The Ancestral Legacy Begins in the Wild West

Harold was punched in the face, and he felt dizzy and his head instantly lost blood flow, causing his body to go limp and collapse.

Since he took over the business of his first casino, he hadn't actually fought anyone in a long time.

His instructor, who taught him the art of bartending, came from the Pinkerton Detective Agency across the ocean. He was said to be a tough guy who could take down an entire bar with a single bottle.

But in his hands, they never lasted more than a round.

Harold was always pleased with this, even though the Barton technique was never of any use to him except during training. After all, his men would tie up any enemies he needed to deal with, bring them to him, and then hand him a knife.

Only now did he realize that he could find anyone of lower status than himself to be his subordinate, but for marksmanship instruction and personal training, it was best to find someone who looked down on him.

"No...!" In an instant, the feeling of defeat that had made him dizzy disappeared.

He thought about it carefully, and suddenly realized something.

He used to be a ruthless man who guarded casinos, and his fighting ability was definitely not bad. Even after he gained power and influence, he never indulged himself, so his fighting ability did not decline much.

So, it's not that he's too weak now; it's that the guy in front of him is so strong that it's completely illogical.

"Whoosh!" After a brief moment of dizziness, Harold managed to pull himself back from the brink of collapse. He swung his cane once more, creating a whooshing sound.

He frequently needs to attend various high-society events, so his exoskeleton equipment is relatively thin and hidden under his suit, making it completely undetectable. Of course, even so, its power is definitely not insignificant.

A nearly solid iron cane, enough to easily crush someone's bones.

And as he swung his cane, Harold's right hand, concealed by the iron rod, reached out to grab Zhang Chang'an's clothes.

Patton is a high-class martial art used by gentlemen, primarily employing techniques for self-defense using a cane and umbrella, as well as many karate fighting techniques from Japanese judo.

The former is essentially a Southeast Asian short stick technique, which is practical and simple, while the latter is more in line with the Westerners' imagination of Eastern martial arts.

Delicate, fast, elegant, able to take down someone stronger than oneself with minimal movement.

In his imagination, the person in front of him who also knew Eastern martial arts should use the same moves as him.

"Come on... will you slap my hand away, gouge my eyes, or..."

"Bang!"

After the explosion-like sound, Harold's left hand, which was gripping his cane, and his right hand, which hadn't yet grasped anything, were both pressed back in front of him.

He was then blasted away.

Harold's imagination was shattered by Zhang Chang'an's unassuming and unpretentious gestures.

"What a bunch of fancy stuff..." Zhang Chang'an pondered, and before Harold flew out and landed, he instantly shifted his feet and simultaneously turned his palm down.

"Bang!" Harold was instantly slammed onto the extremely muddy ground.

The icy mud sent a chill down Harold's spine, and he immediately grabbed Zhang Chang'an's sleeve.

This time he did manage to grab Zhang Chang'an's hand, but that was because Zhang Chang'an had no intention of dodging.

"Are you trying to say something?" Before Harold could speak, Zhang Chang'an's hand, which had been slapping him, transformed into a claw, grabbing his collar.

"As a prospective congressman, you absolutely cannot afford to die here. Because if something happens to you, your racist supporters will definitely cause even more trouble than they are now."

Zhang Chang'an's eyes remained expressionless as he stared intently at Harold's utterly disheveled face.

"Sigh..." Zhang Chang'an sighed, "You bunch of foreigners' dirty tricks are really disgusting."

"Crack crack..." Zhang Chang'an clenched his fist, pulled Harold slightly off the ground, then suddenly pulled his hand behind him and punched him in the face.

"Bang!" Harold felt a salty, metallic taste in his mouth; one of his teeth must have broken.

But he didn't have time to spit out the broken teeth because his mind was blank and he couldn't think of that. All he knew was that after Zhang Chang'an threw that punch, he actually let go of his hand.

"As expected..." He felt he had made the right bet. His dual identity as a businessman and a politician was not something these lowly people could easily shake.

They feared public opinion, they feared the British who hated them, so they...

"Snap..." A rope suddenly swung past him as he got up from the ground, preparing to retreat into the depths of the alley.

The noose was placed around his neck, instantly choking him.

"Uh—" The rope tightened suddenly, forcing the words he was about to say back down his throat.

The rough hemp rope was casually tossed by Zhang Chang'an and passed directly through the balcony railing of the building next door.

Zhang Chang'an exerted force on the spot, and with a movement of his steam joints, Harold's feet instantly left the ground.

The lasso, a technique used by Western cowboys to lasso livestock, is naturally included in Zhang Chang'an's basic cowboy skills.

"I won't apologize to you; on the contrary, you should apologize to me for forcing me to use your dirty tricks."

Zhang Chang'an gripped the rope tightly in his hand, causing Harold to struggle wildly in the air. He simply freed his left hand and pulled out a revolver that didn't belong to him at all.

The gun's grip was made of ivory, with intricate carvings. This wasn't something people like them would use; it belonged to Harold's men, who held him to high standards.

"Bang..." The gun barrel was aimed at Harold's side waist, and the bullet pierced through him instantly.

Blood soaked large patches of his suit, and the sensations of blood loss and suffocation surged into Harold's mind at the same time.

"You are very clever. For your own purposes, you have accurately grasped the narrow-mindedness of a large number of people, but many more people do not care where the people they do business with come from."

So they'll write in their reports that you were betrayed and killed by some of your subordinates who weren't willing to fight for you.

Zhang Chang'an securely tied the hemp rope to the junk box in the alley.

"They will also tell others that your men, in an attempt to frame us, were almost secretly killed by the outsiders you sent, who hung you up and left some broken Chinese characters on the side."

"But in the end, it was us, the people you wanted to kill, who took care of those men and avenged you."

As Zhang Chang'an spoke, he fired another shot into Harold's chest: "A very complicated story, isn't it? The people of London will definitely be interested."

Harold's face, which was covered in blood and splattered with foam, was now pale and bluish.

His remaining cognitive abilities only allowed him to glimpse Zhang Chang'an's final actions.

He grabbed Harold's cane and began carving crooked, illegible words on the wall, some even missing strokes: "Killed by the Chinese..."

After finishing, Zhang Chang'an wiped the pistol clean, walked out of the alley, and stuffed it back into the hands of his subordinate lying beside the car.

………………

"Crack crack...!" At this moment, Zheng Kui had just killed his way through the three layers of defense that the Blood Kill Company thugs had silently infiltrated.

They set up guns and ambushed about twenty men here, but they were no match for the company brothers who were extremely familiar with the area.

Uncle Wang told the others to hide to avoid stray bullets, and then started firing directly upwards from the bottom floor.

The brothers wearing exoskeletons followed Xiong Ge and charged straight through, finally allowing Zheng Kui to reach the door of Boss Chen's office.

At this moment, the door opened, and there was Boss Chen coughing up blood, panting heavily, leaning against his desk, looking like he had lost seventy or eighty percent of his vitality, and slumped on the ground.

Mike stood there until Boss Chen coughed ten times, let out a long breath, and closed his eyes slightly before falling backward.

"Bang..." Although there wasn't much blood on the front, the steel exoskeleton, including the ribs and sternum below, was clearly bent and broken in countless places.