‌Chapter 28 I Don’t Bluff, I Kill

His wallet was empty. The night's revelry had cost over a thousand yuan. Though Ding Xiang had offered to comp the tab, Ye Chenghuan insisted on paying. Now, with his last fifty yuan handed to a taxi driver, he trudged home under a starless sky.

Midnight draped the city in silver moonlight, its chill deepened by a sudden downpour. Ye ducked beneath the awning of a shuttered convenience store, lighting a cigarette. The ember pulsed like a dying star.

Footsteps sloshed through a nearby alley.

A woman stumbled into the murk—her crimson evening gown torn, raindrops failing to wash the blood from gashes along her arms. The soaked fabric clung to curves that could tempt saints, one pale thigh gleaming through a slit in the ruined dress. A wounded lamb in the storm.

Ding Xiang.

Behind her, a pack of men emerged, machetes glinting. Their leader—a bear of a man with chest hair sprouting from a leather vest, a golden skull pendant at his throat—leveled a pistol. In Longdu, where firearms were rarer than honesty, this marked him as no ordinary thug.

"Purple Butterfly!" His voice sawed through the rain. "Run all you want!"

Ding Xiang halted. Raindrops traced the defiant arch of her neck. When she turned, her laughter cut the night—a blade wrapped in silk. "Qinghong Gang stoops to ambushes now? How… modern."

The leader spat. "Surrender or lose your head. Though a pretty neck like yours…" He licked rainwater from his lips. "...deserves better."

A cigarette tip flared in the shadows. "Busy night, gentlemen?"

Every head swiveled. Ye leaned against the storefront, smoke curling from his lips.

Ding Xiang's breath hitched. "You—"

He pulled her close, his whisper warm against her ear. "Need a hand?"

"Run, fool," she hissed. "This isn't your—"

Ye stepped into the deluge. Rain plastered his hair as he spread his arms. "Bullying women? Pathetic."

The leader's pistol barked. A round whizzed past Ye's ear.

He kept walking.

Three more shots. Three misses.

Ye's hand shot out—a viper strike. The leader's throat crumpled under his grip, 180 pounds of muscle lifted like a ragdoll.

"Bullets bore me," Ye murmured. "But this…"

A wet crunch. The man's larynx came away in Ye's fist. The corpse hit a puddle, neck gaping like a second mouth.

Ding Xiang retched. She'd seen death—delivered it herself—but never like this. Never with hands that tore flesh like paper.

Chaos erupted. Machetes rose in trembling hands.

Ye's smile died. His face became a mask carved from arctic stone. Raindrops froze midair, it seemed, under that gaze.

"Next?"

The first attacker swung. Ye sidestepped, palm slamming the man's elbow backward. Bone jutted through skin. A scream drowned in thunder.

Second man: a downward chop. Ye caught the wrist, twisted. The machete clattered as its owner's arm spiraled like a corkscrew.

Third, fourth—bodies fell like marionettes with cut strings. A knee shattered here, a collarbone imploded there. The alley became a butcher's tableau, rain flushing pink into gutters.

When stillness returned, Ye stood amidst the wreckage. He plucked a cigarette from behind Ding Xiang's ear—dry, somehow—and lit it with a snap of his fingers.

"Qinghong will send more," she whispered.

He exhaled smoke that swirled into dragon shapes. "Let them."

Thunder growled. Somewhere, a neon sign flickered the bar's name: Euphoria.

The storm raged on.