activa-t Chapter 45 The Lord said, I have done good.
Chapter 45 The Lord said, I have done good.
The afternoon sun was dazzling in the French Concession. The intersection was still bustling.
British businessman Harris, dressed in a silk mandarin jacket and holding a walking stick, was chatting and laughing with the comprador next to him, spittle flying onto his oily face.
He had a small bag of opium samples sewn into his sleeve; it was precious and had to be kept close to his body.
A rickshaw came close by, the driver's hat pulled low. In the blink of an eye, the driver raised his left hand, as if to hold the handlebars, and gently pressed it against Harris's chest.
The two brushed past each other.
Harris's laughter faltered, and he felt a tingling sensation in his chest, like being stung by ants. He frowned and took out a handkerchief to wipe his sweat.
The rickshaws had merged into the crowd and disappeared from sight.
three seconds.
Harris jolted violently, his eyes slowly bulging out, his hand clutching his chest, a hoarse sound coming from his throat, and he fell backward.
The walking stick clattered to the ground.
A few pages of paper slipped out of his arms, and a gust of wind blew them open, revealing clear ink writing: "In a certain year and month, how much opium was used to exchange for how many lives?"
The crowd erupted in a "whoosh".
A short while later, Annamese police arrived, blowing their whistles.
……
Midnight, DuPont private clinic.
The basement was lit by a shadowless lamp, casting a stark white light.
French physician Dupont hummed "Carmen" as he used a scalpel to cut open the chest cavity of a corpse.
On the iron plate next to it were several kidneys of different sizes, soaking in formalin.
A group photo hangs on the wall, with DuPont all smiles, next to a plaque that reads "Tianjin Chinese and Foreign Charity Association".
The vent grille moved silently, and a human figure slid down as if boneless, landing silently, like a cat.
DuPont seemed to sense something, turned around sharply, and slashed the scalpel horizontally backward.
The newcomer bent at the waist and slid down the blade, then pressed two fingers of his right hand together on the "Shenmen" acupoint on the wrist.
"despair."
DuPont's entire arm went numb, and the knife clattered to the ground.
Before he could utter a sound, the man swiftly grabbed the fallen knife, its cold gleam flashing.
The blade flashed again.
The man twisted and flicked his wrist.
The still-beating heart, along with a piece of evidence covered in writing, lay open beside his stiff hand.
Under the operating light, the handwriting, soaked in blood, was exceptionally clear.
The heart went from pounding to trembling, and finally returned to stillness.
"Your sample."
The shadow flickered and disappeared from the vent again.
……
Dusk, an old church.
The red and green light from the stained glass shone onto the bench.
In the confessional cubicle, the Italian priest Gabriel squinted, listening to the trembling confession of a devout widow behind the partition opposite him. He kindly replied:
"Madam, the Lord's forgiveness requires offerings... your son..."
He ran his fingers over a land deed. It was the one he had obtained by driving another believer, an old farmer, to his death.
The person on the other end of the line was different; their voice was low and husky, but clear:
"Father, I have done a good job."
"Child, confess your sin... uh..."
"The Lord says, 'My good deeds are to atone for your sins.'"
Gabriel was taken aback.
Between the wooden lattice of the partition, there was a "click" sound, like the soft crack of a joint, and a hand reached out like a ghost through the gap and lightly tapped his chest.
Gabriel groaned, his lungs suddenly contracted as if pierced by an ice pick, and he stopped breathing.
He opened his mouth, making hoarse noises, curled up on the ground, his fingers digging into the floor.
Several sheets of paper were slipped under the grid and landed in front of him. They were the confessions signed by the old farmers, with white background, black words, and red handprints.
The light from the stained-glass window shone on his contorted face, turning it red one moment and green the next.
……
The "Stargazing" pub in the British Concession.
The smells of alcohol, tobacco, sweat, and cheap perfume mingled together.
"Jazz" was embracing a woman, his voice booming as he boasted about the quality of the "goods" he had, drawing obscene patterns on the table with his fingers.
He had a list of people to be "shipped" that night hidden in his boot.
At the next table, a man was drinking with his head down, his face hidden by the brim of his hat.
When he got excited about "jazz," he gestured with one hand and leaned forward.
The man happened to be bending down to pick up an empty wine glass that had rolled off the table.
The edge of the table blocked all view.
In that instant, the man's right leg, like a lurking python, silently sprang out from under the table, his toes pointed, striking the spot where "Jazz's" jaw and Adam's apple met.
Flowers hidden beneath the leaves!
"Bang!"
A dull thud, like a heavy hammer striking a waterlogged cowhide.
The "jazz" maniacal laughter got stuck in his throat, turning into a strange "clucking" sound.
The massive body suddenly leaned back, overturning the chair and smashing a set of cups and plates.
His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, his hands futilely reached for his neck, his legs kicked a few times, and then he stopped moving.
The tavern fell silent for a moment, then erupted into chaos.
The crowd erupted into chaos, scattering in panic. No one noticed that the man who had been drinking with his head down had vanished without a trace.
The list inside the "Jazz" boot has been replaced with a blank sheet of paper with three words written on it: Retribution has come.
……
In just a few days, several respectable foreigners fell ill and died in the concession.
They died in different ways, but they all carried clear evidence of their crimes on their bodies.
The news couldn't be kept secret; it spread like wildfire throughout Tianjin.
In teahouses and taverns, laborers, rickshaw pullers, and peddlers whispered among themselves:
"Have you heard? The 'Judge of Tianjin' has struck again, specializing in taking the lives of foreign bastards."
"Serves them right! Those wicked people deserved this day!"
"It's a pity I wasn't there, otherwise I could have eaten dumplings dipped in the blood of those foreign devils—it'd cure all ailments!"
"Shh... Keep your voice down. The police are searching the whole world right now."
At the conference table of the Municipal Council in the foreign concessions, the foreign gentlemen were furious:
"Chinese sorcerers... must be those barbaric boxers!"
"We must catch him! Hang him!"
"Bounty! Doubled! Catch this pressure point master!"
The reward notice was posted, and the amount was staggering, but the portrait section was completely empty, with only a shadow drawn on it.
Li Wenyong pressed several reports of "mysterious sudden death" into the bottom of the filing cabinet.
Ip Man was practicing on the wooden dummy in the courtyard, listening to Ah Leung repeating the rumors from the street. He didn't stop his punches, but his eyes seemed to be deep in thought.
Gong Ruomei was wiping a short knife, the blade reflecting her face. The corners of her mouth seemed to curve slightly, or perhaps not.
……
In a small attic in the old city.
Zhou Xing sat with his eyes closed, slowly moving his arms.
From my left arm to my elbow, the muscles still felt sore and swollen from the burst of internal energy, like a bowstring that had been pulled too hard.
I felt mentally and physically exhausted, as if I had been up all night.
The "Toad-Fishing Strength" slowly circulates within the body, gently nourishing the depleted areas.
He had just entered the realm of internal strength, and his energy pathways were not yet fully developed.
At present, the only thing that can be achieved through daily practice is the hands from the elbows to the knees, the mind from the heart, the pores opening and closing at will, which can unleash an invisible force that can harm the internal organs.
When an ordinary boxer first reaches this level, after unleashing two strikes in a short period of time, his mind and spirit are almost exhausted, and his arms feel weak and sore.
He can fire three more shots to make a total of five.
Firstly, thanks to the foundation laid by his "human puppet appearance," his skin and flesh are more robust than those of ordinary people;
Secondly, the flexibility of the fascia brought by the [River Demon Appearance] has a unique effect in unloading and guiding force.
Moreover, the flexibility of this river demon is surprisingly effective for concealment and assassination.
Fascia and skeletal structures can shrink slightly. Although they cannot completely change a person's appearance, when one hunches over and slumps their shoulders, the person can shrink down by an inch or so, and retreat into nooks and crannies that ordinary people cannot enter.
He was just like the "spineless man" in the Strange Tales.
Zhou Xing opened his eyes, and there was the last piece of paper spread out in front of him.
"Iron Fist" - Andrei Ivanov.
A Russian-American, black market boxing ring owner and ace.
They specifically lured and coerced Chinese martial artists onto the stage, tortured and killed them for their amusement, and then filmed the acts and sold them to the West.
This man was in his prime, eight feet tall, and weighed over three hundred pounds.
It resembles a giant bear wearing human skin.
His body was muscular and tough, his muscles like old cowhide, and his bones like cast iron.
The power of Western boxing, the grappling of wrestling, and the slashing force of Cossack sabers are all fused into a mountain of flesh.
Internal martial arts emphasize cultivating one's inner energy and strengthening one's muscles, bones, and skin.
This person follows a purely external martial arts path, without cultivating internal strength.
But this does not mean weakness. Such people undergo rigorous physical training and receive ample nutrition. Ordinary internal force punches and kicks cannot even break through their defenses.
If the hidden force doesn't strike the vital points, it's unlikely to achieve complete success. However, it's not as good for health as internal martial arts, and one's strength will decline rapidly with age.
Outside the window, the night was deep.
Zhou Xing got up, stretched his neck, and heard a soft cracking sound from his joints.
The symposium will open the day after tomorrow; Han Muxia's obsession is just one final step away.
It's time to close the net.