Chapter 44: Methods

The thug holding the remote sneered, “Don’t do anything rash. We’re here for the money, not to take lives.”
The gunman spat, “Boss, why bother pretending with your own men? We were born for murder and arson! What’s the point of talking about civility? Just wait, I’ll kill a few, injure a few more—when the police arrive, they’ll have to tend to the wounded first. That’s our chance.”
Taking advantage of the distraction, Yang Changfeng quickly traced two words on Chen Aijia’s hand: “Don’t move.”
She was terrified, and guilt gnawed at her—if she hadn’t insisted on coming to the bank, none of this would have happened. These men kept boasting about murder and arson, and part of her felt she should just stand up and fight them.
Chen Aijia saw the marks Yang Changfeng left.
What’s he planning?
Why hasn’t he made a move yet?
The bank lobby was brightly lit. Chen Aijia squirmed violently, catching the thugs’ attention.
“Well, look at this one—still has time to wiggle her hips at a time like this. Who’s she trying to seduce?” said one with a machete, stationed at the door. The man propping up the security door grinned and bounced over.
Chen Aijia’s figure was striking—no one here was blind.
The gunman hesitated, his finger off the trigger.
Yang Changfeng wavered; he didn’t leap up to take out the gunman just yet.
If he could grab the man with the machete, he could at least use him as a shield against bullets.
The man, unaware he’d caught the eye of a seasoned soldier, swung his machete threateningly, forcing Yang Changfeng aside, then bent down, reaching for Chen Aijia’s shapely rear.
You asked for this, Yang Changfeng thought. Don’t blame me for making an example of you.
Suddenly, Yang Changfeng crouched, twisted swiftly, and appeared behind the reckless thug. The man blinked, catching a fleeting shadow from the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he turned his head, just as a hand shot up from below, striking his Adam’s apple and twisting hard. He lost consciousness instantly.
His body was flung forward, crashing heavily into the gunman. The shot fired with a deafening bang—but the bullet struck the ceiling, harming no one. The commotion, however, sent the elderly hostages into a frenzy of curses and shouts.
They began berating Yang Changfeng.
“Go die by yourself, don’t drag us down with you, you fool!” shouted an old man who’d been mumbling at the window now in clear, booming Mandarin.
Yang Changfeng had no time to deal with them. The moment he dispatched the enemy and sent the body flying, he knew the gunman was out of commission—at least for a few seconds.
The one with the remote was the real threat.
With the reflexes of a seasoned soldier, Yang Changfeng lunged at the group, maintaining a half-crouched stance.
He punched the gunman—who was uncertain where to aim—squarely in the groin. The man howled in agony, his pistol clattering to the floor as he doubled over. Before he could clutch his wound, a brutal knee to the face rendered him unconscious.
Yang Changfeng didn’t bother picking up the gun—there was no time. The man clutching the remote was already aiming at him.
Fortunately, there was still a window of opportunity.
With one hand, Yang Changfeng twisted the gun’s chamber upward, gripping it tightly to prevent it from firing. With the other, he seized the man’s wrist and, abandoning any restraint, squeezed with all his strength, snapping the thug’s wrist. The remote tumbled through the air.
With a swift kick, Yang Changfeng sent the remote flying toward the window. The male bank employee, seeing a chance to resist, quickly slammed the window shut. For the moment, the bomb was no longer a concern.
But those fighting the thugs outside were still in grave danger—half the robbers were still combat-ready, and all were armed.
With the three gunmen neutralized, Yang Changfeng finally felt some relief. The remaining few—no matter how long their blades were—wouldn’t stand a chance.
Firing guns would have made things easier, but it would also draw police suspicion to Yang Changfeng, and trouble was the last thing he wanted.
Still, he couldn’t attack again immediately. Two of the thugs, back-to-back, wielded knives with surprising skill—their blades swept in from both sides, one slashing horizontally, the other diagonally—a practiced coordination.
But to Yang Changfeng, this was no threat.
Rather than duck or retreat, he dove forward.
With a powerful grip, he caught both men by the wrists—once in his grasp, they were as good as harmless.

At that moment, a gunshot rang out.
Startled, Yang Changfeng turned to see Chen Aijia, clutching a pistol in trembling hands. Her arms shook violently, but the figure beneath her barrel—a masked man—had just had the back of his head blown open, collapsing backwards with a thud.
It turned out, this robber had attempted to sneak up behind Yang Changfeng. The elderly, who only moments ago cared nothing for anyone but themselves, now found their legs nimble as they bolted for the exit.
Yet the would-be attacker never expected that Chen Aijia would have the courage to stay behind, nor that she would quietly pick up a discarded pistol.
He tried to intimidate her into dropping the gun, but this unexpectedly stunning young woman quickly chambered a round and fired—without so much as a warning.
Those who had dashed for the door now threw themselves to the floor, trembling in terror—one was even so scared by Chen Aijia’s shot that he wet himself.
Chen Aijia, still shaking, aimed the gun at Yang Changfeng. He had no choice but to abandon the pursuit of fleeing robbers and hurried over, snatching the pistol from her hands—only for her to suddenly throw her arms around him, sobbing so hard she nearly fainted.
With the threat gone, the prone hostages found their courage.
One old lady—nimble from years of square dancing—leapt to her feet, swinging her handbag at Yang Changfeng’s back, shrieking, “Damn you, who told you to play the hero? What if you got us killed? Why don’t you go die, you brat, I’ll beat you to death!”
Seeing this, the others who hadn’t fled joined in, kicking and hitting Yang Changfeng.
Chen Aijia, stunned, lifted her tear-stained face from Yang Changfeng’s chest, her eyes red as she stared at these now ferocious old men and women, hardly recognizing them as the same terrified people who’d cowered before the masked robbers just moments ago.
Yang Changfeng took several blows, then suddenly cried out in feigned pain, quietly shielding Chen Aijia behind him. He raised his hand and slapped an old woman across the face.
Your children and grandchildren may indulge your behavior, but I won’t.
You struck first—security cameras have it all on record. This is self-defense, understand?
Damn, the wicked grow old, and sometimes the old turn wicked too. This world, at times, is truly infuriating.