One person said: The essence of Wuhou Qimen lies not in Qimen, but in Wuhou.

As he spoke, he had already walked to within two steps of the soldier. He slowly lowered his hand from its raised position and actually reached out to touch the gun. His expression was a mixture of curiosity and an arrogant certainty.

Then he heard a noise behind him.

Jia Zhengyu, who was kneeling on the ground, suddenly sprang up, grabbed the two high heels stuck in her head with both hands, and pulled them out violently. Blood immediately flowed from the two holes in her forehead, running down her cheeks in two red lines.

He gritted his teeth, his eyes were bloodshot, and the muscles on his face were contorted with pain and anger.

He roared, "And who are you people? None of you—don't you all respect me? Damn it! That wretched little brat!"

With a flick of his wrists, two dragon-pecking cones flew from his palms, shooting straight toward Feng Baobao with a sharp whooshing sound.

But at that angle—if the two cones were flying in a straight line, they would just glide past the position where Zhuge Ming was standing when they passed the center of the room.

The distance was too close, so close that no one dared to take the risk.

The soldiers in front of Zhang Chulan reacted almost instantly upon hearing the whooshing sound behind them.

He turned around so fast it was almost invisible. He held the gun up with his right hand, supported the bottom of the gun with his left hand, and bent his legs slightly, a standard pistol firing stance.

The trigger was pulled twice, producing two extremely faint muffled sounds—the sound of a silenced pistol firing wasn't the elegant whooshing sound seen in movies, but a dull thud, similar to a hammer striking a wooden board, though the muzzle flash was real.

Two dragon-pecking cones were accurately struck by two bullets, sparks flew, and the sharp whistling sound of metal colliding echoed sharply in the office.

The dragon-pecking cone was deflected off its course by the bullet's kinetic energy, spinning as it flew towards the corner of the wall and embedded itself in it.

Then there were two more muffled thuds.

Jia Zhengyu was shot once in each knee; the bullets entered through the back of his knees and exited from behind his knees.

He was like a building whose supporting pillars had been removed; his legs buckled and he collapsed to his knees, his knees slamming heavily against the floor with a dull thud.

He opened his mouth wide and let out a heart-wrenching scream. The color drained from his face in an instant, leaving only deathly paleness and beads of cold sweat.

Blood gushed from the bullet hole in his knee, quickly spreading a small patch of dark red on the floor.

He knelt on the ground, trembling all over, his lips quivering as he uttered intermittent groans, unable to utter another word.

The whole process was too fast.

From the moment Jia Zhengyu erupted until he was shot in both knees and fell to his knees, the entire time span was no more than two breaths.

Zhang Chulan's hand was still frozen in mid-air, maintaining the posture of reaching for the gun, his five fingers awkwardly bent, and his fingertips were still trembling slightly.

His eyes were wide open, almost popping out of their sockets, his mouth gaped open into a gaping hole, and a broken, completely out-of-control voice squeezed out of his throat: "It's—it's on fire. It's ringing. It's the real thing!"

His legs began to weaken, his knees buckled uncontrollably, and the sweat on his back soaked through a large patch of his white T-shirt, which clung tightly to his skin.

He watched as the soldier in front of him expressionlessly withdrew the still-smoking gun to his side, and an absurd thought flashed through his mind—how could this be real? How could such a gun appear here? This is the office of the chairman of the Tianxiahui Group, this is the city center of Tianjin, how could there be a real gun here? But he had just seen the flash, heard the gunshot, and seen the two still-bleeding bullet holes on Jia Zhengyu's knee.

It's fucking true.

It's all true.

He had just reached out and touched a real gun, a military-issue pistol with a silencer; he was just one trigger away from death.

The office fell completely silent.

Everyone was watching Jia Zhengyu kneeling on the ground bleeding, everyone had heard the four muffled thuds, and everyone was frantically processing the same information in their own cognitive systems—there had been a gunshot.

Real guns.

It is not a magical artifact of a supernatural being, not a clash of spells, not a contest of qi; it is a genuine firearm, the ultimate symbol of the state's violent machinery.

Everyone present realized at that moment that a power beyond the rules of the supernatural world had emerged in this office.

Feng Zhenghao stood in the center of the ruins, his expression shifting from shock to deep silence.

Zhuge Ming spoke, his voice not loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the quiet office where only Jia Zhengyu's groans could be heard.

His tone was flat and precise, as if he were issuing a routine work order: "Spare his life."

Why did he speak? Because the soldier standing in front of Zhang Chulan had turned around, raised his gun again, and aimed it at Jia Zhengyu's torso.

Another soldier silently circled around from the side, drew his sidearm, and pointed the muzzle at Jia Zhengyu's back—the area between his heart and head.

Two shots to the heart, one to the head; even the King of Hell would shake his head.

Zhuge Ming's words were the only safety net he could provide before Jia Zhengyu's head and heart were locked in a cross-shaped lock.

Jia Zhengyu let out another weak groan, his body swayed twice, and then he fell to the ground sideways like a piece of sawn wood.

Blood was still seeping from the bullet hole in his knee, slowly spreading into a deep red puddle on the floor.

He passed out, not from being beaten, but from the pain—or perhaps from fright; in any case, he wouldn't be able to lash out again for the time being.

Zhao Fangxu truly lives up to his reputation as someone who has seen many big events.

From the moment he entered until now, the expression on his face has gone through surprise, solemnity, and silence, but he has never shown a trace of panic.

Looking at the chaotic battlefield before him, at Jia Zhengyu kneeling unconscious on the ground, and at Feng Zhenghao standing silently opposite him, he quickly assessed the entire situation in his mind—and then he made a decision.

He turned to look at Feng Zhenghao and gave him a wink.

The exchange was swift, but the meaning was clear: It's your turn, hurry up and come over.

Feng Zhenghao received the signal.

He straightened his suit collar and strode towards Zhuge Ming.

He had only taken two steps when the soldier in front of him raised his hand to stop him.

The soldier's hand rested on his holster, his voice low but each word carrying an unyielding chill: "Stop. Keep your distance, and do not make any rash moves."

His other hand had already raised the gun.

Zhuge Ming stretched out his hand and gently pressed his palm down. His tone remained calm and gentle, but every word carried the weight of a command: "Put the gun down. Don't point the gun at your comrades—this is Comrade Feng from the company."

The soldier immediately holstered his weapon, took a half-step back, and stood ramrod straight: "Yes, sir!"

Zhuge Ming walked towards Feng Zhenghao with a smile on his face.

His pace was neither hurried nor slow; his leather shoes made a soft, crushing sound as they stepped on the ruins, which was particularly clear in the quiet office.

He stopped in front of Feng Zhenghao, extended his hand, and shook hands with Feng Zhenghao.

The hand was dry and warm, and the pressure was just right.