What the hell is the "kill line" when you're in America?

Li Ang sat beside the veteran all night.

He didn't move all night.

The other person wasn't sleeping soundly; it was more like they were resting with their eyes closed.

He was like an old beast in the forest, old but still incredibly alert to the slightest disturbance.

The slightest sound could instantly tense his seemingly relaxed body.

In this tent district filled with homeless people who seem like zombies, this vigilance feels out of place.

As dawn broke, the morning light resembled golden dust.

It seeps through the gaps between the tall buildings and slowly spills down.

It dispelled some of the bone-chilling coldness in the concrete jungle.

A man in a leather jacket, followed by two shadowy henchmen.

He walked slowly into this quiet area.

He is the "rule" here.

His appearance was like a pebble thrown into stagnant water, causing a barely perceptible glimmer of fear to appear in the eyes of the otherwise numb crowd.

The man walked up to a dilapidated tent, but he did not bend down.

He simply kicked the supporting pole with his toes, his posture quite lazy.

"Wake up, it's time to pay the rent."

The curtain was lifted, and a man who was so thin he was just a skeleton crawled out.

He didn't dare to look up at people, and just trembled as he groped himself.

He seemed to be tearing out his own internal organs, and it took him a long time to cobble together two limp banknotes.

The man respectfully handed over two one-yuan bills.

The man in the jacket took the money without even looking at it and walked straight to the next tent.

In this small territory, this action seemed like a sacred ritual.

People numbly repeat the same routine, scraping together a dollar or two from their meager homes.

They offered sacrifices to this "master of the bed".

Those who refuse to cooperate will naturally face dire consequences.

The owner of one of the tents seemed to be truly at his wit's end.

Or perhaps, there was a sliver of wishful thinking that shouldn't have been there.

The two "shadows" didn't bother to say a word and went straight ahead.

They each took one side and flipped the tent upside down.

A sleeping bag and a few pieces of clothing of indeterminate color, along with a half-pack of crushed biscuits scattered on the floor.

These items were then unceremoniously seized by them.

The tent owner remained curled up in place, his head in his hands, the entire time.

He seemed used to being stripped of everything.

Soon, it was the veteran's turn.

The man in the jacket walked up to the veteran and looked down at the old man who was sitting cross-legged.

There was a hint of playful mockery in his eyes, like a cat catching a mouse.

"Your turn, you old man."

The veteran slowly opened his eyes and then slowly stood up.

His back was straight, like an old gun weathered by time.

He looked at the other person calmly.

"I have no money."

His voice was hoarse, as if it had been sanded, but every word was powerful.

"No money?"

The man in the jacket laughed, as if he had heard the biggest joke in the world.

His gaze passed over the veteran's shoulder and landed on the canvas bag in his arms.

The bag was old, with worn-out edges, but it was wiped very clean.

"Then use your precious darling to pay off the debt."

The moment he finished speaking, the old soldier's usually calm eyes suddenly welled up with excitement.

That's the look in the eyes of a wild beast whose den has been invaded.

He instinctively shielded the canvas bag behind him, his body slightly lowering.

He staggered his feet, assuming an extremely simple fighting stance.

His entire demeanor was like a fully drawn bow.

The two thugs were taken aback by his posture at first, then burst into laughter.

"Oh, this old man still wants to jump around a bit?"

One of them slowly pulled out a rubber stick and weighed it in his palm.

Looks like I'll have to loosen up your old bones today.

Li Ang remained seated in the distance, like an indifferent bystander.

In his [kill line] vision, the flames above the heads of these three people were very dim.

They belong to the lowest category, "endangered".

They are the lowest-ranking "demonic cultivators" in the city, fighting each other for a few bites of food and a tiny piece of land.

There's no question of good or evil here, only survival.

Their social value is as insignificant as a feather.

The thug grinned maliciously and swung the rubber baton around.

The stick, accompanied by a gust of wind, hurtled straight towards the veteran's head.

The veteran's movements were much faster than his age suggested.

He simply turned to the side, and the stick brushed past the tip of his nose.

At the same time, he clenched his right hand into a knife shape and precisely cut the thug's wrist.

The thug felt a numbness in his wrist, as if it had been pinched by iron clamps.

In pain, the rubber baton flew out of his hand.

The veteran, having gained the upper hand, pressed forward relentlessly.

He grabbed the other person's unbalanced arm and used his waist and hips to exert force.

A clean and crisp over-the-shoulder throw.

"Bang!"

With a muffled thud, the thug was slammed solidly onto the concrete ground.

He was like a fish out of water, twitching and unable to get up for a long time.

Upon seeing this, another thug let out a low growl and pounced on the side like a hungry tiger.

The veteran twisted his waist and turned to block, but his movement was noticeably a little too slow.

Physical strength and prolonged hunger ultimately became the shackles that broke this body.

Although he managed to block the other person's punch, he was still pushed back several steps by the force of the impact.

He felt a surge of blood rushing to his head.

The man in the jacket, who was referred to as the "manager," also put away his playful tone.

He joined the battle with a cold look in his eyes.

Two against one.

The veteran was at a disadvantage almost instantly.

His techniques are all military killing methods, simplified and aimed at killing with a single blow.

But this body is like a lamp with its oil completely used up.

Every block and dodge hastened the extinguishing of the flame.

"Bang!"

He was caught off guard and kicked hard in the stomach by one of the thugs.

He hunched over and crashed into the wall behind him.

He clutched his stomach, coughing violently.

"Damn, he's really good at fighting!"

The thug who was initially thrown to the ground has now gotten up.

He picked up the rubber stick from the ground, his face full of hostility.

"You old codger, let me see just how hard your bones really are!"

He raised the stick with both hands, using all his strength.

Slam it down hard on the head of the old soldier who was panting against the wall!

The wind howled.

The numb onlookers around them all instinctively closed their eyes.

Li Ang made a move.

No, he didn't even move.

He simply sat there, his toes lightly hooking the ground.

An inconspicuous pebble was silently lifted up.

The pebble flew through the air silently, like a speck of ink flashing and disappearing in the air.

It struck precisely on the thug's wrist as he raised the rubber baton.

"what!"

The thug let out a pained cry that sounded inhuman.

He felt as if his wrist had been hit by a heavy hammer, and a piercing pain shot through him.

The rubber baton fell to the ground with a clatter.

At the same time, another thug felt his foot slip.

It was as if he had stepped on an invisible banana peel.

He looked down and saw that there was nothing beneath his feet.

But he had already lost his balance and fell forward involuntarily.

He fell flat on his face.

This sudden turn of events left everyone stunned.

Amid the chaos, a glint of light flashed in the veteran's eyes.

He seized this fleeting opportunity.

He suddenly took a step forward and twisted his body.

An elbow strike, imbued with the full force of the body, was like a battering ram.

It slammed down from below, hitting the "manager" hard on the chin.

"Snap!"

A sickening sound of bones cracking could be clearly heard.

The man in the jacket screamed and fell backward.

Blood gushed from his mouth.

The veteran, without pausing after landing a successful blow, quickly picked up the rubber baton from the ground.

He held the stick horizontally in front of his chest, staring coldly at the remaining two.

"Fuck! Fuck!"

The thug with the injured wrist clutched his hand, his face filled with terror.

He stared intently at the veteran, then couldn't help but glance around.

He seemed to be searching for an unseen ghost.

The thug who had fallen also got up in a sorry state and looked at his boss, who was lying on the ground groaning.

He looked again at the old soldier standing with his stick, and a chill ran down his spine.

"You...you just wait!"

The two helped their leader up, uttering a meaningless but harsh remark.

They fled the place in a panic, their tails between their legs.

Silence returned to the surroundings.

The old soldier leaned on a cane, his chest heaving violently.

He gripped the rubber baton tightly without making a sound, but his mind was racing.

Not right.

Something's really wrong.

That unexpected pebble, that inexplicably slippery fall.

Everything was too coincidental, as coincidental as a pre-written play.

But when he looked around, there was nothing there.