Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Sudden Rise of Killing Intent, A Massacre Unleashed

What is the Yamaguchi-gumi? It is the foremost criminal syndicate in Japan, a group that stands at the pinnacle of the underworld. And the younger brother of this leading organization, the cadre Yamaguchi Taro, heads the Z City branch in China. Within the country, Yamaguchi Taro’s conduct is nothing short of domineering.

He is determined to claim this mountain path, refusing passage to anyone else, ensuring that no one behind him can overtake or precede him.

……

The chief bodyguard Matsushita Kazuo, following Yamaguchi Taro’s earlier instructions, uttered a sentence: “You probably don’t know who our master is. He is the son of the Yamaguchi-gumi boss in Japan, and also the branch chief of Z City in China. Stay obediently behind us! Once we’ve crossed this road, you may proceed.”

His words brimmed with arrogance, an utter disregard for ordinary Chinese people. After speaking, the bald-headed Matsushita spat contemptuously in Wang Fan’s direction, a gesture of disdain.

A crowd swaggered up the path, speaking in broken Chinese: “This is what ordinary Chinese are like—bullying the weak, fearing the strong, lacking any backbone.”

“Exactly, Mr. Matsushita is right. That’s what Chinese people are like, no backbone at all, pure weaklings.”

The Yamaguchi-gumi men chuckled amongst themselves, oblivious to the fact that behind them, someone’s expression had darkened to the point of pitch-black.

Behind them, Wang Fan’s face was now as grim as a storm-filled sky, clouds of fury swirling across his countenance. Since arriving in this world, never had anyone spat at him, let alone insulted him in words. Moreover, these men were not even locals. A terrifying killing intent sprouted in Wang Fan’s heart.

Wang Fan’s face was set, and his gaze toward the scores of Yamaguchi-gumi men ahead grew icy cold, sharp as the biting winds of winter, as murderous as the eyes of a soldier on a battlefield.

In Wang Fan’s eyes, those men were already no different from corpses.

Within the sea of suffering in Wang Fan’s body, ceaseless energy surged and churned, roaring like a storm-tossed ocean, brimming with explosive violence. The energy seemed to resonate with the humiliation Wang Fan felt, growing ever more turbulent.

The sea of suffering’s essence flooded through Wang Fan, strengthening his body, and the golden pill in his heart’s nine apertures began to release even more medicinal power.

In the next instant, Wang Fan unleashed the Chthonic Assassination Art, channeling the essence into his fingertips. His nails sharpened instantly, as keen as unsheathed swords capable of killing in a flash. Wang Fan stepped forward, springing out like a hunting leopard on the African savanna, leaving a phantom behind as he closed the distance to the Yamaguchi-gumi bodyguards in mere strides.

A muscular bodyguard was the first to be approached. At that moment, he felt a gust of force sweep over him; every hair on his body stood on end, enveloped by a sense of mortal danger, as if a demon from hell lurked behind him. He spun around, ready to use Japanese martial arts to counter his foe.

But as he turned, Wang Fan’s arm lifted, five fingers extended, and with a gentle swipe across his throat, the windpipe was severed in an instant.

The bodyguard, muscles bulging, clutched his neck in a futile attempt to staunch the torrent of blood. Wang Fan’s swipe had sliced not only his windpipe but also the major artery, causing blood to gush forth. In the man’s eyes was endless terror—and disbelief that he had been dispatched so easily, so simply!

Before the burly bodyguard’s life slipped away, Wang Fan, wrathful as a god of slaughter, continued his merciless assault, harvesting one defenseless Yamaguchi-gumi bodyguard after another.

Wang Fan’s hands moved like serpents and dragons, swift and forceful, each strike felling another guard.

In mere three seconds, the sound of the first bodyguard hitting the ground echoed out, abrupt amid the mountain path of the Great Z Range. Even as more than a dozen bodyguards turned, and as Yamaguchi Taro, immersed in a Chinese mobile game, was pulled out of his reverie, he slowly turned his head.

The sight that greeted the dozen men shocked them to their core—expressions of disbelief plastered on their faces.

What they saw was simple: a heap of bodyguards sprawled on the ground, all killed by throat-slitting. And standing among them was a man whose fingernails bore traces of skin and drops of bright red blood.

Once the Yamaguchi-gumi men recovered from their shock, they realized that nearly half their number had been slain by Wang Fan, all single-handedly.

“Cultivator!” Matsushita Kazuo’s lips trembled as he pointed at Wang Fan, demanding answers.

“Correct—a Chinese cultivator,” Wang Fan replied, stepping forward. The movement radiated boundless might, like a mountain king tiger’s stride, exuding infinite power and murderous intent.

Under this overwhelming aura, Matsushita Kazuo and the remaining bodyguards all retreated a step.

“Idiots! Don’t be cowed—this Chinese is strong, but only his ambush skills are impressive. Now it’s a head-on fight; attack together and you can take him down!” Yamaguchi Taro barked angrily.

At his words, the bodyguards’ faces flushed with shame at having been intimidated by a single Chinese cultivator. The cultivator was indeed formidable, having slain over a dozen of their own, but through surprise attacks alone. In direct combat, he was only one man—no one defies fate alone!

The remaining bodyguards and Matsushita Kazuo reached into their pockets, producing butterfly knives. As they handled the knives, blades danced in their hands with practiced skill.

Under the sunlight, the blade edges flashed with cold light, attesting to their razor sharpness. But Wang Fan showed no fear; his expression remained unchanged, his eyes as cold as before, regarding the dozen Yamaguchi-gumi men as if they were already dead.