Mr. Egg led us through a maze of back alleys to a small eatery.

　　The storefront was narrow, its signboard buried under a thick layer of grease and dust. The décor carried a distinctly dated feel. The moment we stepped inside, the owner greeted us warmly, and the rich aroma of meat rushed to meet us. I glanced around. Aside from the owner and the cook, there wasn’t a single server in sight. The cramped space barely fit five or six square tables—a textbook hole-in-the-wall joint. It wasn’t dinnertime yet, and we were the only customers. We took a long table near the counter and sat down together.

　　“Boss! Yak hotpot—the big one!” Mr. Egg called out from the end of the table, not even bothering with the menu.

　　“Coming right up! Have a seat, everyone!”

　　Noises clattered from the kitchen, and before long, the owner brought out a massive pot of steaming, fragrant yak meat.

　　“Dig in!”

　　With a casual wave of Mr. Egg’s hand, Lao Dao was the first to move, snatching a generous chunk of beef with his chopsticks. As the rich broth seeped out between the fibers of the meat, my traitorous mouth began to water.

　　Mr. Egg grinned. “So? How is it?”

　　Lao Dao took a bite, chewed slowly, frowned, and said, “Hmm… how do I put this… it’s not quite as authentic as the Qinghai yak hotpot back in Chongqing!”

　　“Get lost!” Mr. Egg kicked him under the table.

　　“Hahaha! That’s Brother Dao for you—full belly, full nonsense!” Young Master Feng laughed, stuffing a large piece of meat into his mouth.

　　“Damn right!” Lao Dao tugged at Mr. Egg’s sleeve. “And today I’m giving this ‘Old Egg’ a proper roasting!”

　　“Pfft—” I nearly choked laughing, even though I’d been focused on eating.

　　Mr. Egg really knew how to pick a place. The yak hotpot was excellent—huge chunks of meat, generous portions, and no skimping on ingredients. He even fished out a few pieces of cordyceps and gave us a brief lecture. We crowded around the pot, sweating, chatting nonsense, and having a great time—completely unaware that a beat-up minivan had quietly pulled up outside.

　　“Boss! We’re ordering!”

　　A burly man wearing a brown baseball cap and a black leather jacket pushed the door open, jingling a set of car keys. His voice boomed through the room.

　　I looked up. A long scar ran down his left cheek, like a massive centipede clinging to his jaw. It sent a chill through my scalp. Maybe it was prejudice, but a face like that screamed troublemaker. I didn’t dare meet his eyes, only stealing glances from the corner of my vision. Two others followed him in: another muscular man in sunglasses, and a thin, scholarly-looking man with gold-rimmed glasses. For some reason, that last man looked vaguely familiar, though I couldn’t place him.

　　The three sat at a table near the door and ordered yak hotpot as well. While waiting, they kept scanning the room, visibly on edge. When Mr. Egg merely stood up to fetch the teapot, Scarface stared him down for several seconds. The moment their eyes met midair, the lights seemed to flicker. From the mutual shock in their expressions, I could tell they knew each other—and not on friendly terms.

　　Sure enough, Scarface pushed back his chair and rose slowly, rage burning in his eyes as he strode toward our table. Sensing the shift, Lao Dao and Young Master Feng set down their bowls one after the other.

　　“Hiss…” Mr. Egg narrowed his eyes. After a brief pause, he suddenly sucked in a breath. “It’s you!”

　　“You bastard! So you do recognize me! You screwed me over royally back then!”

　　Scarface grabbed a beer bottle and smashed it against the counter—CRASH! He lunged, driving the jagged edge straight at Mr. Egg’s face.

　　Luckily, Mr. Egg reacted fast. He raised the metal hot-water pot to block the strike. Scalding water splashed everywhere, and Scarface howled in pain. Seeing his companion hurt, the man in sunglasses charged in without hesitation. In the blink of an eye, a full-blown brawl erupted inside the tiny restaurant.

　　The aisle was narrow, making movement difficult. The man in sunglasses kicked aside chairs and tables as he closed in, his stance clearly that of a seasoned fighter. Mr. Egg didn’t dare face him head-on. He grabbed whatever bottles and containers were within reach and hurled them wildly, glass shattering across the floor. But the man in sunglasses moved with practiced ease, blocking or dodging every projectile.

　　By now, Scarface had recovered from the burn. Gripping the broken bottle, he lunged again, slashing viciously toward Mr. Egg’s throat. Mr. Egg was heavy-set and slow—there was no time to dodge. The shard of glass, glinting coldly, arced straight for his neck.

　　“No!” I screamed, clapping my hands over my eyes. Something warm splattered onto the back of my hand, and the greasy air filled with the metallic stench of blood.

　　“Mr. Egg!” My heart lurched. A surge of adrenaline forced my tightly shut eyes open.

　　“Lao Dao!” Young Master Feng shouted.

　　Lao Dao stood sideways in front of the table, one hand flying up to shield Mr. Egg’s neck. The broken bottle stabbed deep into Lao Dao’s palm. Blood sprayed everywhere. His face twisted in pain, sweat pouring down his forehead—but he didn’t make a sound.

　　“You mother—!” Mr. Egg kicked Scarface hard in the thigh, sending him crashing to the floor.

　　At the same time, the man in sunglasses moved. A sharp kick to the back of Lao Dao’s knee buckled his injured leg. Before Lao Dao could recover, a brutal chop slammed into the back of his neck. He collapsed to the floor, unmoving.

　　Seeing things turn deadly, Young Master Feng snapped. He grabbed the hotpot and hurled the scalding broth at the attacker. The man in sunglasses didn’t even flinch. A cold smirk touched his lips as he sidestepped the splash and deflected the heavy pot with an upward elbow.

　　The pot flew through the air and struck the restaurant owner—who had rushed over to intervene—square on the head with a sickening clang. The owner dropped, clutching his skull and moaning. The terrified cook dragged him into the kitchen, slammed the door shut, and locked it, forgetting even to call for help.

　　Young Master Feng lunged, throwing a wild punch. A knife flicked out from the man’s sleeve and pressed against Young Master Feng’s throat, pinning him to the wall. In an instant, we were completely overpowered.

　　Trapped in the corner by Mr. Egg’s bulk and overturned furniture, I could only watch helplessly. To be honest, even if I’d gotten free, my skinny frame would’ve made me an easy target.

　　“You’re dead, old man!” Scarface staggered to his feet, fury renewed. He yanked the bloody bottle shard out of Lao Dao’s palm and stabbed toward Mr. Egg’s throat again. With nowhere left to retreat, Mr. Egg flinched and raised his arm in a futile block.

　　Seeing his friend on the brink of death, Young Master Feng roared and shoved the knife away from his own throat—only to be slammed back against the wall. Scarface grinned, arm swinging down for the kill.

　　“ENOUGH!”

　　Time froze. Sound vanished.

　　A jolt shot from my heart, heat flooding my limbs. My body moved on its own. My palm slammed into the table—crack—splintering it. I spun, my kick snapping into Scarface’s raised wrist. As I turned, the bloody shard flew from his grip, spinning slowly through the air. The world had slowed to a crawl.

　　Enraged at being stopped again, Scarface threw a heavy punch. To me, it was painfully slow. I drove my palm upward into his armpit.

　　THUMP.

　　He flew backward like a ragdoll, slamming into the floor several meters away, motionless.

　　The man in sunglasses, his composure shattered, attacked first. He kicked off the wall, knife reversed in his grip, leaping over overturned chairs—his sunglasses flying off—as he thrust for my throat. I dropped my center of gravity and let the blade pass overhead, then drove the heel of my palm upward under his chin.

　　CRUNCH.

　　Teeth, blood, and sunglasses hit the floor together. He flipped backward and landed headfirst, unconscious.

　　“Stop him!”

　　The slender man by the door bolted outside, clawing frantically at the minivan’s door. I tensed to chase him—but police officers appeared out of nowhere, slamming him against the vehicle. The moment I saw the blue uniforms, all the strength drained from me. The strange energy vanished, the world tilted, and everything went black.