The Republic of China: I, Xiangzi, a Hero in a Chaotic Era

However, an unexpected event occurred today.

Outside the shack, two young thugs dressed in short clothes stepped into the shack, covering their noses with obvious disgust.

One of the thugs frowned and shouted something into the dimly lit corner in a voice with a distinctly江湖 (jianghu, a term referring to the world of outlaws and gangsters) accent.

Is Zhao San here?

The figure huddled deep within the haystack trembled violently.

Zhao San's cloudy eyes struggled to move, and through the dim sunlight filtering through the hole in the shack's roof, he could make out the outline of the person who had come—a short-sleeved outfit with a bulging waist, the kind of hoodlum outfit commonly seen on the street.

A chilling fear gripped him instantly, more biting than the cold air in the shack.

He's one of Master Liu's men.

It must be that Master Liu was annoyed that this cripple was still breathing, so he sent people to clean up the mess.

Zhao San closed his eyes tightly, held his breath, and his body was as stiff as a stone that had sunk into an icy river. Even the persistent, burning dull pain at the broken leg seemed to have temporarily gone numb.

He buried himself deeper into the musty-smelling haystack, trying to blend into the filthy shadow.

After seeing that no one responded, the two thugs did not leave immediately.

One of the thugs, his eyes scanning the dim light like a hawk's, precisely locked onto the unnatural, stiff outline in the haystack.

He winked at his companion, and the two of them, one in front of the other, walked straight towards the corner where Zhao San was hiding, stepping on the withered grass and frozen mud.

The footsteps sounded exceptionally clear in the deathly silent shack, each step striking Zhao San's nerves on the verge of collapse.

"Hey, old bastard, what are you pretending to be dead for?"

A foot wearing a hard-soled cloth shoe kicked Zhao San's waist, which was wrapped in tattered rags and cotton, with neither too light nor too heavy a kick.

The force wasn't great, but it carried a strong sense of humiliation and probing.

Zhao San's body convulsed uncontrollably, but he kept his eyes tightly closed, clenched his teeth, and only let out an extremely suppressed sob, like a leaking bellows.

"I'm asking you a question, are you mute?"

Another thug's voice was clearly impatient. He bent down and looked closely at Zhao San's sallow, sunken, and filthy face, as well as his right leg, which was swollen beyond recognition and haphazardly bound with wooden sticks of varying thicknesses and dirty strips of cloth.

"Your leg just happened to be broken...tsk tsk, what bad luck. You must be Zhao San. Stop pretending, get up and talk."

Zhao San's heart sank to the bottom.

He knew he couldn't keep up the act any longer; the other person had clearly recognized him.

Overwhelmed by fear, he became incoherent, his voice hoarse as if sandpaper were being rubbed.

"No...no...sirs...I...I'm not Zhao San...I...I've never known anyone named Zhao San..."

He shook his head haphazardly, dry grass clinging to his sweat-dampened forehead, his eyes darting around nervously, avoiding eye contact with the thugs.

Zhao San's eagerness to clear his name, coupled with his extreme guilt, was crystal clear to those in the martial arts world.

"Heh."

The leader of the thugs let out a short, mocking laugh, as if he had heard some extremely clumsy lie.

He casually extended his toes forward, and precisely struck the edge of the swollen, purple, and putrid wound on the broken leg, applying just the right amount of force.

"He's even trying to outsmart us guys. He's tough as nails and stubborn as a mule."

"ah--!"

A piercing, inhuman scream suddenly shattered the deathly silence of the shack.

The excruciating pain was like a red-hot iron being plunged deep into the bones, instantly shattering all of Zhao San's pretense and willpower.

His body bounced and twisted violently like a fish thrown ashore, his bloodshot eyes almost bulging out of their sockets, and cold sweat poured from his forehead and neck, instantly soaking through his thin, tattered coat.

Zhao San could no longer care about anything else. He clung tightly to his crippled leg with both hands, tears streaming down his face. His voice was distorted and off-key due to the excruciating pain and extreme fear.

"Spare me! Spare me, sirs! I... I am Zhao San! I am that damned Zhao San! Please, sirs, have mercy... spare my worthless life!"

He struggled, using all his strength to shrink into the haystack, as if the rotting grass could give him a last bit of shelter.

"You two...you two have a good heart...go back and tell Fourth Master...Fourth Master...I'm a useless person...a complete and utter useless person! I just want...I just want to be like a stray dog...in this shack...to eke out a living...to catch my breath...please, Fourth Master...please, Fourth Master, just let me go...even just let me go like a dog!"

"I'll never dare to do it again... I'll never dare to get in Fourth Master's way again..."

He pleaded incoherently, his head banging against the cold, muddy ground with a dull thud. Blood quickly appeared on his forehead, mingling with mud and tears, covering his face.

The two thugs coldly watched Zhao San's wretched state, his face devoid of pity, only displaying the ease of a mission nearing completion and a barely perceptible hint of contempt. One of them interrupted Zhao San's wailing.

"Stop howling. What Third Master or Fourth Master?"

His tone was a mix of impatience and condescending condescension.

"You old codger, you're lucky you didn't die. You've really struck gold this time."

"It's our Uncle Hai who wants to see you. Come with us."

"Hai...Master Hai?"

Zhao San's crying stopped abruptly. His bloodshot eyes looked up blankly, filled with lingering fear and a hint of disbelief.

Not Master Liu. Master Hai? Which Master Hai?

His mind was a complete blank; he couldn't recall ever offending or knowing anyone named "Master Hai."

But the name sounded even more unfamiliar and unfathomably chilling to him than Master Liu.

The two thugs didn't give him any more time to think.

One person on each side roughly lifted Zhao San from the musty-smelling haystack, as if he were a bag of tattered cotton.

The broken leg was aggravated, causing another wave of excruciating pain. Zhao San's vision went black, and he gasped for breath. His body felt limp, as if he had no bones, and he only managed to stay upright because the two people were supporting him.

They practically dragged Zhao San, stumbling and sinking through the narrow, filthy shack passage, and brought him out into the freezing cold.

Not far from the shack, three old rickshaws were parked.

The lead driver was a lean man who squatted against the wall with his hands tucked in to avoid the wind. When he saw people come out, he immediately stood up and put down the handlebars without expression.

"Throw it up."

One of the thugs gave the order.

Zhao San was lifted up by the two men like a bundle of worthless garbage and slammed heavily onto the cold rickshaw seat.

His broken leg slammed against the hard edge of the seat, the excruciating pain making him see stars and almost faint again. He could only curl up and groan in pain intermittently.