You believe that your gun is no match for my fist?

Pain, intense pain, came from my hand.

But the assassin didn't check the injuries; instead, he stared intently at Gao Zhan.

The person reappeared in that brief moment of extreme brightness.

He was now covered in blood. His head was tilted slightly, his eyes were downcast, and bloody tears streamed down his face.

The shattered skin gushed out crimson blood droplets, as well as dazzling golden light.

It was like shattered Buddha's light, forming a huge, blurry outline behind him.

The Bodhisattva lowered her brows and stood firm amidst the sea of ​​blood.

Before and behind, there was shattered golden light.

In that instant, the assassin saw a young man covered in blood. But in the next instant, he became a Buddha statue.

The next moment, it turned into a different person.

A more profound and imposing figure.

It is broad and huge, yet also small.

His face lacked youthful vitality; his eyes were sunken, his cheekbones were high, and his skin was crisscrossed with deep lines.

He couldn't see clearly, and he tried to see as much as possible, but suddenly he was horrified to find that he was being led down.

Then he saw those things.

Countless people knelt on the snow, their knees buried in the frozen earth, their hands reaching out to a huge golden Buddha statue.

The Buddha statue was very tall, so tall that the top could not be seen. Its face was plump and round, and its lips held a kind of indifferent yet compassionate smile.

It fell on those kneeling, and it seemed to fall on the killer as well.

The assassin tried to look away, but couldn't move.

People are crying, their blood and tears falling to the ground, but they are swallowed up by the earth beneath their feet and disappear without a trace.

He began to hear sounds, the repeated chanting of the kneeling people, but beneath those chants, there was another sound.

The metal objects collided, producing a piercing, sharp sound.

One after another, thick fingers shook the chandelier, the sound of which swirled around the kneeling body.

He saw that the monks' faces were covered in thick grease, their fingers adorned with rings of various gemstones, and their clothes were covered with jewels and gold.

Enjoying the rights and glory bestowed upon them, residing in pavilions built in the name of faith,

The scene shifts, and he sees a golden Buddha.

He sat upright on the lotus platform, his face solemn, with a faint smile on his lips.

It treads upon countless tiny things: prayer flags, bone stupas, and thangkas.

The painting depicts a compassionate deity, the golden Buddha's eyes devoid of sorrow or joy.

Suddenly, the golden faces began to distort before the assassin's eyes.

A layer of greedy expressions emerged.

There is also arrogance, cruelty, and indifference.

That face simultaneously displayed more than a dozen kinds of ugliness belonging to mortals, but they were solidified beneath the golden surface, forever untouchable.

The assassin felt as if something was pressing down on his breathing.

He saw himself standing in a thick, dark red mass, with countless broken bones and dried blood beneath his feet.

The bones still bore the marks of being slashed by sharp tools; some had been ground into beads, some shaved into flutes, and some into bowls.

Each of these magical artifacts carries boundless resentment.

And here, there stands that tall figure, right in the center of this sea of ​​blood.

The old monk stood with his eyes downcast on a mountain of corpses made up of countless ritual implements, his feet resting on the face of a golden Buddha.

He looked down at the golden face at his feet, his face expressionless, only a long silence.

Dark red liquid flowed from the golden Buddha's mouth, trickling down its lips and over the compassionate face painted with gold lacquer.

The liquid was viscous, like blood, or like molten gold, all mixed together, making it impossible to tell which drop came from which source.

The assassin felt he was about to collapse.

His knees were buckling, and something reached out from under the ground and grabbed his ankle.

Dry, withered knuckles, broken hands.

One by one, the remains slowly rose from a viscous, dark mass.

Countless voices whispered, countless voices wept, countless voices groaned.

It has been passed down from the ancient past, and continues to this day.

Then the old monk slowly raised his head.

His eyes were filled with nothing but anger.

He looked at the assassin and opened his mouth.

The assassin finally couldn't hold on any longer.

His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, panting heavily.

Then, all the images receded like the tide, leaving only a burning mark deep in his eyes.

He didn't sit down, but Gao Zhan wasn't in the same spot either.

He had rushed up to him, his hand raised high.

"Alas!!!!"

The assassin let out a scream, a short and sharp sound.

As he retreated, he suddenly sprang to the side, his speed increasing by more than a level compared to when they had just fought.

He practically floated out sideways, landed, and then leaped into the alleyway beside him, his toes barely touching the stone pavement before disappearing in the blink of an eye.

Gao Zhan's palm hovered in mid-air, but his strike missed its mark.

He remained in that position, stunned for a moment.

Then he lowered his hand and looked down at his palm, which was covered in blood.

He looked up and around again. Many of the people around him were still in shock, after all, the battle had only lasted for less than two minutes.

A gust of wind blew by, ruffling the stray hairs on his forehead.

"They ran away?" he muttered to himself.

sense

He wiped the blood off his face; it was already a bit sticky.

The collar and cuffs were covered in stains, and the Hanfu he was wearing now looked less like clothing and more like a rag that had just been used to wipe a table.

He glanced at the people around him, shook his head, and turned to walk back.

As he walked, he felt a little smug.

"Damn it, am I still awesome?"

"This is a challenge beyond my level. And I actually beat it!!"

Tang Liu was still at the entrance of the cloth shop, having just crawled out from under the counter.

He was leaning against the door frame, his hair covered in wood chips, his face bruised and pale, staring wide-eyed in this direction.

Gao Zhan walked over, stopped in front of him, coughed twice, and said, "Sixth Uncle, it's alright now."

Tang Liu opened his mouth, but it took him a while to close it: "You...you won?"

"They ran away," Gao Zhan said.

After he finished speaking, he added, with a smug tone, "They were scared away by me."

"Haha, I'm still too awesome, damn it."

He wiped the blood from his nose with his sleeve, glanced at the shop, and saw that the owner was a still charming young woman. He walked over to her, feeling embarrassed.

The shop owner was at the door of the back room. When he saw him coming, his gaze lingered on his face.

Gao Zhan pulled out five silver dollars from his pocket and placed them on the counter: "Boss, I'm sorry, the door was damaged. Here's my compensation."

"Ouch..." The shopkeeper glanced at the silver coins on the table, then looked up at Gao Zhan, his tone very gentle, "You're covered in blood, what do you care about doors?"

"No, no, take it—" She pushed the silver coin back, her gaze lingering on his face for a moment.

Gao Zhan pushed the silver dollar back: "Take it, they'll charge you at another door." After saying that, he turned around and helped Tang Liu up, and the two of them left the cloth shop one after the other.

The shopkeeper stood at the door, clutching the five silver dollars, watching the tall figure slowly leave. The silver dollars in his hand were heavy, stained with a bit of Gao Zhan's blood.

Several passersby who had been watching from a distance stepped back a few paces to make way for him as he approached.

Gao Zhan didn't look at them, but patted Tang Liu on the shoulder: "Let's go, let's find somewhere else to sit."