My teacher is Bruce Lee, who dominated Hollywood.

Chapter 180 is absolutely terrible!

"Thinking you're standing in the light, only to be swallowed by endless darkness?" Stallone scratched his head. "That doesn't sound like the kind of story Hollywood would like. No heroes? No redemption?"

Qin Han released his hand from the manuscript, did not refute Stallone's statement, picked up the manuscript he had just printed, and began to tell the story of "Chinatown": "The protagonist of the story is called Jack Gittis, a private detective who makes a living by catching extramarital affairs and taking photos of cheating."

"He was shrewd, worldly-wise, dressed in a fine suit, and believed he could see through all the dirty deals in Los Angeles."

His gaze passed over Stallone's shoulder, as if piercing through the hotel walls, looking towards the distant, perpetually sun-drenched city of desire.

"One day, a woman who claimed to be the wife of Hollis, the chief engineer of the Water Authority, hired him to investigate her husband's extramarital affair."

"Jack easily took photos of Hollis with a young girl and sold them to the newspaper, making a quick and easy fortune."

"But soon, the real Mrs. Hollis—Aveline—came to his door. Jack then realized that he had been used and made a scapegoat in a political assassination."

"Because a few days later, Hollis, the chief engineer who had vehemently opposed the construction of the new dam, was found drowned in a dried-up reservoir."

Stallone stopped drinking his beer. As a screenwriter who had just written "Rocky," he had already sensed the suspense and tension hidden in the opening.

"This is a conspiracy," Stallone said in a low voice. "Who killed him?"

"The creator of Los Angeles." Qin Han interlaced his fingers, resting them on his knees, and leaned back comfortably in his recliner. "Aveline's father, Noah Cross. An old-school tycoon with immense wealth who controlled the lifeline of this city."

"As Jack delves deeper into the mystery, he discovers that Los Angeles is experiencing a man-made drought."

"Cross colluded with politicians and the water authority to secretly dump the city's water into the sea, creating panic, while hiring thugs to intimidate suburban farmers and force them to buy their arid land at low prices."

"Once the new dam is built, the water will be diverted to the cheaply acquired land, and Cross's wealth will skyrocket. Hollis was murdered because he discovered this secret."

Upon hearing this, Stallone gripped the glass bottle tightly, his breathing becoming heavy.

He worked his way up in the Philadelphia underclass and hated the powerful and privileged who exploited the lower classes.

"Then expose him! Jack must have evidence, right? Send that old bastard to jail!" Stallone's voice carried an urgency he himself didn't realize.

Qin Han looked at the man in front of him, who exuded the same "Rocky"-esque passion, and gently shook his head: "In your script, Rocky would win this case. But in this story, Jack uncovers not only the city's water corruption, but also a disgusting abyss of family ethics."

"The young girl that Jack photographed with Hollis was actually Evelyn's daughter."

"At the same time, she is also Evelyn's sister. She is the bastard child born from the rape of his own daughter, Evelyn, by that hypocritical tycoon, Noah Cross."

"Bang!" Stallone slammed the beer bottle in his hand onto the bedside table, splashing the golden liquid onto the carpet.

He suddenly stood up, his eyes wide like copper bells, and the muscles in his face twitched slightly from nausea.

"Are you kidding me?!" His chest heaved violently, as if he couldn't breathe. "This kind of scenario—this is a nightmare that challenges the limits of humanity!"

"The ending of a nightmare is often more despairing than the process." Qin Han didn't look at the beer spilled all over the ground, and continued to tell the ending in his calm tone.

"To protect her daughter from falling into the clutches of that monstrous father, Evelyn prepares to flee Los Angeles with her. Jack tries to help them, believing he has evidence and that the police will deliver justice."

"In the dead of night in Chinatown, all the forces converged. Jack handed the evidence to the police, accusing Cross. But the police didn't even look at the evidence; they had already been bribed by Cross. In front of the police, Cross tried to forcibly take the girl away."

"In desperation, Evelyn pulled out a gun and wounded Cross, then drove off recklessly with her daughter. Police drew their guns and pulled the trigger in the dark streets."

Qin Han's gaze finally met Stallone's, his eyes filled with a suffocating sense of oppression: "The gunfire stopped. Jack walked over. He saw Evelyn slumped over the steering wheel, a bullet piercing her left eye. The car horn blared under the weight of the body."

"And that old demon Cross, standing to the side, covered the screaming girl's eyes with his hands and dragged her into his arms."

"Justice did not prevail. The villains embraced their spoils. Jack could only stand there dumbfounded beside the pool of blood. His colleague came over, patted him on the shoulder, and said, 'Come on, Jack. This is Chinatown.'"

The room fell into a deathly silence, with only the monotonous sound of the radiator echoing.

Five minutes passed before he raised his head again, his eyes, which had shone brightly that morning, now filled with incomprehension and resistance.

"Why?" Stallone's voice was hoarse from being dry. "Qin, you just gave me a Rocky who punched fate, why do you turn around and write a story that shatters all hope?"

"What is the purpose of this nauseating sense of despair that makes one want to vomit after watching it?"

Qin Han stood up, walked to the window, and pulled open the heavy blackout curtains.

The street scene of Philadelphia at night comes into view, with towering skyscrapers flashing neon lights in the distance, while in the shadows at their feet are dirty alleys and homeless people huddled in cardboard boxes.

"Slay, do you know how Los Angeles transformed from a barren desert into the dazzling entertainment capital it is today?"

"It's not about Hollywood film reels, nor about pretty faces surfing in the sun. It's about blood, deception, and the deprivation of others' right to live."

"A hundred years ago, capitalists used violence and bribery to bribe the government, forcibly changing the course of the river and diverting the water into their own territory."

"Writing this script is like peeling an onion, revealing the social mechanisms that Americans are so proud of, layer by layer, to the whole world."

Qin Han turned around, his back to the night outside the window: "The core message I want to convey is only one thing—"

'

"Every drop of blood flowing from the pores of capitalism is filthy. Faced with this corrupt power structure, individual resistance is like a mantis trying to stop a chariot. This system is utterly rotten!"

Stallone then realized what kind of heart was beating in the chest of this young Asian boss who always had a gentle smile.

"Go and rest, Sly." Qin Han walked back to the table and put the manuscript of "Chinatown" into his briefcase. "The location shooting for 'Rocky' is all finished. Tomorrow we're flying back to Los Angeles, and the last few ring scenes in the studio are waiting for you. Save all your energy for post-production."

Three days later, the Rocky crew reached the final climax at Studio 14 of Warner Bros. Studios.

The stuffy studio was decorated to resemble the Philadelphia Gymnasium.

Amidst the deafening roars of hundreds of extras, Rocky, played by Sylvester Stallone, and Apollo, played by a black actor, completed their final fifteen rounds of bloody slaughter in the ring.

The moment the director yelled "Cut! That's it!", the entire crew erupted in cheers that seemed to lift the roof off.

Stallone almost collapsed against the fence, while Renée Russo rushed onto the ring and hugged the man covered in blood tightly, tears streaming down her face.

This is Adrian in the movie, and also Renee, who was completely moved by the story off-screen.

Everyone knew that they had created a masterpiece that would surely be remembered in film history!

The film has officially entered the post-production editing stage, and Qin Han is finally able to free up some time for it.

At Los Angeles International Airport, the deafening roar of aircraft engines echoed everywhere.

Bruce Lee walked at the front, wearing a black Tang suit jacket, his steps were brisk, and he exuded a spirited aura.

Sharpness.

But the sight of Bruno, the captain of Han's Security Team, and four elite veterans behind Bruce Lee was rather alarming.

Although they had changed into clean casual clothes, Bruno's eyes were bloodshot, and there was a band-aid on his left eyebrow.

"Boss." Bruno walked quickly to Qin Han's side, his tone filled with exhaustion, "This trip to Hong Kong was a complete mess. We haven't even had a decent night's sleep in the last few days."

He pinched the bridge of his nose: "Those Japanese scum are like an overpopulation of rats in the sewers. The Qinglan Society, those right-wing lunatics, are panicking; they've sent three waves of assassins from the Yamaguchi-gumi to infiltrate Kowloon."

"The boxing and martial arts gyms that Mr. Li went to were all mixed up. We had hand-to-hand combat with the first group of assassins in the alleys of Sham Shui Po, and on the ferry, we threw two bastards who tried to draw their guns directly into Victoria Harbour."

"If Andrew hadn't made connections with customs beforehand, none of us would have been able to board the plane unscathed with so many contraband items."

"Good job, Bruno. I'll have Michael pay double the bill for the brothers." Qin Han patted the veteran's strong shoulder. "Back in Los Angeles, it'll all be over. Under the Pentagon's nose, they wouldn't dare mess around even if they had ten lives."

Bruno exhaled a breath of stale air and led his men to retreat to the side.

Bruce Lee strode up to Qin Han, ripped off his sunglasses, and said, "Han, you've really worked hard, brothers. Make sure they get a good vacation when they get back!"

"This trip has been incredibly fruitful!" Bruce Lee slapped Qin Han's arm hard. "I've thoroughly investigated all the different styles of martial arts in Southeast Asia. The magic wands of the Philippines, the ancient Muay Thai of Thailand, and the deadly moves of Kyokushin Karate from Japan—I've incorporated them all into the martial arts manual for 'Game of Death'!"

He pulled a thick roll of storyboard manuscript from his briefcase and waved it in front of Qin Han: "The framework of the script is completely complete. This isn't just a movie; it's my answer to the global martial arts community. Now, it's just one step away from completion!"

Qin Han looked at the martial arts grandmaster in front of him, who had escaped the shadow of his previous life's death, and a genuine smile appeared on his lips.

He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, held two beautifully printed pieces of cardboard between two fingers, and handed them to Bruce Lee.

"Then let's take that final shot." Qin Han's voice carried a hint of calm amusement. "Let's go, Master. Tonight, we're going to watch the football match."

Bruce Lee took the cardboard and glanced at it.

Those were VIP front-row tickets for Game 5 of the NBA Finals, between the Los Angeles Lakers and the New York Knicks.

Under the cover of night, the Inglewood Great Western Forum arena resembles a giant spaceship anchored in a sea of ​​light.

The deafening roar nearly lifted the dome of the arena. Qin Han and Li Xiaolong sat in the front row VIP seats right next to the Lakers' bench.

This was the meat grinder era of the 1970s NBA, where there were no flashy three-point performances, and every point was a fierce collision of muscles and bones.

Willis Reed of the New York Knicks was like a bulldozer in the paint, while Walt Frazier on the perimeter was like a ghost constantly tearing apart the Lakers' defense.

But all eyes in the arena were focused on the giant wearing the Lakers' number 13 jersey—Wilt Chamberlain.

This "basketball emperor," who once scored 100 points in a single game, is now 36 years old.

Sweat poured down his bald head like a waterfall, his knees were wrapped in thick ice packs, and every time he jumped to grab a rebound, he would let out a wheezing sound like a bellows.

"His lower body is already unstable." Bruce Lee crossed his arms. "His declining physical strength has led to a loss of core strength, and this game is probably in jeopardy."

Qin Han, holding a paper cup of cola, watched the score gap widen on the scoreboard and softly replied, "Time is the greatest enemy of all competitive sports, Master. He has already become the swan song of an era."

With a long whistle from the referee, the red light came on.

The scoreboard closed at 93-102, with the Los Angeles Lakers losing the NBA Finals 1-4 at home.

The Knicks players embraced each other wildly to celebrate their championship victory, while Chamberlain stood alone near the free-throw line, hands on his knees, panting heavily.

He looked up, glanced around the arena that had witnessed his countless glories, then pulled off the towel around his neck and staggered toward the players' tunnel.

The 17,000 fans in the stadium erupted in thunderous applause.

No one booed; everyone stood up because they knew that this monster who had dominated the basketball world for over a decade had just played the last game of his professional career.

After the game, Chamberlain calmly announced his retirement to the throngs of media outside the locker room.

"Let's go, Master. The old king has fallen; it's time to go see our new king."

Bruce Lee stood up and followed Qin Han against the flow of people leaving the stadium, heading towards the VIP box stands on the second floor.

There was no need to search for him at all, because the 2.18-meter-tall giant, even just standing quietly by the railing, was like an unmissable black iron tower.

He was wearing a gray turtleneck sweater with a long, dark trench coat over it, and a pair of heavy goggles perched on his nose. He was looking down at the empty stadium below, feeling a pang of sadness at the retirement of a great center.

The giant sighed, turned around, and upon seeing the familiar figure before him, cried out in delight, "Master!"

This is none other than Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, the superstar who has just had a great performance in the league and will become a legend on the NBA's all-time scoring list.

This usually stern giant now wore an extremely bright and awe-inspiring smile.

Like a child seeing his idol, he pushed aside the security guards blocking his way and strode quickly toward Bruce Lee.

"Master, you're back from Hong Kong?!"

"I saw you on TV the other day and I've been thinking about when to visit you. I tried the footwork you taught me last time when I was playing one-on-one in the paint, it was incredible!"

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