We agreed on the twelve zodiac animals, but you've transformed into the Monkey King?

The connection to the French barracks in Xujiahui had been severed at some point. In this building shrouded in darkness, he was like a fish in a barrel, his escape routes completely cut off.

Despair crept up his spine and spread throughout his body. Pierre loosened his grip, and the telephone receiver slammed to the ground with a thud.

"Pat, pat." Sticky footsteps stopped at the office door.

"Bang!" The thick solid wood door was kicked away by a terrifying force. The wooden door shattered into pieces, and Wen Xiao walked in.

In a panic, Pierre burst through the door to the secret room and retreated inside. Wen Xiao followed him into the windowless, soundproof chamber. The air still carried the lingering stench of Chen Jinbiao's blood. The walls were covered with blood-stained torture instruments.

"Don't come any closer!" Pierre screamed, raising his pistol and frantically pulling the trigger at Wen Xiao. "Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"

In the narrow, dark room, Wen Xiao's dark golden vertical pupils stared coldly at the muzzle of the gun.

[You have activated the Shenhou Authority: Battle, currently at 47% risk of spiraling out of control]

Time suddenly stood still.

His exceptional dynamic vision allowed him to keenly detect the muscle contractions of his opponent as he pulled the trigger, and his upper body subtly shifted left and right. Of the five bullets, four hit the wall, and one grazed the hem of his white linen shirt, leaving him unharmed.

"Click." The firing pin of the pistol made a crisp sound as it emptied.

As the white-clad man approached like a demon, Pierre's taut nerves snapped completely. He dropped his empty gun in terror and knelt on the ground with a thud. In his extreme panic, he frantically unbuckled his belt, accidentally ripping off his pure white underwear!

This French police chief, who was all high and mighty just ten minutes ago, is now holding his white underwear high above his head and waving it wildly.

"Je me rends! I surrender! Don't kill me!" Pierre cried bitterly.

Wen Xiao paused, looking at the ridiculous "white flag," a sarcastic sneer creeping onto his pale face, stained with gunpowder and blood.

"Unfortunately, I'm here for a funeral today." Wen Xiao looked down at him. "Only the dead are taken, no prisoners are left."

Before he could finish speaking, Wen Xiao raised his foot and brutally stomped on Pierre's knee. With a "crack," Pierre's right kneecap shattered into powder. He howled in agony and collapsed to his knees, like a dog whose spine had been broken.

Wen Xiao's gaze swept across the dark room, finally settling on a wooden table. There lay a rusty pair of pliers. It was the instrument of torture used yesterday to crush Chen Jinbiao's ten fingers.

He walked over and picked up the pliers. The rough, rusty feel was as cold and hard as the yellow mud on a coffin lid.

He turned around, squatted down, and stepped on Pierre's right hand, which had been holding up the white underwear.

Pierre stared in terror, struggling and begging for mercy. Wen Xiao ignored him, pried open Pierre's index finger, and slipped the metal jaws of the pliers onto it.

"Uncle Biao has spent his whole life rolling in mud and water, but he's still human, and humans are afraid of pain. When you crushed his first finger, did he make a sound?" Wen Xiao asked, suddenly exerting force with his wrist.

"Ah—!!!" With a muffled thud as flesh and bone were crushed, Pierre let out a piercing scream.

Wen Xiao expressionlessly loosened the pliers and slipped the second middle finger onto the other finger. "What about when you clamp the second one?" "Snap." A chilling wail echoed in the dark room.

One, two, three… Wen Xiao patiently crushed Pierre’s ten fingers one by one. Until those hands became two lumps of sticky flesh, until Pierre was in so much pain that he didn’t even have the strength to scream, only hissing sounds coming from his throat.

Wen Xiao threw away the pliers covered in bone fragments, stretched out his blood-soaked hands, pressed them against Pierre's head and chin, and twisted them violently.

"Crack." The screams completely disappeared.

In the dark room, only the faint sound of rain outside could be heard.

……

It's 1:30 a.m. The rain has stopped.

The moon is out.

The streets of the French Concession were deserted. Wen Xiao pushed open the dilapidated door of the police station and stepped out. The white mourning clothes he wore were now completely stained dark red with gunpowder and blood, clinging heavily to his body.

In his left hand, he held a round ball tightly wrapped in a black tarpaulin. Blood was still seeping from the bottom of the ball.

Wen Xiao stopped on the steps riddled with bullet holes and pebbles. He placed the package at his feet, reached into his pocket with his right hand, and pulled out a pack of cheap cigarettes, slightly damp from his body heat and the rain. He struck a match, and a faint orange flame lit up in the cold winter night.

He took a deep breath, the pungent smell of cheap tobacco filling his lungs and making him cough twice.

"Uncle, the road is level now, let's rest."

He exhaled a puff of white smoke, picked up the heavy package from the ground, and walked into the deep darkness without looking back.

……

The night wind along the Huangpu River smells fishy, ​​carrying the scents of river water, engine oil, and mud.

On the river, a cargo ship flying the Union Jack sounded its horn, the sound muffled and long.

Meng Huai followed the breakwater for half a street.

He stopped beside a pile of rusty iron anchors behind the Shiliupu Wharf.

Panpan sat on the stone stool. Tears fell drop by drop onto the stack of papers in her hand, blurring the dark blue-black penmanship.

That was the manuscript she and her classmates had written after staying up all night for a week, collecting materials and writing it.

It describes Chinese child laborers in a Japanese-owned cotton mill in Zhabei who worked sixteen hours a day and had their fingers crushed by the machines.

Meng Huai walked over, his leather shoes making a dull sound as they stepped on the gravel.

He squatted down next to Panpan, took out a warm roasted sweet potato from his pocket, and placed it on the back of Panpan's cold hand.

"The editor-in-chief rejected it?"

Panpan's shoulders slumped. She looked at the lights of the Western-style houses reflected on the river.

"He said that space should be reserved for the soap brand from the Japanese-owned trading company."

Panpan's voice was very soft, and it was easily dispersed by the river breeze. "A few days ago, Master Wen of Gonghexiang, in order to find a little girl named Aman, led his men to turn upside down most of the dark streets in the French Concession. Even the foreigners were somewhat wary of him. The newspapers sold on the street were all praising him as a chivalrous and righteous hero."

She turned her head and looked at Meng Huai. Under the streetlight, her eyes were red as if they were bleeding.

"And what about the children in the yarn factory? They're not even half as old as Aman. Their fingers are broken, and they don't even have a rag to bandage them. But who cares?"

Panpan gripped the wad of soaking wet scrap paper in her hand tightly, her knuckles turning deathly white from the force.

"Meng Huai, we're on our own territory, using our own pens, and we can't even write about the suffering of our own people. Tell me, what's the use of being literate?"

Meng Huai remained silent.

The river wind picked up even more. Waves crashed against the concrete embankment, splashing up a fine white foam.

He stretched out his hands, which were used to holding police batons, and slowly, pried the wad of wet scrap paper out of Panpan's hand.

He placed it on his knees, which were covered by his dark blue uniform, and smoothed it out, one stroke at a time.

"It wasn't a waste of time learning to read."

Meng Huai carefully folded the flattened paper in half, placed it against his left chest, stuffed it into the inner pocket of his robe, and pressed the brass button tightly.

He stood up. He took half a step forward, effectively blocking the fishy wind blowing from the river behind him.

He looked down at the pile of rusty anchors, then at Panpan.

"Go back to sleep. You can continue writing tomorrow after you've woken up."