A real killer playing a villain; the guy surnamed Zhen in Detective, run!

Joint locks, fracture techniques, and using an opponent's force against them—Lu Yuan unleashed all the killing skills he had accumulated in his previous life within those few dozen seconds.

The dull thud of a neck snapping, the thud of a knife handle striking the sternum as it pierces the heart, the hoarse sound of the last breath in the trachea when the throat is severed by a steel wire.

When the last assassin lunged at him, his left arm was gone. Thirty seconds earlier, Lu Yuan had broken off that arm and inserted it backwards into the body of its owner's companion.

The one-armed assassin's speed remained terrifying, his short blade aimed straight for Lu Yuan's heart.

Lu Yuan couldn't dodge in time; the blade tip grazed the ribs, sliding several centimeters below the skin before stopping. He gripped the back of the other's neck with his right hand, his thumb finding the gap between the second and third cervical vertebrae, and twisted it forcefully.

"Click." The last body fell.

The outer hall of the secret chamber was quiet. Twelve corpses lay in irregular shapes on the floor, their blood pooling into a shallow pool.

Lu Yuan stood in the middle, breathing heavily. His left arm was completely powerless, hanging limply at his side, dripping blood incessantly. The wound on his back had seeped into a large, dark patch beneath his tight-fitting clothes.

He didn't stop; he raised his right foot and kicked the conference room door.

The latch deformed under the kick, the door flew inward, hit the wall, and bounced back.

Lu Yuan walked in carrying his military blade. There were six chairs and six people.

The chief elder sat at the very back, his cane lying on the floor, his hands gripping the edge of the table tightly. The faces of the other five had turned completely pale, and one of them had a dark wet patch on his trousers.

They have ruled the underworld for thirty years, from arms smuggling during the Cold War to digital money laundering in the new millennium, and their shadow has been behind the political changes in more than a dozen countries around the world.

At that moment, they looked at the blood-covered man at the door as if he were something that shouldn't exist in this world.

The chief elder's lips trembled for over ten seconds before he managed to cobble together a complete sentence: "...50 billion, offshore account, instant transfer. You take all Syndicate permissions for the Asian region, we're leaving."

Lu Yuan wiped the blood off his military blade onto his trouser leg.

"Not enough?" The chief elder's voice trembled. "One hundred billion! Plus control of the Syndicate in North America! You could..."

Lu Yuan walked in carrying his military blade and sat down at the round table.

He was exhausted. He placed his military blade on the table, the blood on the blade staining the mahogany surface with a dark ring.

"I'm not short of money," Lu Yuan said, his voice a little hoarse. "My studio has a film coming out next month, and the box office revenue will be enough to cover our expenses."

The chief elder was stunned; this answer was utterly absurd. With hundreds of billions of euros at stake, he was talking about box office numbers?

The chief elder didn't move, but the third elder shot first. He pulled a pocket pistol from a hidden compartment in the armrest of his chair, pointed the muzzle at Lu Yuan's face, and pulled the trigger.

Lu Yuan tilted his head five centimeters to the side, and the bullet grazed his ear and embedded itself in the door frame. He didn't even quicken his pace; he just walked over, grabbed Elder Number Three's gun barrel with his right hand, and snapped his wrist, dropping the gun.

Lu Yuan picked up the gun and fired a shot at Elder Number Three's forehead.

The other four jumped up from their seats like firecrackers. Some drew their guns, some flipped over tables to find cover, and some rushed towards the emergency escape route entrance in the corner.

Lu Yuan changed his gun-holding posture, holding it casually with his right hand.

One shot. Elder Number Four fell behind the table, a hole in the back of his head.

One shot. The moment Elder Number Five's hand touched the escape route's keypad, his body went limp.

One shot. Elder Number Six and Elder Number Two were huddled together, and the bullet pierced Elder Number Six's temple before embedding itself in the wall.

The second elder slumped to the ground, urine leaking from his trouser leg onto the marble floor.

"No...don't kill me...I'll give you anything, anything..."

One shot, and all was quiet, except for the chief elder.

The old man huddled in the chair; his cane, his dignity, and the power he had accumulated over thirty years all vanished in that moment.

Lu Yuan walked up to him, took out the charred match from his pocket, and said, "KOLT Tavern, the third one."

Do you recognize this?

The Chief Elder's pupils reflected the charred wooden stick. He recognized it, of course; six years ago, he had personally signed the purge order, placing all informants connected to the Joker on the death list, with Old Gun third on that list.

Lu Yuan placed the matches on the table and pulled the wire out of his duffel bag.

The old gun's wire, the only relic brought out from the fire at the KOLT tavern.

The wire was wrapped around the table, and the chief elder's fingers scratched the tabletop twice, making a harsh sound like fingernails scraping against wood, before he stopped.

Lu Yuan released his grip and turned to the communication terminal in the center of the round table, using the chief elder's iris and fingerprint to unlock the file system step by step.

The entire syndicate's assets over the past thirty years: personnel structure, fund flows, political and business networks, lists of protectors in various countries, and dozens of terabytes of data were loaded into a portable encrypted hard drive.

After copying, Lu Yuan took out the last two pieces of C4 from the bottom of the luggage bag and attached them to the stress concentration points of the core load-bearing column, then set them to delay detonators for fifteen minutes.

He then activated the anonymous forwarding function on his communication terminal, splitting the island's precise coordinates and cloud-based file key into two parts: one sent to Interpol's Lyon headquarters, and the other to Jiang Yan's encrypted email address.

Then, pressing on the still-bleeding wound under his ribs, he picked up his luggage bag and walked through the side door of the conference room into the evacuation passage.

On the round table behind me, the red numbers on the delay device were jumping.

14: 47.

14: 46.

14: 45.

......

Fifteen minutes later, a huge bubble rose on the surface of the Mediterranean Sea.

Three muffled thuds came from the depths of the sea, and the shockwaves pushed the seawater within a radius of 200 meters into white eddies.

The central area of ​​the island collapsed inward, with concrete fragments and steel skeletons being sucked into underground cavities. The six underground structures collapsed one after another, as if their spines had been removed.

On the deck of the smuggling fishing boat, Lu Yuan sat leaning against the gunwale, the gauze on his left arm already soaked in seawater and sweat, turning grayish-brown.

The Moroccan boat captain glanced back at the rising steam from the sea, then at the blood-covered passenger, opened his mouth, but said nothing.

Lu Yuan closed his eyes, the sputtering sound of the diesel engine receding into the distance, his consciousness sinking into darkness.

……

In China, in the early hours of the morning, Jiang Yan's encrypted email suddenly went off with a notification sound; the attachment size was 47.3GB.

Jiang Yan hovered her hand above the mouse for two seconds before clicking.

Once the key verification is successful, the folder tree structure unfolds, revealing the personnel organization, offshore accounts, lists of protection umbrellas in various countries, and transaction records for every single transaction exceeding one million euros over the past thirty years…

Within 48 hours of the Interpol Red Notice being issued by its headquarters in Lyon, law enforcement agencies in 117 countries acted in unison.

Three Wall Street hedge fund partners were taken from their offices by the FBI during trading hours; the private jet of the second-in-command of the military in a Southeast Asian country was intercepted on the runway; and the vaults of two private banks in the City of London were opened and inventoried by the UK Major Crimes Unit.

The syndicate's global network, built over thirty years, was torn to shreds in less than two days.

Dark web forums exploded.

"K-17, 1.2 billion euros, turned into a pit overnight."

"The 67 billion yuan in the financial center has been wiped out."

"Elder Island, physically destroyed. All six members wiped out."

"He did it all by himself."

In the first three hours, some people questioned the authenticity of the post, but then the doubts disappeared. Instead, management from various organizations anonymously issued "asset compliance statements" and "business contraction notices".

Someone compiled the messages into a single image, with the title in large red text:

"Number one on the global underground's blacklist."

The name is followed by parentheses: (and its associated personnel, studios, pets).

Even the sixth son was included.

From that day on, no underground force dared to extend its reach to Yuanhan Studio.