Mastering the Sword Manual, sweeping across the globe

This is quite normal: minors, minor offenses, little money in their pockets, and the ability to escape at any time with flexible transportation—with so many advantages combined, even Zhang Qiliang couldn't find a reason to put so much effort into regulating this situation.

That makes things easier.

Zhang Qiliang went down the mountain and returned to Fenglin Road, where he randomly selected a motorcycle from the roadside.

First stop: the dormitory building of the Transportation Department of the Express Enforcement Bureau.

The dormitory building is located behind the company compound. It is a six-story slab building built in the 1990s, and most of the residents are older employees and young single staff members.

It was 11 p.m.

Zhang Qiliang rode his speeding motorcycle straight down the gentle slope in front of the dormitory building, twisting the throttle all the way to the floor.

"boom--!!!!"

The roar of the exhaust pipe was amplified exponentially in the narrow space between buildings.

When the first booming sound rang out, the entire building seemed to shake.

Inside the dormitory building, screams, the sound of objects falling, and the crying of a baby rang out almost simultaneously.

Then came the sound of a window opening.

"Who is it?! In the middle of the night!"

"You're insane!"

Someone on the third floor opened the window and cursed angrily, their voice still sounding sleepy.

Zhang Qiliang didn't look up, maneuvering the motorcycle in circles in the open space in front of the dormitory building.

Rapid acceleration, sudden braking, and fishtailing.

The tires screeched as they rubbed against the concrete, creating a deafening noise storm in conjunction with the engine's roar.

More windows lit up.

A middle-aged man on the fourth floor leaned halfway out, shining a flashlight down: "Stop! Stop right there!"

The motorcycle drifted, its rear wheel kicking up a cloud of dust that flew right towards the beam of light.

There were sounds of children crying from the fifth floor, and more than one of them.

The young mother stood by the window, holding her child. Her expression was obscured, but her stiff body language conveyed her anger.

Finally, someone rushed down.

First came two young men wearing vests and shorts, who were probably single employees living in the company dormitory.

They rushed out of the building entrance, shouting as they ran, "Hey! What are you doing!"

The motorcycle turned around and charged towards them, its front wheel lifting off the ground and its rear wheel leaving two black marks on the ground.

The roar of the exhaust pipe erupted almost in their faces, and the two young men instinctively stepped back, their ears being shaken by the sound.

Then more residents came downstairs.

There were middle-aged couples wearing pajamas and slippers, an old man carrying a broom, and several traffic department employees who looked like they had just returned from their shifts, still wearing uniform shirts.

More and more people gathered, forming a semi-circle, but no one dared to actually step forward.

This guy's motorcycle riding style is insane.

In the limited space, the motorcycle felt like it was on a racetrack.

It accelerated rapidly to the end of the building, then braked abruptly and turned around, the tires screeching; it burned out on the spot, the smell of burnt rubber mixed with exhaust fumes filling the air; it suddenly veered towards the crowd, then swerved to avoid them at the last moment.

Every time the accelerator is twisted, the exhaust pipe emits a loud bang that could stop a person's heart.

"Call for help! Call for help quickly! Where's the person on duty?" someone shouted.

"I've called! I'll be right there!"

"Where did this madman come from?!"

"The child keeps crying! Tell him to stop!"

five minutes.

The motorcycle created a hellish five-minute noise in the courtyard where dozens of transport department employees and their families lived.

Every second someone is cursing, a child is crying, an old person is coughing, a window is slammed shut, then pushed open again because they can't stand it anymore, and they stick their heads out to curse with even greater anger.

Perhaps they had had their fill, or perhaps they felt the show should come to an end.

After running two more laps, the motorcycle finally stopped at the main entrance of the office building. The rider lightly leaped twice and quickly disappeared from sight.

"Damn it, what kind of lunatic are you!"

"Check! Check the license plate, right now!"

"What are you waiting for? Check the surveillance footage!"

The courtyard was in complete chaos.

Some people were taking pictures of the motorcycle, some were making phone calls, and some were supporting a child who was still sobbing after being startled awake.

The security guard on duty ran over, sweating profusely, holding a walkie-talkie, but didn't know what to say.

Ten minutes later, a black sedan hurriedly drove into the yard.

The person who got out of the car was none other than Acting Manager Chen.

He was sleeping at home when a series of phone calls brought him over. He was wearing a jacket over his pajamas and his hair was still messy.

"What happened?" Acting Manager Chen's face turned ashen.

A group of people gave their reports all at once: motorcycles, noise, madmen, they escaped by climbing over the wall...

Just as Acting Manager Chen was about to speak, his phone rang.

After glancing at the caller ID, Acting Manager Chen's expression changed slightly. He walked over and answered, "Boss, it's so late..."

"What are you good for? Why do you have a motorcycle and go crazy in the dormitory building of the Express Shift Headquarters in the middle of the night!"

Everyone could see it clearly; cold sweat immediately poured down Acting Manager Chen's face.

This is just the beginning.

Less than ten minutes after I hung up the phone, it rang again.

This time, the screen displayed an extremely short number—an internal short number.

This was a format he hadn't saved in his contacts, but had heard people mention it before.

"The leader just took a break and heard some noise outside, quite a loud motorcycle noise. I heard... it's related to your side?"

48. On what grounds?

late at night.

The analysis room is located on the third floor of the command center.

The main light in the room was not on; only the strip lights on both sides of the walls emitted a cool white light, evenly filling the space.

The wall directly opposite the door is a single, seamless LCD screen, with three high-backed chairs placed in front of it.

On the other side of the screen stood a middle-aged man, around fifty years old, wearing a dark gray jacket. His hair was neatly combed, but the fine lines around his eyes and the slightly drooping corners of his mouth revealed the marks of long hours of heavy work.

This is someone everyone knows well; it's Commander Comrade.

At this moment, the commander was not sitting in his chair.

He stood to the side, leaning slightly forward, his hands resting on the back of the middle seat, his eyes fixed on the screen.

The man sitting in the middle chair was another man.

This man looked much younger than Commander Zhou, around thirty-five or thirty-six years old, and was wearing a simple navy blue shirt, which was ironed without a single wrinkle.

The man was dressed plainly, but he sat upright with his shoulders naturally open, a posture that could only be cultivated over many years in a specific environment—relaxed yet measured.

His face was expressionless, his lips were pressed into a straight line, and his gaze was like two nails, firmly fixed on the screen opposite him.

His demeanor was neither that of a guest nor a superior, but rather that of a quiet observer who had come with the clear mission of "getting to know the situation."

There were two or three other people in the room, standing in front of the control panel on the side. They were the technicians in charge, waiting for instructions.

"Let's begin," the man in the shirt said.

"Yes." The technician pressed the button.

The black screen lit up.

[Video Clip 01 | Source: G2027 High-Speed ​​Railway, Carriage 7, Above Seat 16A, Passenger Personal Device Cloud Backup]

Time stamp: October 23, 06:47 AM.

The footage was initially shaky, as it was taken with a mobile phone.

The camera is pointed at the window of the high-speed train, outside which are fields rushing past, shrouded in morning mist.

The distant mountains are like dark eyebrows, the horizon is tinged with the pale white of dawn, and a few strands of golden-red sunrise are spreading across the edges of the clouds.

The camera quickly stabilized and turned to the interior of the carriage.

A little girl, about four or five years old, occupies the center of the picture.

She wore a light pink down jacket with a white fur trim around the edge of the hood, which made her fair face look rosy.

She wasn't looking at the camera; her attention was entirely on the light gray plush rabbit in her hand.

The rabbit is a bit old; the stitching on one ear has come undone, revealing the white stuffing inside.

The little girl held the rabbit up to the car window, letting it "stand" on the windowsill, her little mouth moving as if she were whispering to the rabbit.

Then she pushed the rabbit with her fingers, moving it slowly horizontally while making soft "whoosh-whoosh" sounds, imitating the sound of running.

Sunlight streamed in from the side, casting a fuzzy golden edge on her soft hair and eyelashes.

After playing for a while, the little girl seemed a bit bored. She raised her face and looked out the window.

My gaze drifted aimlessly over the fields, the scattered farmhouses, and the straight irrigation ditches.

The high-speed train is moving very fast, and the scenery outside appears as a blurry band of color.

Suddenly, the little girl's eyes widened.

Her small body instinctively leaned forward, her nose almost touching the cold glass.

Outside the window, along a county road parallel to the high-speed rail tracks, a person is running.

It was quite far away, and the morning light wasn't very strong, but you could still make out the figure of a man.

He was wearing dark sportswear, taking long strides at an astonishing pace. With each push-off from his legs, he appeared light yet powerful, as if gliding across the ground.

The speed of high-speed rail is approximately 300 kilometers per hour.

The person was running at a speed that, by sight, definitely exceeded 200 kilometers per hour, and was still slowly accelerating—what was even stranger was that he didn't seem to be struggling at all, and his breathing was steady, as if he were just doing a morning run.

The little girl froze, staring blankly.

A few seconds later, she seemed to realize what was happening, and suddenly raised her little hand, waving it frantically out the window.

The little hand tapped softly on the glass.

She was waving very hard, her entire upper body was shaking, and she was shouting something. The audio recording in the video seemed a bit abnormal at this point, and you could only vaguely make out "Hey—" or "Hi—" from her lip movements.

The figure running outside the window seemed to have noticed.

He turned his head slightly and glanced in the direction of the high-speed train.

The distance is rapidly closing.

High-speed rail is surpassing it.

Just as they passed each other, the figure raised his right arm and waved in the direction of the little girl.

The movements were casual and natural, like greeting an acquaintance on the street.

"Giggle..."

The little girl burst into laughter, her eyes curving into crescents. She waved even more vigorously, her face flushed with excitement.

But high-speed rail is too fast.

"Waaaaah—!"

A deep horn sound came from the background of the video.