Zhang Yi glanced back after riding over the man. Even with the snow cushioning the impact, the 400-kg weight of the bike had slammed him hard — he coughed blood into his gloved hand. He put a bullet through the crushed man's head to end the suffering, then resumed the chase with slow, deliberate calm.
He needed to know where those attackers came from. Anyone who tried to kill him would pay — and pay dearly.
The fleeing men ran straight for Building 21, the Mad Wolf Gang's turf.
On the seventh floor, Wang Qiang and his deputy Xiao Lu watched in horror. They'd spent days plotting the ambush: mapped Zhang Yi's routes, timed his departures, sent their best ten men to take him out. They'd assumed the plan was foolproof. They had never expected him to be this deadly, or that he'd carry so much ammunition.
Now every man they'd sent lay dead, and Zhang Yi was coming.
"We're screwed!" Wang Qiang snapped. "Get everyone to the entrance. Set traps. Watch for his rifle!"
Xiao Lu forced a grin. "Relax. The stairwells are booby-trapped. If he's dumb enough to come in, we'll finish him."
Both men stepped back from the window and did not show their faces. They knew about snipers and rifles; showing themselves now felt like asking for a target. The gang crowded into stairwells, hands white on improvised weapons, praying Zhang Yi wouldn't break in.
Outside, Zhang Yi was methodical. He picked off the runners one by one until only one man remained, sprinting for Building 21's entrance. The roar of the motorcycle closed in on him.
Knowing the building was full of traps, Zhang Yi did something unexpected: he sheathed the pistol and drew a Damascus-steel hunting knife — razor sharp and used only for game. There was a brutal poetry in finishing a man like that.
The blade slid across the man's neck with a wet, efficient cut. Blood sprayed; the man's head flew and landed in the snow.
Inside Building 21, every head turned white. Ten men they'd sent were dead.
Zhang Yi parked, picked up the severed head, and hurled it through a fourth-floor window. It tumbled across the floor, glass clicking, its empty stare a clean, obscene message.
Silence fell like a shroud. The Mad Wolf Gang froze, paralyzed by the implied threat: if he came in with his weapons, it would be slaughter.
But Zhang Yi did not go inside. He knew better than to step blind into a web of traps. A smart man didn't stand under a collapsing roof. He preferred control — and control had other, quieter methods.
The gunfire had already roused the whole community. Uncle You and Li Bin, on guard duty, came running with weapons to back Zhang Yi.
"What happened? Why are you fighting?" Uncle You demanded.
Zhang Yi's voice was flat. "They ambushed me. I killed them all."
Ten bodies lay across the snow from the gate to Building 21 — a brutal, unmistakable line. Blood darkened the drift; neighbors peered from windows, faces pale.
Uncle You's fury exploded. "Those cowards! How dare they!" He turned to the men behind him. "If Zhang Yi goes, our food goes with him. We all die."
The gravity of the situation settled over the crowd. They blanched.
Zhang Yi waved them forward. "Bring everyone here."
They obeyed.
He scanned the assembled faces — fear, greed, calculation. He had no illusions: someone inside Building 25 had leaked his schedule. He had never left at a fixed time for exactly this reason. No one could have set an ambush in freezing conditions unless someone had tipped them off.
He felt no rage, only a cold, clinical clarity. These neighbors could be loyal — until they had an incentive to betray him. Given enough reward, they would turn on him without a second thought. His problem wasn't revenge; it was leverage.
He would treat them all the same.
A direct assault on Building 21 would cost lives. He preferred to let others bleed for him. He didn't care who died — only that his authority was reinforced.
He addressed the crowd with an icy calm. "Building 21 tried to kill me. If I die, you all die with me. Do you understand?"
Shouts answered him. "They tried to kill you! Wipe them out!"
"Uncle You, you're with me. The rest follow Li Chengbin. We attack Building 21."
"For every man you kill, ten portions of food," Zhang Yi added.
Eyes lit at the reward. Many who'd missed the first fight now smelled opportunity.
But a voice rose — cautious, practical. Guo Dahai, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline, spoke up. "Going now is a bad idea. They're ready. We should wait for night and sneak in."
He pointed to Uncle You. "And Uncle You is our strongest. He should stay to guard the building."
Murmurs agreed. "A night ambush would be safer."
"Don't let anger cloud your judgment," another warned.
Zhang Yi looked at Guo Dahai and the others. He weighed the risk, the hunger in their faces, the brittle hope of rewards. Outside, the day was bright with snow — perfect visibility for a shooter. Night would bring cover and different dangers.
For now, he let the debate simmer. The knives had been drawn; the rules of survival had been rewritten in blood. The question wasn't whether they would fight — it was when and on whose orders.