CHAPTER 97: CHAPTER 97 SPLIT INTO TWO

When was it that I completely pledged my loyalty to Tama Riyadi? Chacha wondered.

Was it many years ago, in the abandoned factory holding underground boxing matches, when he, a spectator, threw a wad of cash at me—bloodied but still standing?

Was it when he offered a faint smile and invited me to join the gang?

Was it when he paid for my critically ill father’s treatment?

Chacha hadn’t been educated, but he wasn’t as stupid as he appeared.

I know very well that a large part of Tama Riyadi’s favor stems from the value I myself have demonstrated.

That’s perfectly normal. People without abilities don’t even qualify to be exploited.

For a lowly underground boxer like me, once trapped in the mire without a penny to my name, even the smallest kindness from someone in a moment of despair was worth repaying as if with a gushing spring.

Even if the price was abandoning my former sense of right and wrong, committing many sins I once wouldn’t have dared to even imagine...

Scrawny, dark-skinned, and unimpressive-looking, Chacha stood in the middle of the corridor. Behind him, many gang members armed with long and short guns had gathered.

THUD, THUD, THUD.

Footsteps echoed from the distant corridor.

Everyone’s muscles tensed instantly; sweaty palms gripped firearms, fingers resting lightly on triggers.

Li Ang, clad in special forces gear, pushed a dazzling red motorcycle up the stairs.

He mounted the Ducati Panigale V4 and, through his gloved hand, twisted the motorcycle’s throttle.

VROOOM—VROOOM—VROOOM—

The exhaust pipe roared deafeningly, the streamlined chassis of the bike vibrating slightly; this ferocious beast was already impatient.

In the distance, Chacha suddenly crouched, snatching up an Individual Rocket Tube lying on the ground. Half-kneeling, he aimed it at Li Ang and pulled the trigger.

BANG—

The massive flames erupting from the rear of the Individual Rocket Tube blasted away the few gang members closest to Chacha.

But the sound of the explosion seemed to be some sort of signal, prompting the gang members gathered in the corridor to unleash a hail of bullets toward the far end of the hallway.

Bullet after bullet whizzed through the corridor like a torrential downpour.

Li Ang, facing the storm of bullets, twisted the throttle to its maximum.

The Ducati Panigale V4’s tires spun wildly, the immense grip sending the motorcycle surging forward like a runaway stallion.

In that instant, he was like Don Quixote charging the windmills, sprinting towards the deadly barrage of gunfire.

The motorcycle advanced relentlessly. In the split second before making contact with the rain of bullets, Li Ang retrieved a Shield from his backpack.

The Shield had a triangular front, slightly larger than a door panel. It was constructed from two 10mm homogeneous high-strength steel plates joined at a 60° angle. The junction was reinforced with several short steel tubes. From the center of this junction, a threaded steel tube extended diagonally downwards, serving as Li Ang’s grip. Three casters were welded to its bottom. Above each of these, a steel plate extended backward, parallel to the others, to connect with the central threaded steel grip. Where these plates converged with the grip, an additional caster was welded for rear stability.

Li Ang himself had designed and built this strange, crude-looking Shield, investing considerable time and effort.

Its sole purpose was to block incoming projectiles.

Just like now.

Li Ang released the motorcycle’s handlebars. Pushing the Shield with one hand, he drew his SCAR-H assault rifle with the other and fired at the incoming rocket projectile.

A stream of bullets accurately struck the slightly curved warhead of the rocket projectile.

With a thunderous BOOM, a brilliant, dazzling fireball erupted in the center of the corridor.

The shockwave rippled out, and the gang members at one end of the corridor felt their hair blown back.

Billowing smoke drifted through the air, obscuring everyone’s vision.

Through the smoke, the muffled roar of the motorcycle’s engine was still audible.

Chacha wordlessly tossed the spent Individual Rocket Tube to a nearby subordinate for reloading. He then quickly snatched up a firearm and resumed shooting at Li Ang, who was still at the far end of the corridor.

The motorcycle beneath him was Don Quixote’s noble steed; the triangular steel Shield, Don Quixote’s Knight’s Long Spear.

Finally, the "Knight" charged head-on into the hail of bullets.

PING, PING, PING, PING.

Bullets continuously struck the steel plate, but its 10mm thickness defeated them. They ricocheted off, gouging hole after hole in the walls.

The motorcycle’s forward momentum faltered slightly, but amidst the engine’s wild roar, Li Ang pressed on.

He rode over the floor shattered by the rocket projectile’s explosion, burst through the heavy smoke, and reached the center of the corridor.

Li Ang shoved the steel Shield forward sharply, releasing his grip on it. He expertly maneuvered the bike, always keeping himself within the Shield’s protective cover. Then, he raised his rifle and pulled the trigger, bullets tearing through the unprepared enemies.

Chacha, anticipating this, had already rolled to the side, evading the deadly line of fire.

He glanced back to see his men falling one by one, blood pooling around them.

At the very rear of their group, some had already started to flee in panic. But before Chacha could shoot them in the back, bullets began whistling from the doorways lining the corridor.

While Li Ang charged forward on his motorcycle, his four teammates had already used grappling ropes to scale the building to the eighth floor. They had silently slipped into the rooms and, aiming through the thin door panels, targeted the unsuspecting gang members.

Caught by surprise, the thugs’ makeshift defensive line instantly collapsed. The entire corridor became a deadly channel, death spreading rapidly.

Pools of blood spread across the floor, leaving almost no clear place to step.

Chacha hastily rolled, burst through a wooden factory door, and dove for cover behind a load-bearing wall.

Listening to the relentless gunfire, his heart, after a brief, frantic pounding, actually calmed.

Is today the day?

He reflected on his less-than-glorious life, memories—painful, joyful, or bittersweet—flashing before his eyes. His face remained impassive, showing neither sorrow nor joy.

Finally, the gunfire slowly subsided, and the groans and screams ceased.

The wooden factory door was violently kicked open.

Chacha, hidden behind the wall, sprang up instantly. He held a pistol in his right hand and a Tiger Claw Knife in his left, aiming his pistol at the doorway.

He was prepared. The moment the door opened, he planned to take whoever came through hostage, using them as leverage for his slim chance of survival.

However, the kicked-open doorway was empty. Instead, a hand grenade, its pin already pulled by someone unknown, was gently tossed inside. It rolled with a soft RATTLE, RATTLE, stopping right behind Chacha’s rear.

"..."

BOOM—

Chacha, denied the chance to utter any final life reflections, was cleanly blown in two.

One piece landed in the corridor, the other inside the room.