Chapter Thirty-Two: A Ruthless Beating!

If one were to look down from above at North Fifth Ring Middle Road in Hanjing City, they would see that, on this early summer day in 2030, a certain stretch of this broad, multi-kilometer urban expressway on the city’s outskirts had descended into utter chaos.

It began with a hulking “water cannon truck” that, for reasons unknown, appeared on the main road in the clear weather, spraying water and mist, causing traffic to abruptly slow down along the entire section. Then, a Wuling off-road vehicle that had been driving normally suddenly accelerated recklessly, squeezing past the water cannon truck by the guardrail like a wild horse breaking free of its reins. It rampaged forward, colliding violently again and again with countless cars that had just managed to bypass the water truck and were about to pick up speed.

Next came a battered Silver Dragon sedan, which astonishingly charged forward in the same fashion, tailing the Wuling off-roader closely. As countless drivers watched, their jaws slack and eyes bulging in disbelief, this domestically made Silver Dragon, ravaged by years of abuse, let out a hoarse, guttural roar—like a man on the verge of his last stand—erupting with a force that seemed impossible, its battered frame trembling as it surged forward.

But before the stunned onlookers could even react, the decrepit sedan accelerated madly and crashed hard into the rear of the Wuling off-roader! And that wasn’t the end of it—after the rear-end collision, the Silver Dragon showed no mercy, slamming into the side of the Wuling for a second, even more brutal attack.

What kind of grudge could this be? What had the people inside that off-roader done?

On a road designed with the highest standards to alleviate congestion in Hanjing, the world’s largest city, the Fifth Ring had only ever been truly free-flowing in its earliest days. Yet, thanks to modern management, there had never been such a vicious, intentional traffic collision here.

For most Hanjing residents, accustomed to daily gridlock in the world’s “top jammed” city and cursing the damned traffic, it was almost unheard of to witness a real-life car chase or a violent crash unfold before their eyes. For them, a minor fender-bender or rear-end collision was the limit of what “car accident” could mean. The kind of thunderous, metal-rending crashes, flying car parts, roaring engines, and even burning vehicles—they’d only ever seen that in the most top-tier blockbusters from the Minia Federation.

Was this a street race? Or a scene from a cop movie?

As chain collisions erupted and the Fifth Ring descended into chaos, many people, trembling, reached for their phones to call the police. But before they could even dial the first number, their fingers froze over the number pad, eyes wide as saucers, mouths agape, speechless with shock.

“Holy shit!”

Seconds later, when their voices returned, nearly everyone cried out in unison.

They saw the Silver Dragon, its hood already flapping open, roar again after shoving aside the Wuling. In the next instant, this thoroughly battered, cheap sedan traced a bizarre arc across the tarmac, swooping to the Wuling’s left front. Its battered nose swung violently, like a whirlwind of fire, and slammed into the off-roader’s front with relentless, bone-crunching force.

Boom!

As the two vehicles collided head-on, a deafening crash exploded, shattering eardrums all around.

With a shrill, grinding screech, the Wuling was sent skidding sideways for over a dozen meters, crashing hard into the roadside barrier. It finally came to a stop, its left front and side crumpled and scarred, unable to move another inch.

With a bang, several airbags exploded inside the Silver Dragon, slamming into Lei Dong’s body. The car, pushed past its limits by the repeated, extreme impacts against a vehicle much heavier than itself, finally gave out. Twin plumes of white steam billowed from the engine, which sputtered and died, leaving the car motionless where it lay.

As eyes grew ever wider, they saw, inside the battered Wuling, a big, high-nosed, deep-eyed man whose head had bounced off the steering wheel several times. He wore a silent, savage grin, as the muzzle of a black gun slowly emerged through the shattered window, pointing directly at the Silver Dragon.

As cries of alarm rose, a furious shout burst from the Silver Dragon. Bang! The sedan’s mangled door was kicked clean off, flying a dozen meters before crashing to the ground. A slender black shape shot out, slicing through the reinforced, widened stainless steel door of the Wuling with all the resistance of a knife through tofu, leaving behind a smooth hole several centimeters in diameter.

A short, wrenching scream rang out from inside, and a spray of blood burst forth with shocking force, instantly staining the pavement outside the Wuling’s door a vivid red.

A figure followed the black blur in a flash, a streak of motion pouncing beside the off-roader. His right hand wrenched the wide door clean off, flinging it a dozen meters to the ground with a thunderous crash.

As the door landed, the gray-clad figure’s right hand darted into the vehicle, hauling out the high-nosed, deep-eyed man in a single motion. The man arced through the air, smashing hard into the ground, as a small object tumbled out of the open car door with a metallic clang—a gear lever.

Could it be that the thing which had just punched through the reinforced car door, moving so fast it was only a blur, was this very gear lever? How much strength would it take to rip a gear lever from the transmission and hurl it with armor-piercing force, to pierce a car door and impale a man’s palm?

In that moment, the crowd’s minds went blank.

The man, sprawled on the ground, his right palm skewered by the gear lever, ignored his wound completely. He struggled upright, using his trembling left hand to reach inside his jacket. Beneath the heavy fabric, his open shirt revealed two rows of cylindrical objects, and above them, a small square box with red numbers flashing—“60”—bright and dim.

“Bomb!” someone screamed in terror. Before the cry had even faded, pandemonium erupted.

Even without military knowledge or any sense of explosives’ power, seeing a man strapped head to toe with bombs made it clear—if that trembling hand so much as pressed a button on that square box, the entire bridge would be obliterated in moments. None of the surrounding cars would have the slightest chance of escape.

Panic and terror swept the crowd, and with it, overwhelming despair. Add to that a touch of herd mentality, and the scene plunged instantly into uncontrollable chaos: some gunned their engines, some jumped from immobilized vehicles and ran for their lives, others screamed for wives and children—shouts, tears, and wild motions tangled together in a frenzy.

But just as engines roared but hadn’t yet started forward, just as those leaping from cars hadn’t yet taken their first step, just as cries were rising from throats, a figure had already hurtled toward the would-be bomber, and a fist—like white jade, yet gleaming with a metallic sheen—smashed into the man’s face.

Bang!

No one knew what that fist was made of, nor could anyone imagine the terrifying power behind it. They only saw that, the instant it struck, the man flew backward, his head snapping up as if struck by a colossal club. His skull caved in like a smashed watermelon, teeth spraying from his gaping mouth, blood gushing from his eyes, nose, and mouth, gleaming a strange red in the sunlight.

Just minutes before, Aym Nawal could never have imagined that the attack he’d planned, led, and even participated in personally would end so swiftly and so miserably.

He’d endured countless hardships to secure the explosives, boarded the heavily modified Wuling provided by his powerful backers, and waited eagerly for the thunderous explosion in that iconic building—eager to see the blood of those accursed infidels, to watch them flee in terror and despair, to see the hated republic that had slaughtered his fighters and crushed his “jihad” hopes, disgraced before the world, and to earn ever more support from his shadowy patrons and nations.

But everything had gone awry just minutes ago. First, he noticed a police signal; then a madman inexplicably rammed his car. He could have shot the man, but before his finger even reached the trigger, a gear lever came flying from nowhere, piercing the car door and his hand. Then a hand he couldn’t see had wrenched him out of the vehicle.

He’d intended, even if the original plan failed, to at least cause some destruction on the bridge. But just as he gritted his teeth and reached for the detonator, a monstrous fist slammed into his face like a speeding train, sending him flying.

Still airborne, Aym Nawal felt the weight lift from his body as the explosives strapped to him were ripped away. Agonizing pain shot up from his groin as his body curled up like a shrimp. Before he could even scream, a hand chopped down hard on his carotid artery, and darkness swallowed him as he lost consciousness.

Just before his mind faded entirely, he vaguely heard the young man—whose face he’d never truly seen—spit viciously: “Pah! Bastard, you want to mess with me…”