Desperate people, accept the seed of my soul!

Shen Hanzhou opened the file folder, but his fingertips stopped just as they touched the pages.

After awakening his abilities, his senses became exceptionally sensitive.

He discovered something that shouldn't be there in the interlayer of the paper.

A hard sheet thinner than a hair, square in shape, with regular edges and uniform thickness.

When you press your fingertip against it, a faint electrical vibration travels into the nail bed—it's a circuit board.

Miniature positioning patch. Waterproof housing, military-grade packaging, battery and signal transmission module integrated into one unit.

He had seen this packaging technology at the Five Sacred Mountains Gathering.

Shen Hanzhou didn't look up, moved his fingers off the patch surface, and continued to turn two more pages.

He mentally replayed every detail of what had happened since he entered the store.

Old Smoke took a spare phone from the drawer. As he said, "You're safe here," he swiped his finger across the screen.

When Lao Yan took the file folder out from under the counter, his movements were a beat slower than usual. That pause wasn't to look for something; it was to insert the positioning patch between the pages.

The patch is now activated; you can feel a slight vibration when you press it with your fingertip, which means it's working normally.

The signal covers the entire city of Gwangyang, and the battery can last for 48 hours.

Three years ago, he asked Lao Yan to do his first business deal. Lao Yan leaned against the counter and said, "My most valuable asset is my tight-lipped nature. I haven't betrayed a single employer in twenty years."

He didn't sell because the price he offered wasn't high enough.

Shen Hanzhou closed the file folder and stood up.

He looked at Old Yan and said, "Old Yan, when I asked you to do my first business deal three years ago, you said your most valuable asset was your mouth, and that you hadn't betrayed a single employer in twenty years."

Old Yan still had a smile on his face, and said, "Yes, you believe me—"

"There's a positioning sticker in the file folder. It's sandwiched between the third and fourth pages."

Shen Hanzhou's tone was very flat, exactly the same as when he said "I'll give you the actual price next time" three years ago.

Old Yan's smile froze for a moment.

A thought exploded in his mind—he had discovered it.

The patch was less than two millimeters thick and was so thin that it was invisible to the naked eye when sandwiched between the paper sheets.

How did he find it? He flipped through it for less than ten seconds!

Old Yan grabbed the fully loaded pistol under the counter with his right hand and pointed it at Shen Hanzhou.

Old Yan's smile vanished completely.

He said, "Looks like I've wasted twenty years of my life. How did you figure that out?"

His tone had completely changed from sincere to cold, resentful, and murderous.

Old Yan was thinking—he'd been discovered. His men hadn't arrived yet.

We must control the situation before he makes a move.

Within three meters, a pistol shot to the leg is a sure hit, even with your eyes closed.

With a gun in hand, listening to him offers a chance of survival; ignoring him means death.

He's been around for twenty years and has seen too many people fail because they talk too much nonsense.

He stopped wasting words—Shen Hanzhou had already discovered the positioning patch; if he delayed any longer, who knew what other tricks this kid might have up his sleeve.

The shot was aimed at Shen Hanzhou's leg.

Old Yan had a clear plan in mind: he couldn't kill them, because if he did, the 80 million would be gone.

But both legs must be crippled. If the legs are crippled, the person can't run away. If the person can't run away, they can still negotiate the price.

Both the Five Mountains Society and the Xiongbei Society want prisoners alive, even if they are crippled.

As he pulled the trigger, a smug thought flashed through his mind—no matter how smart you are, can you be smarter than a bullet?

Old Yan pulled the trigger.

However, no gunshot was fired.

What he heard was a muffled sound, like sand slipping through his fingers.

Old Yan looked down and his pupils suddenly contracted.

The gun in his hand was turning to dust.

Starting from the muzzle, the gun barrel crumbled inch by inch into iron-gray powder, which fell down in a rustling sound.

The powder spread down the barrel to the slide, which collapsed in his palm.

The recoil spring popped out, tumbled once in mid-air, and decomposed into iron-gray powder before it even hit the ground.

One bullet after another disappeared from the magazine, the cartridge cases, gunpowder, and primer all turned to ash, leaking out from the bottom plate of the magazine and piling up on his hand.

Finally, there was the grip. The polymer material crumbled into black fragments at the fingertips, mixing with the iron-gray powder, dripping through the gaps between the fingers, and spilling across the countertop.

The entire process takes no more than two seconds.

A gun fully loaded with bullets turned into a pile of powder in his hand, still slightly warm from the metallic residue on his hand.

Old Yan stared at his empty right hand, his mind blank.

He raised his head.

Shen Hanzhou stood in front of the counter, his right hand raised in mid-air, his five fingers slightly spread, his posture unchanged.

The expression on his face was exactly the same as when he placed the order three years ago. There was no ferocity, no roaring, no triumphant smugness.

I was just looking at him; the cracks in his glasses reflected the cold white light of the fluorescent lamp overhead.

Old Yan looked at the hand with its five fingers spread out and suddenly understood something.

He didn't act after he pulled the trigger. He saw him raise his gun and his hand at the same time. While he was still saying, "I've wasted twenty years of my life," his fingers were already spread open.

That gunshot never actually happened.

Fang Li's six people.

Those six people weren't killed by explosives. They were killed by this hand.

Old Yan had been an intelligence broker for twenty years, witnessing firearms, assassinations, and torture. He'd seen it all, but he'd never seen a gun turn to dust in someone's outstretched fingers.

He wasn't even sure if this counted as murder. It didn't matter what it was, it was something he couldn't understand anyway.

Old Yan turned and ran.

As soon as he took a step out, Shen Hanzhou turned his right hand and pointed at the ground beneath his feet.

The cement floor instantly crumbled into powder beneath Old Yan's feet. He sank half a meter, his legs sinking to his knees into the powdery cement. Then the powder solidified again around his calves, sealing his legs firmly into the ground, preventing him from even bending his knees.

The cement that sealed him off and the powder from that gun earlier were the same iron-gray color.

Old Yan braced himself on the ground, trying to pull himself out. His fingers dug into the cement until they bled, but he couldn't budge it.

He looked down at the cement sealing his legs, and only one thought remained in his mind—he couldn't escape.

Shen Hanzhou walked around the counter, stood in front of Lao Yan, and looked down at him.

"I need detailed intelligence on Jiang Yi. Not the kind of flimsy stuff like outpost locations and shift schedules. Everything you can get."

Old Yan gritted his teeth.

His mind was still racing—the intelligence was his last bargaining chip. If he handed it all over, there would be no room for negotiation. He had to use the intelligence to save his life; he needed to negotiate the terms first, at least to get Shen Hanzhou to agree to spare his life.

He managed to squeeze out three words: "You put it down first—"

Before he could finish speaking, Shen Hanzhou pressed his right hand down.

The cement sealing Old Yan's legs suddenly tightened inwards. It wasn't a slow compression, but a sudden, sharp tightening, like a giant hand gripping his shinbone. The bone made a faint cracking sound; it didn't break, but the periosteum was compressed, sending out a dangerous signal.

The pain shot up my shinbone and down to the back of my head.

Old Yan screamed in agony, cold sweat pouring down his forehead like water, and his lips turned white.