Twelve figures stood in formation, each with a curved katana strapped to their waist. Black cloth masks obscured their faces, their eyes turning cold the moment they spotted Hong Fei. No words were exchanged—just the simultaneous rasp of steel being drawn as they charged.
Following Frank's orders, Hong Fei left his gun holstered. He took one long stride forward, drawing his blade in a reverse grip. His speed eclipsed the ninjas' completely. Like a hurricane plowing through reeds, he tore through their ranks. Steel flashed like fractured rainbows, the clang of blades punctuated by wet thuds as arterial sprays painted the air.
Five seconds. That's all it took. Hong Fei emerged from the whirlwind of motion to stand amidst a ring of corpses. Each body bore a single crimson line across the throat, some still pulsing, others already pooling dark across the floor. "Heading through main entrance," he reported. Frank's reply crackled immediately: "Good." The wooden door exploded inward under Hong Fei's kick.
The dojo stretched wide before him, twenty kneeling figures lining either side. With a flick of his wrist, Hong Fei sent his Cross-blade spinning through the air—it embedded itself halfway into the floorboards, handle vibrating. His boots struck the wooden planks with deliberate, echoing thuds that seemed to shake the room. The ninjas' eyes darted to the pistols at his hips. None moved.
As Hong Fei advanced, he caught the predatory gleam in nearby eyes. He kept walking, slow and deliberate. Three steps in, the closest ninja broke. The man lunged for the guns at Hong Fei's thighs.
That was all the provocation the others needed. Shouts erupted as the pack surged forward. The lead attacker crouched low, fingers stretching for the pistol grip. Hong Fei's leg pistoned upward and hammered down—spine met boot heel with a wet crack. The ninja crumpled underfoot.
Number two came from the opposite side. Hong Fei launched off the first body, driving his knee into the man's face. Blood geysered on impact. By the time Hong Fei landed, fists and feet were flying at him from all directions.
This time, he fought without the Eyes of Death—just raw reflexes and instinct. He pivoted, palms deflecting strikes aimed at his face and torso. Every movement flowed into the next: a wrist caught in a claw grip, fingers spidering up to crush a windpipe; an elbow smashing backward into a skull, followed by a knee to the face as he spun.
He stepped into another attacker, shoulder-checking with enough force to send the man crashing through his comrades. Ribs caved with an audible crunch, bloody froth bubbling from the ninja's lips. A sweeping kick took out the next, toes snapping upward to crush a temple. Every strike was surgical—a palm strike to the throat, a hammer-fist to the sternum.
Gouging out eyes, causing excruciating pain. A groin kick, leaving them crushed. Stomping on the instep, shattering the toes. Advancing with fierce attacks, alternating knees and elbows. In an instant, Hong Fei was surrounded by dead bodies. His gaze turned like lightning, locking onto a target. He stomped and rushed forward, his momentum like a thunderbolt.
Hong Fei stepped over fallen bodies, his elbow snapping forward in a brutal horizontal strike that crushed a man's sternum. The impact sent the body flying, a spray of blood arcing through the air. He pivoted smoothly, driving both palms downward in a crushing blow that shattered collarbones with an audible crack. The man dropped to his knees, only to meet a final, devastating knee strike to the forehead.
His waist twisted again, a coiled fist exploding from his abdomen like a cannon shot. Hong Fei's footwork was a blur of precision—light as a feather one moment, heavy and grounded the next. His movements flowed seamlessly, shifting from fluid grace to thunderous ferocity. Every strike met its mark without hesitation, every counter executed instinctively.
Years of training had etched these techniques into his muscle memory. He moved like a wolf among sheep, untroubled by the sheer number of enemies. Taiji's balance of Yin and Yang, Xingyi's Five Elements and Twelve Forms, Bagua's Four Cardinal Directions—all merged into a single, deadly dance. Practice was one thing, sparring another, but killing? That was where Hong Fei excelled.
The fight ended as quickly as it began. Only a handful of enemies remained, lingering on the periphery. They had stayed back at first, watching from a distance. Now, seeing their comrades fall, they hesitated, unwilling to advance. Hong Fei glanced up, and several turned to flee. Without missing a beat, he drew his gun, aimed, and fired. Bodies crumpled to the ground.
"Satisfying," he muttered. It wasn't often he encountered opponents who charged headlong into certain death. This had been a rare opportunity for true combat.
"Hong Fei!" Frank's voice cut through the aftermath. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Fighting!" Hong Fei shot back. "Get in here, now. I see Murakami—and that old man too."
Hong Fei sprinted inside, the dojo's interior opening into a serene garden of flowers and greenery. As he approached, the distant sound of gunfire grew louder. He halted abruptly before a corner, hearing dense footsteps ahead. Pressing against the wall, he lobbed two flashbangs into the open. The detonations were blinding and deafening.
He stepped forward, guns blazing in both hands. Shell casings ejected in rapid succession, clattering against the floor. Each bullet found its mark with pinpoint accuracy, striking foreheads dead center. Just as he holstered his weapons, more enemies appeared in the distance, firing rapidly.
Hong Fei didn't flinch. Instead, he advanced, returning fire with equal ferocity. Bullets collided mid-air, sparks flying. Seizing the moment his enemies paused to reload, he took aim and fired again. Every shot was lethal. His movements were effortless, almost artistic.
He pressed on until he crossed a small rockery, the view opening up to reveal a tranquil Japanese-style garden. A murmuring stream wound its way through the pebbles, where two figures stood facing each other. Beyond them, Frank wielded a submachine gun, trading fire with another group. He moved like a movie hero—bullets seemingly missing him by inches while his own shots found their targets with uncanny precision.
Hong Fei's arrival drew the attention of the two figures in the garden. One was Murakami, clad in traditional samurai armor. The other was Stick, sunglasses masking his eyes, a long staff gripped firmly in his hands. These were old adversaries, their history written in blood.
Murakami glanced at Stick, his voice calm but edged with menace. "It seems you've arrived at an inconvenient time."
Stick's reply was icy. "If it weren't for your lackeys interrupting, you'd already be dead."
On one side was Murakami, dressed as a samurai, and on the other was Stick, the blind warrior, his presence as sharp as ever. The tension between them crackled like a live wire.
Murakami stood his ground, lips curling in defiance. "Even without them, I won't die."
Hong Fei's brow furrowed. Who was this interloper? The distant gunfire crescendoed, snapping his attention back. Frank crunched over spent casings and fallen bodies, reloading with practiced ease. He leveled his weapon at Murakami, then shot Hong Fei a sideways glance. "Your call—you want the honors, or should I?"
Hong Fei answered with a raised hand and a gunshot.
Murakami grunted as his body convulsed with sudden energy. Dust billowed outward from his feet in a perfect ring. The bullet struck some unseen barrier midair, dropping harmlessly to the ground. "Firearms," he sneered, "are beneath me."
Frank didn't waste words. He simply pivoted, hefting the RPG launcher onto his shoulder.
A flicker of unease crossed Murakami's face, though his voice remained steady. "You'll miss."
Hong Fei flexed his fingers. "Patience. My turn."
Frank swung his aim toward Stick instead. The man tilted his head, palms raised. "We're on the same side here."
"Out." Frank's command left no room for debate.
Hong Fei smirked. He liked this guy's style.
Stick hesitated, then vanished into the shadows without another word.
Only when Frank's finger rested on the trigger did he turn and walk away quickly, disappearing from sight shortly after. Hong Fei descended the creaking steps, blade flashing as he pointed it straight at Murakami's throat.