Chapter Fourteen: The Mask of Lord Guan

Shen Ye did not rush to invade the French-style villa. After all, night had not yet deepened, and there were still people outside. He waited for more than ten minutes. Suddenly—boom! A thunderclap burst forth! A serpent of lightning probed from the clouds across the sky. Torrential rain followed almost instantly.

Shen Ye was caught in the downpour, and within moments, he was drenched through and through. The sudden rain emptied the nearby roads of people. After about an hour, the group of men in black finished their discussions.

Ma Guosheng and his mistress, Zhang Ning, were sleeping on the fourth floor of the villa. On the third floor lived Ma Guosheng’s trusted lieutenants, Du Wenfeng and Du Wensheng, both well-known in the underworld and nicknamed the Du Brothers—ferocious, skilled in fighting and killing. The second floor housed Fat Pig and Thin Tiger, whose status in Ma Guosheng’s organization was somewhat lower than the Du Brothers. In truth, anyone who could stay in this villa was a cadre of the syndicate. The first floor was reserved for the garage, living room, and kitchen, with no bedrooms.

Seeing that the time was right, Shen Ye prepared to infiltrate. Yet before he moved, he hesitated. There might be surveillance cameras in the villa, and if he entered with his own face exposed, his true identity would be revealed.

Another bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating the earth. In that dazzling instant, Shen Ye noticed, not far from himself, a colorful plastic mask of Lord Guan Yu, seemingly discarded by someone. The syndicate favored worshiping Guan Yu, hoping for his protection. If Shen Ye wore the mask and slaughtered these villains, it would be a perfect irony.

He bent down, picked up the mask, and put it on. It was a bit small, but the strap at the back could be adjusted. After a slight adjustment, it fit just right.

Outside the villa stood a three-meter-high wall. For ordinary people, climbing it would be difficult, but Shen Ye’s physique far surpassed that of most men. He vaulted over the wall with ease and landed lightly. The sound of his landing was masked by the howling wind and rain.

The main door on the first floor was tightly locked—breaking it down was not an option. Shen Ye slipped quietly to the kitchen window, gave it a gentle push, and found it not fully closed. With a silent leap, he entered. The kitchen was about ten square meters, luxuriously decorated. Shen Ye wasted no time; he headed straight for the second floor.

On the second floor dwelled Ma Guosheng’s men, Thin Tiger and Fat Pig. Thin Tiger stood about one meter sixty-five, lean and wiry, but muscular beneath his clothes. He always carried a machete and was an expert in its use.

Fat Pig, about one meter seventy tall, weighed nearly two hundred kilograms, most of it muscle. It was said he had once been a well-behaved student, but after enduring bullying from others, he fell in with the local thugs and became one himself. His most famous battle was when, armed with a machete, he fought four men at once. All four were badly wounded, as was Fat Pig, but in the end, only Fat Pig remained standing.

Thin Tiger and Fat Pig were lounging on the sofa in the second-floor lounge. On the coffee table lay an assortment of cold cuts that Thin Tiger had bought that evening—braised chicken feet, pig’s ears, and more. Dinner unfinished, they made for a midnight snack, accompanied by a crate of Tsingtao beer.

On the fifty-five-inch Kangxin television, the film “Monk Comes Down the Mountain” was playing. Thin Tiger drank his beer, lost in thought, and said, drooling, “Damn, Lin Zhiling is so seductive. Just watching her gets me hard. If I could have her, I’d gladly lose a year or two of my life.”

Fat Pig nodded, “Yeah, those girls at the Motor Factory, even the best at Jin Hao Hui, can’t compare to Lin Zhiling. Damn, I’d love to screw her.”

Locals in N County understood the euphemism: Motor Factory, Motor Factory, “chicken factory”—the red-light district in the south of the city.

Thin Tiger, sipping his beer, mused, “If Lin Zhiling ever came here for an event, and we managed to get her, what do you think would happen?”

“Boss would bury you in cement and sink you in the sea,” Fat Pig scoffed. “Don’t let your dick control your brain. Big stars like her have plenty of powerful backers. We’re just minor players in the local underworld—miles away from someone like Lin Zhiling. Forget it. If you really need relief, tonight I’ll take you to Jin Hao Hui.”

“Let’s go tonight, then! Sounds good!” Thin Tiger perked up, losing interest in the movie. He stood, saying, “Come on, let’s go.”

“Want some blue pills?” Fat Pig grinned.

“Hell no, with my talent, I don’t need those. You keep them for yourself. Watch me—seven rounds in one night!” Thin Tiger laughed. It was November, and though they were on the southern coast, there was a chill in the air. He grabbed a jacket nearby.

As the two reached the door, they saw a man wearing a Guan Yu mask lurking in the darkness. The masked figure stood there eerily. The three stared at each other, wide-eyed.

Clearly, the encounter caught all three off guard.

Suddenly, the masked man lunged, his hand clamping Fat Pig’s throat tightly. Fat Pig struggled to pry the hand away, but was powerless.

Thin Tiger was startled. He stood by the door, unable to reach his machete on the sofa. He threw a punch at the masked man’s temple.

The masked man dodged, shifting his head aside, and delivered a heavy kick to Thin Tiger’s chest.

With a resounding thud, Thin Tiger felt as if he’d been hit by a truck and was sent flying. He crashed into the wall and vomited blood. Sensing danger, he shouted, “Intruder! Someone’s here! Help!”

The masked man glanced at his right hand, where Fat Pig’s face had turned purple—strangled to death. He released his grip, and Fat Pig’s body dropped to the floor with a dull thud, like a heap of rotten meat.

Unhurriedly, the masked man walked to the table, picked up two bamboo chopsticks used for the cold cuts, and approached Thin Tiger, smiling.

Thin Tiger sensed impending doom. He retreated, shouting, “What are you doing? What do you want?”

Before he could react, one of the short bamboo chopsticks, swift as lightning, stabbed directly into his throat.

Thin Tiger tried to dodge.

But the chopstick struck too fast!

With a sharp thrust, it pierced his throat.

Thin Tiger collapsed, powerless.