Fatty San felt a violent, irreconcilable collision between his left brain and right brain.
He stared down at Dog Joy, nearly dropping to his knees on the dirt floor, suspecting that this four-legged menace had been his mortal nemesis in a past life, reincarnated solely to drag him to an early grave!
Unaware of the mortal crisis, Dog Joy barked again with cheerful enthusiasm: "Woof!"
Footsteps rapidly approached the shed outside.
Recalling that petrifying moment years later, Fatty San remained convinced that some miraculous, otherworldly force must have seized him. In a split-second surge of desperation, he lunged toward the industrial vats, selected the freshest, tallest corpse near the front, and hauled the deadweight out with every ounce of strength in his body.
The rigid onset of rigor mortis worked entirely in his favor. Tucking his massive frame behind the stiffened body, Fatty San propped the corpse upright like a shield.
The shed was pitch-black. Without shining a direct flashlight beam, no one could tell a living human was lurking behind the standing "zombie."
For once in his life, Dog Joy hit the exact right rhythm, barking frantically toward the doorway.
The middle-aged caretaker had been shivering with superstition all morning. Pushing the wooden door open, the sight before him nearly stopped his heart: a massive black-and-tan hound was howling hysterically at a pale, stiffened corpse, and even more terrifying... the corpse swayed, then took a slow, jerky step straight toward him!
Folklore had warned for centuries that a fresh corpse must never cross paths with cats or dogs, lest the animal's spirit cause the body to rise from the dead. Already terrified of spiritual retribution, the caretaker’s breath hitched in his throat. His eyes rolled back as he let out a bloodcurdling, screeching wail: "Mother of God! It's a walking corpse!"
To complete the theatrical effect, Fatty San pinched his nose from behind the corpse's shoulder, letting loose a series of hollow, ghastly groans: "Huuu... huuu..."
The caretaker scrambled out the doorway on all fours, tripping over the wooden threshold and smashing his face into the dirt. Blood smeared across his nose, but he didn't even dare wipe it away, fleeing down the dirt road without looking back once.
Fatty San let out a long, shuddering breath, slapping his chest. "Thank God for feudal superstition... talk about scaring a man to death..."
As he spoke, he released his grip. The rigid corpse pivoted half a turn and pitched forward, its purple, cold lips planting a wet, icy kiss squarely against Fatty San’s cheek.
Every hair on Fatty San’s body stood on end. "Mother of God!"
He dropped the body in sheer panic, scrambled backward, stepped squarely on another corpse's hand, and vaulted three feet into the air.
Frightened within an inch of his life, his chubby face twisted into a menacing scowl as he swore fiercely at the hound: "That ungrateful bastard Wei Chain... when I get back, I am going to hang him upside down by his ankles, twist him like a dough stick, and deep-fry him in hot oil until he's crispy on the outside and tender on the inside!"
Dog Joy, catching the familiar cadence of food words, began drooling profusely. Strangely enough, the beast failed to comprehend a single standard human command, yet the concept of "crispy on the outside, tender on the inside" seemed to resonate with its very soul.
Spotting a stack of unused body bags in the corner, Fatty San pulled on rubber gloves. He selected two relatively short, lightweight corpses, reached into his jacket pocket, and retrieved two customized business cards that looked convincing enough from afar. They had been printed at a cheap shop back home -- embossed with flashy gold lettering, marked with the exact address of Fourth Master Hu’s underground boxing venue provided by Wei Zhi Yuan, bearing a flashy, suggestive establishment name.
He tucked a card securely into each corpse's clothing, wrestled both bodies into a single heavy bag, zipped it shut with immense effort, heaved it onto his broad shoulders with a strained grunt, and slipped out the rear gate with Dog Joy.
Not far off lay a small, natural rural village. Huffing and wheezing under the crushing weight, Fatty San hauled the bag to the crest of a wooded slope. After scanning the surroundings from the brush, he rolled the first body down into the gulley.
True to its instinct to chase fast-moving objects, Dog Joy shot down the hill like a wild mustang with a lit tail.
Fatty San pressed his palms together in solemn prayer: "Amitabha, auspicious blessings... You two are sacrificing for a great cause. When I get home, I promise to burn mountains of ghost money for you both. Even though I'm a handsome man, please don't come back as ghosts to haunt me..."
With that, he shoved the second body down the incline.
In rural villages, domestic and stray dogs mingled freely; unless particularly aggressive, animals roamed without leashes, foraging, playing, and roaming in large packs.
Dog Joy's frantic barking quickly drew the local canine population. Within minutes, dozens of village dogs swarmed together like a rushing river, scrambling down the slope to join the chase. The canvas shroud was shredded by the pack in seconds.
The canine ruckus quickly alerted the villagers, and the discovery of two battered corpses sparked an instant, chaotic uproar.
Having completed his drop, Fatty San bolted into the dense brush before the locals climbed the ridge.
Hiding within an orchard half a mile away, he pulled out his binoculars -- the very ones Wei Zhi Yuan had crafted from scratch.
Twenty minutes later, the wail of sirens echoed across the valley as several patrol cars raced into the village. Seeing the trap sprung, Fatty San dialed Wei Chain’s phone, let it ring once, and hung up. Turning toward the distant village, he waved a quiet farewell to his four-legged companion.
A free-spirited hound like this belonged out in the open countryside rather than cooped up in a concrete city; running wild among the village packs was its true calling.
Without looking back, Fatty San picked up his pace and vanished down the road.
He had played his part to perfection. The rest lay in the hands of fate.
Back in the downtown eatery, the yellow-haired man finally drifted toward the counter, peering down at the mobile phone in Wei Zhi Yuan’s hands. The boy appeared entirely engrossed in a game of Snake.
"Hey, kid." Yellow Hair poked his shoulder.
Wei Zhi Yuan grunted absently, keeping his eyes glued to the tiny screen until the pixelated snake crashed into the wall. Only then did he scramble up in apparent panic. "Sorry, sir! Did you need something?"
Yellow Hair rolled his eyes. "Is that game really that fun? You’ve been glued to that screen all morning."
Wei Zhi Yuan lowered his voice, trembling with timid apprehension. "I... I finished my chores, sir. I wiped down the tables. Because you were eating, I didn't dare sweep the floor... I'll clean up the moment you finish. Was... was there an issue with your meal?"
Yellow Hair squinted, scrutinizing the child's face for any subtle deception. Concluding he was being paranoid over an illiterate elementary schooler, he grunted and returned to his table.
Around noon, the dining room picked up. A delivery call came in, and the motorcycle courier rushed out with the order.
Deliveries were rare at this eatery, so only one courier was employed. Though Wei Zhi Yuan kept his head bowed, a surge of excitement raced through his veins -- luck was on his side.
Clearing a table, the boy feigned a low-battery alert on his phone. Ducking behind the counter, he plugged the device into the charger, using a clean towel to muffle the built-in speaker out of Yellow Hair's line of sight. Then, with practiced speed, he dialed the restaurant's landline.
When the landline trilled, Wei Zhi Yuan picked up the receiver with practiced ease: "Hello... Ah, it might take a while, can you wait? Right... and your address?"
Scribbling a fabricated address onto his order pad, he continued smoothly, "We'll send it over shortly. Delivery fee is three yuan fifty."
Hanging up, he carried the pad to the kitchen. "Uncle, customer ordered a takeout of Kung Pao Chicken..."
Packing the lunchbox into a plastic bag, Wei Zhi Yuan collected two yuan in bus fare from the owner and headed out. Yellow Hair tossed a crumpled bill onto the table and shadowed the boy out the door.
Yellow Hair was an amateur tail -- far less skilled than the predatory stalker the boy had encountered years ago. Wei Zhi Yuan deliberately "spotted" him at the corner, stopping with a polite bow: "Finished your lunch, sir? Please come again! Take care!"
Glancing at the bustling pedestrian street, Yellow Hair had no choice but to push past him and keep walking.
Circling the block, Yellow Hair doubled back to resume his tail, only to see the boy boarding a city bus. Panicking, Yellow Hair sprinted forward, leaping through the rear folding doors just as they hissed shut.
The bus was packed to the gills. Shoving passengers aside, Yellow Hair craned his neck, scanning the sea of heads for the boy -- only to find the aisle completely empty of children.
Refusing to believe it, he squeezed from the rear to the front, then back again, drawing angry shouts and curses from commuters, but the boy had vanished into thin air.
Realizing the brat wasn't aboard, Yellow Hair scrambled off at the next stop and sprinted back to the station -- the child was nowhere to be found.
The syndicate hadn't bothered to assign a full team to watch a mere boy. Glancing back from the corner, Wei Zhi Yuan had watched Yellow Hair lunge onto the bus; the boy had simply stepped off the front steps before the doors closed, slipping cleanly into the crowd.
Clutching the bag of Kung Pao Chicken, Wei Zhi Yuan sprinted to a public payphone, dialing Fatty San immediately to exchange their vital intelligence.
Meanwhile, inside the gilded, blood-soaked underground arena, Wei Chain’s pupils contracted sharply. His defensive instincts flared, yet by the time he turned around, his features had settled into a look of startled innocence.
Looming over him was an imposing man in black staff attire. His semi-clenched fists were unnervingly flat -- unlike ordinary hands where the middle knuckle protruded, the four knuckles on each hand formed a seamless, hardened ridge. Such hands weren't born; they were forged through thousands of bone-crushing impacts against iron and stone.
This was a genuine killer. Wei Chain took a cautious step back, suspecting this was Chao Lao-9’s appointed ambush in the dark tunnel, grown impatient from waiting.
"Scared me to death, Brother," Wei Chain grumbled, feigning mild annoyance. "Why sneak up on a guy like that?"
The man asked again, his tone flat and cold, "Why aren't you leaving?"
Wei Chain offered a pained grimace, clutching his lower abdomen and hunching his posture slightly. "Ah, I'm useless... Whenever my nerves flare, my stomach turns to water. I need to hit the restroom first."
The man scrutinized him with cold, calculating eyes. Cold sweat trickled down Wei Chain’s spine as he mentally ran the odds: If I take this man head-on, what are my chances of survival?
After a tense silence, the brute let out a contemptuous grunt. "Make it quick. I'll wait outside."
Reaching the restroom, Wei Chain slipped into a narrow stall and latched the door, letting out a shallow breath. Knowing the enforcer was stationed right outside, his thoughts raced -- no signal from Fatty San yet. Could he rely on the fat bastard? If the contingency failed, how was he going to break out?
Right then, a low conversation drifted from the adjoining stall. A slick, oily voice murmured, "Under normal circumstances, you'd never beat him. But I’ve got premium goods here."
The listener spoke with a thick, lisping accent. "What kind of goods?"
The slick pusher replied, "Performance compound. Plenty of fighters use it in secret."
The lisping man scoffed, "You mean standard dope?"
"Standard dope is garbage compared to this," the pusher hissed. "That stuff just gives you a temporary high. My formula actually unlocks dormant potential. Pop this, and you’ll feel boundless strength surging through your muscles. Any fractured bones or bruises go completely numb."
The sound of crinkling paper echoed between the stalls. The lisping fighter asked with deep suspicion, "This isn't hard narcotics, is it? How could anything work that fast?"
"Don't talk nonsense!" the pusher snapped defensively. "This is grade-A merchandise -- not toxic street poison. Take it with confidence; there are zero side effects... Well, aside from slight retinal congestion. When your blood circulation spikes, the capillaries expand naturally. Red eyes are entirely normal. It clears up in a day or two."
The lisping fighter remained silent, clearly wavering.
"Think about it!" the pusher urged. "You saw the women's bout yesterday, didn't you? A twenty-kilo weight disparity -- the lighter girl weighed sixty kilos at most, while her opponent was over eighty! Everyone expected the heavy favorite to crush her. But that girl took my formula and knocked her opponent clean out of the ring."
The lisping fighter paused, whispering, "You sound like you know the circuit better than I do."
The pusher chuckled smoothly. "Just looking out for a brother. Tell you what -- first sample is on the house. Take it, win your purse, and come back to me. We'll do long-term business. Deal?"
The stall door clicked open. The pusher's voice faded down the tiled corridor: "Come back to me after you win!"
Footsteps echoed out toward the sinks.
Wei Chain remained motionless. He couldn't be certain whether he had witnessed a genuine illicit transaction or an orchestrated performance designed for his ears.
Right on cue, a soft knock rattled against his stall door. The pusher's voice drifted through the wooden partition: "Little brother... you've been in there a while. Stomach acting up from pre-fight nerves? Relax. I've got something right here that guarantees a win."
...It had been a staged performance after all.
Playing along smoothly, Wei Chain responded in a hesitant, trembling voice, "Is it... the same medicine that big brother just took?"
Hearing his target take the bait, the pusher could barely contain his delight. "Exactly! Want to give it a shot?"
Wei Chain asked with deliberate timidity, "Is... is mine free too? I don't have much cash on me..."
"Win your bout and you'll have plenty of cash," the pusher chuckled, sliding a small wax-paper packet through the narrow gap beneath the stall door. "I'm a generous businessman -- first sample is always on the house. Take good care of it."
Wei Chain bent down, scooped up the packet, and released a series of loud, exaggerated flatulence noises. Hearing the foul cacophony, the pusher figured his work was done and beat a hasty retreat from the restroom.
Wei Chain let out a quiet breath. If he could lower their guard, he might buy enough time to engineer an escape.
Suddenly, a massive commotion erupted in the outer corridor. Wei Chain pressed his ear against the door, catching the frantic shout echoing through the hall: "Police!"
His pulse spiked with fierce, electrifying intensity -- Fatty San! That glorious fat bastard had actually pulled it off!
Two mutilated corpses discovered outside a rural village constituted a major homicide case. The Municipal Criminal Investigation Brigade had deployed in full force. The business cards recovered from the bodies pointed directly to a luxury private club -- an address known to investigators as an exclusive, high-end VIP establishment.
Suspecting a setup, the captain had nonetheless led a convoy of patrol cars to inspect the premises.
When detectives breached the gilded entrance, the syndicate enforcers froze in total shock -- and the investigators were equally stunned.
Fourth Master Hu had maintained airtight operational security; his men couldn't fathom how the authorities had dropped from the clear sky.
Meanwhile, the police convoy hadn't expected to uncover an underground bare-knuckle boxing syndicate. The captain had prepared to trade polite diplomatic pleasantries with wealthy socialites, only to be greeted by a blood-soaked, illegal fighting arena!
A young rookie investigator whispered, "Captain... what the hell is this?"
His heart pounding, the captain swallowed hard, keeping his voice deadpan and authoritative as he drew his weapon: "Detain everyone... Bring the primary organizers in for interrogation!"