Chapter Eight: The Rescue

Wang Ming felt as if he was suspended between wakefulness and sleep, caught in a strange state. His mind was hazy, occasionally flashing images of his mother, but those scenes dissipated quickly, like mist scattered by the wind. He lay on the ground, forgetting time, forgetting to think, even forgetting his own identity.

In the midst of a gray chaos, a silver-white light suddenly pierced through the darkness, like a slender but dazzling thread stretching straight toward him. Instinctively, he reached out, trying to grasp the light.

A crisp sound broke the air, as if shattering some invisible barrier. All the haze was instantly dispelled, Wang Ming’s pupils contracted sharply, and clarity returned to his gaze. He stared blankly at the sudden appearance of a man and a woman before him, his mind still muddled.

The room was cramped and cluttered, filled with boxes and miscellaneous items. Wang Ming realized he was curled up inside a cardboard box, while the man and woman stood outside, occupying what little space remained.

“Don’t be afraid. This lady will help you reunite with your mother,” the man said, stretching out his hand and gently placing his broad palm on Wang Ming’s head, imparting an inexplicable sense of security. The sensation was like a father’s hand—warm and strong.

Wang Ming continued to stare in bewilderment.

“Is there some noise in the storage room?” “Tsk, must be the kid moving around,” came a low exchange from outside the door.

Bai Yu Jing frowned, not wanting the child to witness what would soon become a bloody scene. He withdrew his hand and said, “Take the child home. Remember to ask her for a five-star review.”

“All right,” Liu Shuang Ling replied curtly, though she wished she could stay and deal with the traffickers herself. After all, it was their actions that forced her to give blood. Yet she dared not disobey Bai Yu Jing’s orders. Grabbing Wang Ming by the shoulder, she tapped her foot lightly, performed a swift step, and vanished from the room.

Footsteps thudded outside, approaching. Bai Yu Jing turned around.

The door swung open. Two middle-aged men stood in the doorway, one tall, one short. Their impatience quickly morphed into vigilance and ferocity at the sight of a stranger.

“Brother, we’ve been found out. Kill him!” the short man barked, his temper flaring. Upon encountering someone unfamiliar, his first instinct was murder.

The taller man was evidently more calculating; he quickly pressed his brother’s shoulder, his gaze sweeping over Bai Yu Jing as he probed, “Friend, we’re willing to pay for our mistake. May I ask, what is your connection to the child?”

Bai Yu Jing’s eyes were colder than a winter storm. His voice was icy: “There’s nothing to say between us. Just tell me who’s behind you, then die.”

“The one who should die is you!” Ding Chun roared, unable to restrain his rage. He stomped the floor, cracking it beneath his feet, and charged forward like a cannonball, so fast it whipped up a gust.

His right hand closed into a fist, chilly spiritual energy gathering at his fingertips, like a venomous serpent lunging from the grass, aiming straight for Bai Yu Jing’s groin—a vicious, deadly strike.

Bai Yu Jing remained motionless, his invisible spiritual armor flaring outward. This was his own martial technique: simple in principle, it condensed spiritual energy around or outside his body to create an intangible shield. Yet, under Bai Yu Jing’s immense spiritual force, this basic move became the world’s strongest defense. Anyone who approached him would be mercilessly crushed by the pressure.

Seeing Bai Yu Jing unmoved by his attack, Ding Chun felt a sudden unease. But having already launched his strike, he could not back down. With a shout, he pushed his spiritual energy to the limit, shifting his technique from feint to full-force. The air hissed as his hand accelerated toward its target.

A muffled sound erupted, flesh and blood spraying. Ding Chun’s pupils contracted, his ferocity freezing in place. The tips of four fingers on his right hand exploded three inches from Bai Yu Jing’s body, mangled as if thrust into a meat grinder. The agony wrung a shrill scream from him, his whole body recoiling as if struck by lightning.

His scream echoed through the cramped room. Clutching his mutilated hand, he staggered back, terror flooding his eyes.

Bai Yu Jing gave him no time to recover. With a swift motion, his foot shot forward like lightning, tapping Ding Chun’s abdomen.

A dull thud sounded, as if a bomb had detonated in Ding Chun’s stomach. His waist burst open, blood and shattered bone scattering like bullets, striking the walls and floor with a rattling clatter.

Ding Wu stood to the side, his face instantly splattered with blood and fragments. He stared, dumbfounded, as Ding Chun’s body broke in two and crashed to the floor, blood gushing like a fountain from the wound, staining the boards red. Ding Chun writhed in agony, howling in pain.

Bai Yu Jing expressionlessly withdrew his foot, his spiritual armor reforming close to his skin. He strode over to Ding Chun, planted his foot on Ding Chun’s throat, and looked at Ding Wu: “Tell me, who is behind you?”

Ding Wu felt a chilling pressure envelop him; terrified, he collapsed onto the floor, his cheeks sticky with blood, legs trembling at the sight of Ding Chun’s misery. He knew Ding Chun’s strength well: a sixth-rank spiritual master, trained at the prestigious Beast Sect in Shanghai, his Snake Fist ferocious, rarely matched among peers. For Bai Yu Jing to dispatch Ding Chun so easily meant his strength surpassed the sixth rank—seventh, perhaps higher.

He could not fathom how a man from what appeared to be a single-parent, working-class family could be acquainted with such a formidable figure.

“If I talk, will you spare me?” he asked.

“No. I can give you a quick death,” Bai Yu Jing replied, his face impassive, standing like a storm-clouded sea, exuding oppressive force.

A hint of madness flickered across Ding Wu’s face. “Ha—so you say. If I tell you who’s behind us, do you dare go after him?”

“Speak,” Bai Yu Jing said, his answer crisp and forceful.

Ding Wu took a deep breath. “The one pulling strings is the Pendragon family from Britain. Their representative in Shanghai is Johnson Pendragon, a prominent figure. Do you dare kill him?”

Bai Yu Jing’s expression remained calm. “Where does he live?”

Ding Wu’s heart jolted, shock overtaking his mania. Was this man serious?

He stammered, “Unit 13, Golden Moon Palace—that’s Johnson’s home.”

Bai Yu Jing stomped, breaking Ding Chun’s neck, his gaze sweeping outward as his spiritual pressure cascaded like a hammer. With a bang, Ding Wu’s head exploded, blood and brain matter splattering as Bai Yu Jing vanished from sight.

From the spiritual energy’s reaction, he could judge the man was not lying.

The rest was simple: pay a visit and kill.

Anyone who upset him would not live to see the next day.