued. Bomb disposal team, come to the suburban theater; there are pre-planted explosives inside that need to be cleared."

"besides……"

He glanced at Li Mingyu on the cross.

"Bring a towel; someone needs to wipe their face."

After hanging up the phone, Lin Chen walked to the edge of the stage and sat down.

In the distance, the sound of police sirens pierced the night sky.

He looked up and, through the broken skylight in the theater's dome, saw a small patch of deep blue night sky and a few stars.

In my mind, that familiar, cold electronic notification sound is gathering momentum.

He knew that this reward... wouldn't be small.