Chapter Thirty-One: The Situation at the Summit of the Great Z Mountain Range
“There’s only you left!”
On the mountain path, Wang Fan’s eyes were icy cold, radiating an endless chill. Around him, a dozen corpses lay sprawled across the path, each pierced by a butterfly knife. Blood streamed from their bodies, making Wang Fan appear like a mighty general on a battlefield—his presence awe-inspiring and domineering.
Taro Yamaguchi, a senior officer of the Z City Yamaguchi-gumi, stared at Wang Fan in shock. In this moment, he felt that the aura of this cultivator from China was on par with that of his own elder brother in Japan—the leader of the greatest and oldest Yamaguchi-gumi, Yamaguchi King!
...
Wang Fan stepped forward, crossing over the corpses as if he were a war god. The air around him was charged with a powerful, murderous aura. In his eyes glinted a blood-red light, and in the instant that bloodlust flickered, Taro Yamaguchi snapped out of his daze. Seeing the murderous intent in Wang Fan’s gaze, his own face instantly turned anxious as he reached behind his back, attempting to draw something out.
Catching the movement, Wang Fan realized that this gangster might be armed—with a gun.
The thought flashed through his mind, and Wang Fan acted without hesitation. His physical cultivation was only at the peak of the mortal stage; his body was not strong enough to withstand bullets, not even from a handgun, let alone a rifle or a shotgun. If he were shot in a vital spot, he would die instantly—not even the golden elixir of nine apertures could save him.
He was well aware of this. So, without giving Taro Yamaguchi a chance to draw his weapon, Wang Fan’s legs shot forward like lightning. In that instant, he became like a python from the depths of the Amazon, striking at his prey with blinding speed, the air itself seeming to tear apart as he moved.
Within a heartbeat, he was upon Taro Yamaguchi. One hand lashed out, transforming into a palm strike that landed squarely on Taro Yamaguchi’s head. The force behind that blow was monstrous—enough to flatten a vehicle weighing several tons. Struck by such power, Taro Yamaguchi’s consciousness shattered, his bones snapped with a sickening crack, and he collapsed lifelessly to the ground.
At the moment of his death, Taro Yamaguchi’s eyes were wide with disbelief, as if he could not fathom dying in such a way.
And thus, a senior officer of the Yamaguchi-gumi perished!
Wang Fan glanced at the corpse, then crouched down and searched the body, retrieving a dark, modern handgun. He examined the weapon, opened the magazine, and discovered that there was only a single bullet inside. For a moment, the corner of his mouth twitched in faint amusement.
He cast a cold, contemptuous look at Taro Yamaguchi’s corpse and spat. “Aren’t the Yamaguchi-gumi supposed to be some big deal? The top gangster in Japan, and all he brings is a single pistol—and to top it off, there’s only one bullet?”
Filled with disdain, Wang Fan tucked the gun into his pocket and continued on his way, making for the summit of the great Z Mountain range. Behind him, only the corpses remained, staining the once-pristine mountain path a vivid red. Taro Yamaguchi’s body lay face up toward the sky, his consciousness utterly extinguished.
Had he still retained a shred of awareness, Taro Yamaguchi would surely have cursed aloud!
China was not some weak and insignificant nation. On the contrary, it was a world power, and it enforced the strictest possible control over civilian firearms. This single gun, with its solitary bullet, had taken the full effort of the Yamaguchi-gumi to smuggle through customs into Z City!
...
Wang Fan encountered no further foreign organizations or trouble on the rest of his ascent; the path to the summit was clear and unobstructed.
Meanwhile, midway up the mountain, many people stumbled upon the grisly scene. Some cultivators, upon seeing the corpses and blood-stained path, turned pale and immediately retreated. Though they had embarked on the road of cultivation, their minds had not yet adapted; they still thought as ordinary people do.
Most of them turned back. Of those who pressed on, some were driven by a desperate desire for fortune, others had traveled from distant cities and, having spent hours reaching the Z Mountain range, refused to quit even when confronted with death. These persevered, stepping over the bodies to continue their journey.
...
At the summit of the great Z Mountain range stood a vast palace, its ancient, unadorned splendor exuding an aura of primordial antiquity. The atmosphere was thick with the sense of a bygone era.
Many people had already gathered at the mountaintop. Among them was a team of special forces—more than a dozen soldiers from the 113th Special Operations Battalion, stationed outside Z City. Clad in camouflage, steel helmets on their heads and semi-automatic rifles in their hands, they exuded an unmistakable martial spirit.
Aside from the 113th Battalion, there was also the Z City Armed Police unit, another dozen or so men—tall, crew-cut figures with bronzed faces. Though their military bearing was not quite as pronounced as that of the special forces, it was unmistakable nonetheless.
In addition to the police and special forces, there was a military commando squad, as well as other individuals: Zhao Fan, the scion of the Zhao Corporation, accompanied by three bodyguards; several other wealthy young men from Z City, each with multiple guards in tow.
Apart from these privileged sons, there were a few civilian cultivators—plainly dressed, unremarkable in appearance, lacking both weapons and protection, each keeping a wary distance from everyone else.
The three groups kept to themselves, their boundaries clear. Soon, another figure appeared at the summit—a barefoot man, wearing an ordinary hat, his head bowed and his posture hunched.
As he stepped onto the mountaintop, countless eyes turned toward him. Seeing that he was alone, everyone promptly lost interest.
The special forces paid no heed to solitary cultivators, nor did the armed police, nor even the civilian cultivators themselves. After all, the more people there were, the slimmer the odds of seizing fortune for oneself.