Reborn a day later, I emptied my enemy's possessions beforehand.

"No--!!!"

Zhang Wenbin screamed in pain.

His tears welled up instantly, his face was covered in snot and saliva, and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his groin with both hands, his body convulsing uncontrollably.

It took him a while to recover a little from the intense emotional shock, but tears still streamed down his face.

His gaze began to sweep around—the living room was empty.

The sofa, coffee table, TV, and stereo were all gone.

The walls were bare, the floor was empty, the curtains were gone, the chandelier was gone, and even the switch panels on the wall had been unscrewed.

Zhang Wenbin's eyes were so wide they looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets.

Ignoring the excruciating pain in his lower body, he struggled to his feet. Every step felt like walking on a knife's edge, and the muscles in his face twitched with pain. But he still gritted his teeth and limped through the entire villa.

The master bedroom is empty, the walk-in closet is empty, the kitchen is empty, and the study is empty.

His safe—that small safe embedded in the wall—

It was dug away by someone, leaving a large hole in the wall and broken bricks scattered all over the ground.

Call the police.

He wants to call the police.

He needed to find Zhou Haibing and find out why he had treated him this way.

He searched his entire body, but there was no cell phone.

He then searched the living room floor, the bedside table in the master bedroom, and the desk in the study—but found nothing.

He dragged his limping left leg and shattered lower body, inching his way to the garage.

The garage was empty; the Maybach was gone, and so was the Porsche Cayenne.

The two parking spaces were covered in dust, and even the tire tracks were fainter than usual.

Zhang Wenbin stood in the garage, looking up at the ceiling, and opened his mouth, letting out a strange sound that was hard to tell whether it was a cry or a laugh.

He turned around and limped out of the villa. With each step, a searing pain shot through his lower body. His forehead was covered in sweat, and his face was as white as paper.

He gritted his teeth and walked to the entrance of the residential area. When the security guard saw him like that, he was so frightened that he jumped up from his chair.

Zhang Wenbin, leaning against the window of the security booth, said in a voice that sounded like it was coming from a coffin: "Can I borrow your phone? Call the police."

The security guard handed him the phone, his hands trembling.

……

At An Baojun's home, Zhou Haibing's first love, the beastly husband An Baojun, also woke up in pain.

But he was woken up by the pain in his leg.

When An Baojun opened his eyes, he saw the ceiling of his own villa's living room.

He was stunned for a moment—how did he end up lying on the ground?

He remembered that Zhou Haibing came yesterday and said he wanted to show him a painting by Tang Bohu. He was overjoyed, and then... and then nothing happened.

My memories are like they've been cut off, completely wiped out, leaving nothing behind.

He tried to move his left leg, and a sharp pain exploded from his knee, making him jerk and let out a scream.

He moved his right leg again, and the same excruciating pain, the same tearing sensation, as if someone had smashed his two kneecaps to pieces with a hammer.

An Baojun's face turned deathly pale.

He propped himself up on his arms and looked down at his legs—

There were two dark red bloodstains on the knees of his trousers. The bloodstains had dried, and the fabric clung stiffly to his skin.

His two knees were bent at an impossible, bizarre angle, with the right kneecap protruding sharply from under the skin, stretching his pants into a pointed tent.

His leg was broken.

Both of his legs were broken.

"Help! Someone, come here!"

An Baojun shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice sharp and loud, but the only response was his own echo in the empty living room.

He suddenly raised his head, his gaze sweeping across the entire living room, his pupils dilating sharply.

The sofa is gone, the coffee table is gone, the TV is gone, and the stereo is gone.

His favorite rosewood armchair is also gone.

The living room was empty; even the carpet had been rolled up, leaving only the bare marble floor.

An Baojun's brain seemed to be stuck on something, and he couldn't figure it out for a long time.

His lips trembled, uttering indistinct, meaningless sounds, and his eyes darted around in their sockets like a wild beast trapped in a cage.

He struggled to stand up, but his legs were too weak to support him. He fell back down after only managing to get halfway up, his knees hitting the ground. The pain made his vision go black, and he almost fainted.

Call the police.

He must call the police.

He reached into his pocket—his phone wasn't there.

He searched his body again, but found nothing.

He searched the surrounding ground, but found nothing.

My phone is missing.

An Baojun gritted his teeth, supported himself with his hands, and dragged his two broken legs, moving inch by inch toward the gate.

With each movement, a piercing pain shot through his knees, sweat streamed down his forehead and dripped onto the floor, his face contorted in agony.

It took him almost ten minutes to move from the center of the living room to the front door, a distance of less than ten meters.

Once outside the gate, he continued to use his hands to support himself on the ground, inching his way down the steps of the porch.

His pants were torn, his palms were bleeding, and his two broken legs dragged on the ground, leaving a long trail of blood.

When he moved to the main road of the community, a passing resident saw him, screamed in fright, and rushed over to help him.

An Baojun grabbed the man's arm, his voice hoarse and strained, as if squeezed out from between his teeth: "Call the police for me...call the police for me..."

The man quickly took out his phone and dialed 110.

……

The same scene was playing out at the home of Li Zhigang, the scoundrel older brother of Zhou Haibing's first love.

Li Zhigang was woken up by someone.

He wasn't woken up by the pain, but by his wife Xia Guilan's screams.

"Ah—! My face!"

Xia Guilan's voice was shrill and loud, bursting out from the side and making Li Zhigang's eardrums buzz.

Li Zhigang opened his eyes and found himself lying on the floor.

He propped himself up on his arms and was about to ask what happened when a burning pain shot through his face, like a hot towel had been applied and then peeled off, making him gasp in pain.

He reached up and touched his face—it was swollen.

It was swollen badly, with the left cheek much higher than the right. It felt hard and hot to the touch, like half a steamed bun was stuffed in my mouth.

"My face is swollen too?"

Li Zhigang's voice was squeezed out from behind his swollen lips, muffled and unclear, as if he had something in his mouth.

Xia Guilan squatted down beside him, holding a small mirror she had somehow found.

She looked at her face in the mirror and then let out another scream.

Her face was even more swollen than Li Zhigang's, with her cheeks bulging high, a crack at the corner of her mouth covered in scabs, and her left eyelid so swollen that it squeezed her eye into a slit, making her look both comical and frightening.

"Who hit me! Who hit me!"

Xia Guilan's voice was shrill and trembling, and tears streamed down her face.