Chapter 138: Gunfire
Chapter 138: Gunfire
Fang Jing hadn’t come to chat or negotiate with Takaha Group. He was here to smash the place.
He’d learned the whole story from Senior Brother Xuan Zao. Takaha Group had stormed the Shaolin Boxing Dojo, beat up the disciples, then later clashed with Sakaki Tetsuhei who rushed over to fight.
At first, Sakaki Tetsuhei drove them off. But they returned with reinforcements, overpowered him, and took him away.
The Shaolin Boxing Dojo’s signboard got smashed. Some senior brothers ended up injured.
“Fine,” Fang Jing thought. Seeing the crowd gathering around him, he let out a cold laugh.
“What’re you laughing at? You some sort of idiot? Beat up our guys, then dare show your face here?” The guy in a baseball cap spotted the men lying on the ground—they were Takaha’s gatekeepers. He had no idea how these three got taken down.
Fang Jing stepped over one man’s head, walked right up to Baseball Cap, and slammed a fist straight into his chest.
With a heavy thump, it was like a scene straight out of a comic panel. The near six-foot tall Baseball Cap flew three meters back, landing hard on his rear. His chest tightened, darkness swallowed his vision, and he passed out.
“This punk’s trouble!”
“Bastard! Starting trouble here means you’re looking down on us!”
“Get him! Beat this moron to pulp!”
“Hey hey, don’t kill ’em. Leave him breathing so we can have some fun.”
A large, dark mass of people moved forward across the baseball field—all young men.
Most weren’t actual Takaha thugs. They were troublemakers Takaha recruited from the outskirts of town.
Normally, this “X—Baseball” place was handed over to them at night for fun, when it wasn’t operating. Occasionally, Takaha Group even gave them “jobs.”
These troublemakers were young but vicious. That made them Takaha’s potential recruits.
Unlike more traditional, restrained underworld groups, Takaha had no rules. They took in anyone and everyone messy. That’s partly why they kept growing stronger.
There had to be at least a hundred of them on the field, faces alight with excitement. Their eyes held cruelty, sadism, raw aggression.
These guys were restless, always eager for a fight. And here? On home turf. Outnumbering one scrawny guy? To them, Fang Jing was nothing.
—Sure, tough fighters existed.
—But here? A hundred against one.
—Could one man win against a hundred?
They closed in. Empty-handed. Metal pipes. Baseball bats. Chains. Knives. Shattered beer bottles. They surrounded Fang Jing from every direction.
With a heavy clank, someone yanked down the rolling metal door outside.
“Hey! Kid! Get on your knees right now! Maybe I’ll let you walk out alive.”
Leading them was a man with a mohawk, wearing a modified white delinquent jacket with “Bishamonten” scrawled across the back. He gripped a crowbar.
“I’ll give you one last chance. Where. Is. Tsutsuga?”
Fang Jing lifted his head. His cold glare swept the crowd. His voice was quiet when he spoke. But no one answered.
His words only earned a chorus of curses. Their fists clenched, itching to teach him a lesson.
Fine. His patience just ended.
CRUNCH!
His foot flew straight into Mohawk Man’s face. That pockmarked mug crunched sickeningly.
Others froze briefly, then tightened their grips on metal rods and pipes. They surged forward as one.
WHAM! THUD! CRACK!
Three figures flew from the crowd, tossed off by punches and kicks from Fang Jing.
“You piece of trash! Fight back, will you?!”
One roared, dagger in hand, charging forward. He hadn’t covered half the distance when Fang Jing spun. A kick slammed into his gut.
He screeched. His insides felt ripped. Waves of cramping agony made his legs buckle as he crashed to the ground.
As his first kick dropped that man, Fang Jing pivoted. One hand shot out, catching the wrist of a guy swinging a knife from the left. Meanwhile, his leg snapped sideways to the right—a kick sent a sturdy guy flying backward, toppling others like dominoes.
At the same time, he twisted the knife-wielder’s wrist, stealing the blade. With it, he deflected a pipe hurtling toward him. His head whipped forward like a hammer—CRACK—straight into the pipe-wielder’s skull. Instant concussion.
Snap! He broke the knife-guy’s wrist. Used the momentum to leap back, crashing into some hoodie-clad kid behind him. His elbow drove hard into the kid’s ribs.
The kid in the hoodie flew back as if zapped by lightning, slumped like a broken doll. Unconscious before hitting the dirt.
ROAR!
Fang Jing roared low. Leaping lightly, he plunged into the mob like a tiger. His motions blurred—dazzlingly fast. Every strike seemed backed by a dozen phantom limbs. Flurried punches and kicks became a storm of shadows.
Power blazed through every blow. Though he held back from killing, ribs snapped under his fists. Wrists shattered under kicks. For others—broken bones, torn joints—anything rendering them immobile.
Within moments, a wide circle cleared around him. Dozens littered the ground. Some wailed. Others simply couldn’t move.
The gap was immense. Like comparing heaven to earth.
Entering the realm beyond mortals, Fang Jing’s physique dwarfed theirs. Stamina. Endurance. Reflexes. Combat awareness—they had zero chance.
Even together, attacks came clumsy and wild. Untrained. Predictable. Like toddlers swinging. Avoiding them was effortless. His timing—impeccable.
Surrounded? Visually yes. But truly? Fang Jing danced through unseen openings. Precision capped every strike. Zero wasted moves.
From the outside? A whirlwind of limbs. People flying from its edge like mosquitoes swatted aside. Graze his clothes? The pressure alone could blast you away.
Fang Jing sprung upward. Dodged frantic wooden and metal pole swings. A graceful arc—his right foot shot out twice.
TWACK-THUD
A man dropped. First kick: cheekbone splintered. Second kick: someone’s jaw pulverized.
Landing soft, he scanned. Half the enemies now covered the ground. At least forty men lay mangled. Screaming. Moaning. Begging for mothers. Utter chaos.
Hardly any stamina drained. Like finishing a light jog to warm up.
Disbelief spread among the surrounding troublemakers. They’d sneered earlier—seeing Fang Jing as prey. A lamb wandering into wolves. Helpless meat upon their table.
But now? Reality hit. Dead wrong. Not a lamb. Never prey.
This? This was a hungry lion charging into a wide-open flock. They—yes, they—were now the ones being slaughtered upon the slab.
“What’s wrong? Scared? A bunch of garbage panicking?”
Fang Jing grinned like a predator. Words came soft at first. Then exploded like thunder in their ears.
“You think gathering trash together becomes something special? One giant landfill?”
Every syllable stabbed like needles. Sharp. Poisoned with contempt.
“Worthless!”
At “Worthless!”, Fang Jing moved. Foot stomped hard. The baseball infield dirt exploded upward. Ten meters away? Covered in two lightning-fast steps.
THUMP! Fist dropped one man. Grabbed a second. Hoisted him overhead like a human log.
Using his immense strength, Fang Jing spun. The captured man became a grisly wrecking ball—whipped in a ferocious circle.
SCREECH! BAM! CRUNCH!
Bodies flew outward. Bones snapped. Some fainted on impact.
The human flail? Every bone shattered. Gasping wetly. No cries left. Just air escaping a broken bellows.
A few turned, fleeing into corners. But the door stayed locked. Scrambling uselessly.
Fang Jing snatched up a bat. Whipped it low. It cracked shins, brought them crashing down.
Under seven minutes total. The whole field resembled a battlefield field hospital. Bodies groaning everywhere.
“Just useless mob. Didn’t even drain my stamina.”
He figured his current power probably matched Master Kume Nansho.
Only now did he glimpse the true scale warriors like Master Kume commanded.
Guys like Kume? Or him? Even against overwhelming numbers—barehanded against hundreds—this outcome seemed inevitable.
“There’s still folks upstairs.”
Fang Jing found this mob meaningless. Trash mountains stayed trash. Beating them? Pointless.
With that thought, his eyes narrowed. Fixed on the second floor of “X—Baseball.”
This distance? Faint figures visible. More importantly—he practically felt their burning wrath.
That came courtesy of his Fate Grade—“Fierce Wrath.”
Anyone carrying rage? Violent emotional swings? Fang Jing felt it. Saw it. Like looking through liquid fire.
Angry souls? Faint flickers of light flared inside each mind.
Stronger the hate? Stronger the blaze.
Inside “X—Baseball’s second level? At least twenty blazed with fury.
Imperfect vision? Sure. But good enough for now.
“Takaha Group’s waiting up there.”
Fang Jing started climbing the staircase.
At that moment, footsteps clattered down urgently. The real Takaha members. Proper yakuza. Below’s noise? Initially ignored.
Reports stated: one troublemaker.
One guy? What could he do? The skimmed milk security team below handled that.
But soon—realization hit. Too quiet. Too sudden. They descended fast.
Leading them? The woman dressed as a server. Scowl deeper than ice. Forehead veins bulging. Who thought one man would dare smash Takaha’s turf?
“You,” her voice held pure poison.
Fang Jing reached their landing level.
“OPEN FIRE!”
She, they, all thought they’d make their entrance glorious. Curb the disaster below before it peaked.
But the speed? Impossible timing. Too late.
These Takaha core members? Armed for territory wars with Sunao-gumi, Iwamoto Group. Pistols hid on every waist.
In one synchronized motion? Multiple guns cleared holsters. Swung toward Fang Jing charging the second flight. Thumbs clicked safeties.
Trigger fingers squeezed tight.
The roar of gunfire began.