Chapter Seventy-Four: Wang Yong's Torment

Black Panther’s guess was right. The reason Ling Tian hadn’t chosen to eliminate his opponents immediately, and instead wasted some time waiting, was to sound out their true nature. Ling Tian had spent too long wandering abroad, and his understanding of gangs was still rooted in his experiences overseas. In this country, for various reasons, large-scale organized gangs were all hidden from sight.

Overseas, gangs existed in another form entirely, often crossing into arms dealers, black market merchants, and mercenary legions, all structured as massive groups or powerful families. In capitalist countries where profit reigns supreme, these formidable entities could even operate openly, active across continents.

By comparison, domestic organizations lacked the same vibrancy and transnational reach as their overseas counterparts.

Thus, Ling Tian needed some time to get a feel for the current landscape.

Now, Ling Tian understood: domestic gangs had already begun aligning themselves with international practices, retreating into the shadows and operating behind the scenes, presenting themselves as corporate entities.

“Now that I’ve figured it out, there’s really no need for you to exist any longer.” Ling Tian seemed to transform entirely; moments ago he’d been lounging lazily, but now a powerful aura of murderous intent surged from him. The force of it alone made Black Panther break out in a cold sweat and struggle to breathe.

Black Panther dared not even make a sound. His eyelids twitched uncontrollably as he thought to himself: When did Cloud Sea City produce such a god of slaughter, with such overwhelming killing intent? Both he and Lone Wolf were hardened men of the underworld, their hands stained with blood, each carrying the weight of a dozen lives. Yet, compared to the murderous aura Ling Tian exuded, they were nothing at all.

Such a formidable, irresistible aura could only belong to someone who had survived countless life-and-death battles, a true warrior who had walked out of mountains of corpses and seas of blood.

Black Panther was flooded with regret; he might as well have checked his fortune before leaving home today, for he’d run into a veritable harbinger of death. If this man were unlucky, he’d probably choke just drinking cold water.

Lone Wolf, ever the reckless one, quickly finished a rough bandage on his wound, stood up, and glared fiercely at Ling Tian. Though he trembled under the weight of that killing aura, his wild nature drove him to attack, determined to fight Ling Tian to the death. “I’ll stake my life against you today!” True to his name, Lone Wolf charged at Ling Tian like a rabid animal.

Ling Tian snorted disdainfully. The game was over. He slowly extended his right hand and gave a gentle push forward, just in time to meet Lone Wolf’s fist. The crisp sound of shattering bone echoed in the room; with a single move, Ling Tian effortlessly destroyed Lone Wolf’s pride—his iron fist.

“There is one upside to being so single-minded: you never overthink things. Of course, that’s also why people like you die the fastest.” Ling Tian flexed his wrist lightly, and Lone Wolf’s entire arm twisted visibly, accompanied by a howl of pain as his left arm suffered a comminuted fracture.

With a casual push, seemingly gentle and effortless, Ling Tian sent the burly Lone Wolf flying like a rag doll. He crashed headlong into the wall and lost consciousness on the spot. Had Ling Tian not been holding back, Lone Wolf would have ended up as little more than a smear of flesh.

With Lone Wolf dispatched, Ling Tian turned to Black Panther, smiling pleasantly. “Now it’s your turn. I hope you can surprise me—instead of being as useless as Lone Wolf.”

Black Panther flipped the table at Ling Tian and quickly retreated, his right hand darting into his jacket to pull out a pistol. He aimed in Ling Tian’s direction, planning to fire wildly. In Black Panther’s mind, no matter how strong Ling Tian was, he was still made of flesh and blood—no one could withstand a bullet.

“Foolish!” Ling Tian roared, moving like a black lightning bolt. In an instant, he shattered the table with a palm strike and surged through the still-airborne debris, appearing in front of Black Panther. Seizing Black Panther’s right hand, he squeezed sharply at the wrist.

A surge of pain shot through Black Panther, his right hand going numb. With a clang, the pistol dropped to the floor.

Ling Tian, having subdued Black Panther, waved his left hand toward the ground, and the pistol flew into his palm as if summoned by an invisible force.

Controlling objects at a distance!

Such a technique could only be performed by a master skilled in controlling inner energy. Relying on his formidable spiritual sense and deft manipulation of true energy, Ling Tian could manage such feats easily at the mid-stage of energy cultivation. Level wasn’t just about raw power; mastery of control was just as crucial.

Black Panther was dumbfounded. What the hell was this? He’d only ever seen moves like that in martial arts dramas, yet here it was, happening right before his eyes.

Ling Tian examined the pistol and commented coolly, “A Type 54 pistol, also called the Black Star. It’s a copy of the Soviet Tokarev, 7.62mm caliber, a muzzle velocity of 420 meters per second, thirty rounds per minute, an effective range of fifty meters. Strong penetration, compact, cheap, easy to carry—but prone to jamming and with a heavy recoil. Once the Black Star was all the rage, but now it’s fallen out of fashion.”

Black Panther was stunned. This Black Star pistol had accompanied him through countless life-and-death situations and earned him much merit, yet even he didn’t know it in such detail. Ling Tian rattled off the specs so effortlessly—was this guy an arms dealer?

“Compared to those foreign guys, you really are poor. I thought at the very least you could produce a Desert Eagle. Instead, you bring out this antique.” Ling Tian tossed the pistol aside with contempt and reached for Black Panther’s throat for a chokehold.

Black Panther was nearly in tears. Was a Desert Eagle so easy to get? With the strict gun control in this country, even money couldn’t buy one. Being able to acquire an old Type 54 from the black market was already a stroke of luck.

At that moment, the opposite door swung open and Wang Yong emerged, his face bruised and battered, followed by two European beauties.

“Damn it, these two dames insisted on playing S&M. I thought, as an old hand in the art of love, I’d have no trouble, but I never expected to be outplayed. Damn!” Wang Yong complained bitterly. What began as him playing with two foreign women had ended with him nearly being played to death. They were the real deal—candles, whips, chains, all the S&M toys you could imagine. Even Wang Yong, who fancied himself a tough guy, couldn’t take it. In the end, the two unsatisfied foreign women started taking out their frustration on Wang Yong’s face.

Ling Tian calmly sealed Black Panther’s acupoints, then turned to Wang Yong with a teasing smile. “You’ve disgraced Chinese men everywhere. Look at you—you’re lucky to have survived.”

“Now that things have come this far, I don’t think there’s any need for pretense,” Ling Tian said, his eyes glinting with amusement as he glanced at the two foreign women and reached out to pull Wang Yong over.