Courtyard House: First, kill the hypocrites, leave none alive.

Princess Jin, third-floor office.

The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and blood, mixed with the stench of sweat and dust, wafting up from downstairs, so strong it was almost overwhelming.

The lobby downstairs was riddled with bullet holes, the bar was smashed, the sofas were blown off, and there were still bloodstains on the floor that hadn't been wiped clean.

More than twenty people died, all of them from the Nanyue Special Forces, all of whom were recruited by Snake King Can.

Chen Feng was still wearing that tactical jacket, which was stained with gray and dark red blood.

The face paint hadn't been washed off, streaked with black and green, which contrasted sharply with his deep, serene eyes, making him look like a sculpture emerging from the ruins of a battlefield.

He leaned back in his chair, his face expressionless, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The door was pushed open, and the skinny monkey walked in.

He changed into clean clothes: a black short-sleeved shirt, black trousers, and cloth shoes.

His hair had been washed, but it was still wet and stuck to his scalp. The exhaustion on his face was undeniable; his eyes were sunken, his lips were dry, and there was a bloodstain on his forehead that hadn't been wiped clean—not his, but someone else's.

He stopped in front of Chen Feng and spoke in a hoarse voice, "Brother Da Gang, we found out. It was Snake King Can who was behind it all. He hired those people; they were from the Nanyue Special Forces. He spent a lot of money on them."

Chen Feng's eyes twitched slightly, just for a moment.

He looked at the ceiling, at Snake King Can—that ungodly snake.

"Anything else?"

Skinny Monkey said, "Snake King Can ran away. He ran away before the shooting last night. He's not at his place, nor at any of his territories. Chicken and Duck are also gone. Nobody knows where they went."

Chen Feng leaned back in his chair and tapped his knees lightly with his fingers.

They ran away—the monk may run away, but the temple can't.

He sat up straight, looked at the skinny monkey, and said in a calm voice as if he were chatting casually: "Go and tie up Snake King Can, and send him to those snake people he trafficked. Tell them they can do whatever they want with him."

The skinny monkey's eyes lit up.

Those people—those persecuted by Snake King Can—some had their families sold to Southeast Asia, their fates unknown; some had been sold themselves, escaped only to be captured again; some had lost their wives and children, living alone, a life worse than death.

Chen Feng stood up, walked to the window, his back to the skinny monkey, and said calmly, "Even if Snake King Can dies, those people won't be satisfied. So let them settle this score."

The skinny monkey nodded, turned, and strode out. His footsteps echoed in the corridor, growing fainter and fainter.

Deep in Temple Street, there was an abandoned warehouse with a rusted tin roof so dark that its original color was no longer visible. The walls were painted with faded "GG" paint, and several bags of dusty cement were piled up at the door.

The warehouse was filled with the smells of mildew and dust, which mingled together and made one's chest feel tight.

The warehouse was packed with people at that moment.

Some leaned against the wall, some squatted on the ground, and some sat on broken chairs.

There were men, women, young and old, all dressed in various clothes, some decent, some tattered.

But everyone's eyes were the same—hatred, a hatred seeping from the very marrow of their bones, an uncontrollable hatred, like a pot of boiling oil, bubbling and splattering, ready to scald someone at any moment.

Standing at the front was a man in his fifties, with gray hair and wrinkles on his face. He was wearing an old, faded Zhongshan suit with frayed cuffs.

His surname is Lin, and he is from Chaoshan. Three years ago, his daughter was abducted by Snake King Can's men and sold to Southeast Asia. Her whereabouts are still unknown.

He was the leader of this group, responsible for contacting those who had a grudge against Snake King Can. He usually set up a fruit stall in Temple Street, and whenever he had free time, he would inquire about his daughter in the streets and alleys. He had been inquiring for three years, but he had not found out anything.

He stood in front of the pile of broken chairs, his eyes fixed on the rusty iron door, like a weathered stone statue.

Several people, men and women, were standing nearby, all watching him and waiting.

The iron gate was pushed open, and the skinny monkey walked in.

Behind him followed Tie Tou, who was carrying a person in his hand—Snake King Can.

He was wearing a wrinkled silk shirt with the collar open, barefoot, his face covered in bruises, and his mouth was cut, with scabs forming and then cracking open repeatedly.

He was being carried by Tie Tou like a chick, his feet dragging on the ground, leaving two wet trails on the cement floor.

The skinny monkey stood in the center of the warehouse and threw Snake King Can on the ground.

Snake King Can lay on the ground, trembling all over, like a fish pulled from the water, his mouth open, panting heavily, and making hoarse gasps in his throat.

He looked up and saw those people—those he had persecuted, those he had trafficked, those whose families he had ruined.

Their eyes looked like they were on fire.

Uncle Lin was the first to rush forward and kicked Snake King Can in the face, causing blood to spurt from his nose, splashing onto the ground and Uncle Lin's trouser leg.

He crouched down, grabbed Snake King Can by the neck with both hands, and his voice, a mixture of crying and laughing, was forced from deep in his throat: "Where is my daughter? Where is my daughter?"

Snake King Can's face turned red, then purple, then black.

His mouth was open as if he wanted to say something, but he couldn't speak. His throat was being choked, and he could only make hoarse, breathy sounds.

His eyes bulged outwards, as if they were about to jump out of their sockets.

The people nearby pulled Uncle Lin away. "Uncle Lin, don't strangle him. Take it slow."

Uncle Lin was pulled away, squatted in the corner, and covered his face, crying.

His shoulders twitched, and his sobs were muffled, like a thud coming from underground.

The second person came up—a woman in her thirties, wearing a worn-out floral blouse, with her hair down, and a long scar on her face, running diagonally from her eyebrow to the corner of her mouth.

Three years ago, she was kidnapped by Snake King Can's men and sold to Southeast Asia. She was imprisoned in a brothel for two years before escaping and returning to Hong Kong Island.

When she returned, her husband had already run off with someone else, and her children didn't recognize her.

She had lost everything, except for this scar and her body covered in wounds. She walked up to Snake King Can, pulled a pair of scissors from her sleeve, squatted down, and cut off one of Snake King Can's fingers.

Snake King Can screamed and rolled on the ground, blood gushing from the severed finger and splattering on her face. She didn't wipe it away and cut off another one.

Snake King Can's screams echoed through the warehouse.

Those outside heard this and quickened their pace.

Outside the warehouse, several more people arrived; they were all victims of Snake King Can's persecution.

They heard that the snake king was going to be dealt with in the warehouse today, so they came from all over Hong Kong Island, some by bus, some on foot, and some by bicycle.

Everyone was holding something—some were holding knives, some were holding sticks, some were holding chains, and some were holding nothing but clenched fists.

Snake King Can could no longer stand up in the warehouse.

He was curled up on the ground, covered in blood, his face a mixture of blood and tears.

He was still muttering something, indistinctly, like a dream, and no one could hear him or care.

They kept beating Snake King Can until he stopped moving, until blood was gushing from his nose, mouth and ears, until he collapsed on the ground like a lump of mud.

Several people carried him out and threw him into a garbage dump by the roadside.

The garbage was piled up in the alley behind Temple Street. Several garbage cans leaned crookedly against the wall, with garbage overflowing from them, rotten vegetable leaves, spoiled rice, and sewage flowing all over the ground.

Flies buzzed around, their bodies gleaming green in the morning light.

Snake King Can was thrown next to a garbage heap, face down, lying in a puddle of sewage.

His silk shirt was covered in blood and mud, his hair was a mess, and it was impossible to tell whether his face was covered in blood or mud.

Flies landed on him, on his face, on his open eyes—he still had his eyes open, but he could no longer see anything.

As dawn broke, people began to move about in the alley.

An elderly woman selling breakfast was pushing her cart past when she saw a person lying next to a pile of garbage. She was so frightened that she overturned her cart, and the steamed buns rolled all over the ground.

Several elderly people who were out for their morning exercise gathered around, glanced at the scene, and then quickly walked away, shaking their heads and sighing, muttering something in a low voice that was hard to hear.