Chapter 748: Tracking

The most bustling part of New York is Manhattan, where skyscrapers cluster densely together. It can be called the economic and financial center of the entire United States, or even the world's financial center. Wall Street, famous worldwide, is right here.

Yet in the heart of this central city, speeding car chases, murders, and even the later detonation of a building triggered not the slightest stir…

He parked the car at the entrance, and hotel staff came over to help move it. Wang Yan looked up at the towering triangular-prism-shaped building before him, shook out his clothes, stamped his feet, smoothed the wrinkles from his body, and ascended the steps wearing sharp-toed, ornate, glossy leather shoes, entering the Continental Hotel.

The interior decor was predominantly dark, filled with Western religious elements; the dome soared high, like Gothic architecture, making one feel profoundly insignificant and imbuing the space with a mysterious, dim Western atmosphere.

Wang Yan walked straight to the front desk, where only a bald Black man wearing glasses stood—this Black man was called Charon Ridick, a trusted assistant to Winston, the hotel's manager. This Black man eventually died, shot dead, having aided Winston.

He didn't know the Black man's name, but the nameplate on the desk clearly displayed it.

He glanced at the Easterner before him, then at the computer on the counter, and offered a gentlemanly smile: "Mr. Wang, congratulations on becoming a member of the Continental Hotel. Are you here to collect your gold coin?"

Seeing Wang Yan nod, he pulled open a drawer and took out from a neatly stacked pile of gleaming gold coins…

Pinching the coin, he pressed it onto the counter and pushed it toward Wang Yan, his face still smiling: "This is a High Table pass gold coin, forged from pure gold, weighing one ounce. At today's closing gold price, its value is nine hundred and eighty-six U. S. dollars. The obverse bears Satan, the reverse Jesus; the inscription around the rim reads: 'Not from the counsel of the wicked, nor stand in the path of sinners, nor sit in the seat of scoffers'—this is the Law of the Old Testament, and our guiding principle."

Within, we use gold coins to purchase services—anywhere in the world where a Continental Hotel exists. We provide medical aid, firearms, intelligence, corpse collection, and more. It might cost one coin, or ten.

Sir, you may melt it down and sell it at market value. But please do not directly circulate the coin outside. Believe me, you will regret doing so.

Lastly, as a first-time registered member, the Continental Hotel offers you one complimentary service. How may we assist you?"

Wang Yan nodded and said: "I haven't had dinner yet. Provide me with a meal."

This request surprised Charon. Normally, those first using their complimentary service overwhelmingly chose tactical firearm modifications or intelligence, not meals like Wang Yan's.

But Charon said nothing further. This was a place where psychotics and freaks gathered; the more skilled, the bolder—any irrational choice was unsurprising.

He smiled: "As you wish, Mr. Wang. We have the finest culinary team, and all ingredients are top-tier. Today's beef is air-freighted from Australia, the foie gras from Hungary, and all other premium ingredients are freshly delivered. We may not have Chinese dishes to your taste—please forgive us. But rest assured, our other dishes are equally exceptional."

"Good." Wang Yan returned the smile and nodded.

"Allow me to add one more point: within the Continental Hotel, violence is forbidden. Should it occur, the first aggressor will be sanctioned. This is ironclad law—no defiance tolerated."

Upon receiving Wang Yan's affirmation, he extended a finger toward the other side: "Mr. Wang, the restaurant and bar are over there. Unlimited service—enjoy your dinner."

Wang Yan thanked him cheerfully, took the gold coin from the counter, and flipped it nimbly between his joints before walking toward the hotel's restaurant.

Though night had just fallen and it was still too early for those who claimed to inhabit the real world to emerge, the place was already crowded. Most were drinking and chatting; few were eating.

Actually, the crowd wasn't surprising—there aren't many Continental Hotels. Only in the capitals or economic hubs of developed nations does one exist; there are barely over twenty worldwide. The United States, the world's top military, political, and economic power with the fourth-largest land area, has only two: one here on the East Coast in New York, the other on the West Coast in San Francisco.

Ignoring the scrutiny of others, Wang Yan sat alone at a table, flipped through the menu, ordered many dishes and a bottle of wine, then quietly observed the surrounding crowd.

Killers aren't all aloof figures. With such diverse origins—people from every country, varying levels of education—their basic conduct is abysmal.

It's understandable: truly educated, cultured people would never choose to earn money by risking their lives on the blade's edge. Even criminals prefer so-called high-intelligence crimes—finance, money laundering, intelligence theft—more covert, safer, and often more profitable. At any time, those doing the dirty, labor-intensive work earn the least.

These people are accustomed to lawlessness; if you don't have a few lives on your hands, you're too ashamed to speak—or even sit here, because the seat burns your ass.

Wang Yan was a newcomer, and an Easterner—unpopular among these foreigners. Especially given their low caliber, racists here would be even more fanatical.

Though his depth was unreadable and his identity unknown, who here wasn't a ruthless character? Aside from well-known legends like John Wick, who fears whom?

So Wang Yan simply sat quietly. He hadn't sought trouble, yet trouble sought him. There were other Asians here, but they carried some reputation—people were cautious and wouldn't dare challenge them.

Wang Yan, however, was a stranger, appeared older, and seemed easy to bully—so naturally, someone stepped forward to test him.

A muscular white man approached, yanked open a chair, and sat directly across from Wang Yan. He pulled his eyes wide open with both hands, narrowing them to slits, and said: "Newbie just registered? Chinese? Japanese? Korean?"

This was the civilized translation of Chinese. In reality, the foreigner had said the three discriminatory terms: 'k, Jap, Gook.' A seasoned bigot, layering slurs.

Undoubtedly, being discriminated against in the United States is normal. In Brooklyn, where Chinese communities gather, such incidents are commonplace.

Among this invisible trash, the appearance of a clueless idiot was perfectly ordinary. Wang Yan had expected a Black man to provoke him, but clearly, even Black men here were discriminated against—among ruthless types, they didn't want trouble. Or perhaps they'd intended to target Wang Yan themselves, but hesitated, and this white trash beat them to it.

Wang Yan raised an eyebrow, silently calculated: it had been years since he'd personally killed anyone. He smiled politely: "I have only one gold coin. If you don't mind gaining one more, shall we step outside and talk?"

He didn't yet know enough to oppose the High Table, so he'd temporarily abide by their rules.

The white man blinked, then understood Wang Yan's meaning. He sneered: "Why not just hand me that coin? I'll let you live."

"No more talk. Are you coming or not?"

"Now?"

Wang Yan didn't answer. He stood, told the restaurant server he'd return shortly, and walked out first. Amid the surrounding cheers and jeers, the white man grinned and followed.

Charon watched silently as the two exited the hotel. Such duels were common—how else would these lawless types resolve conflicts? Of course, only one side's death truly eliminated the conflict.

Outside, they reached a narrow alley not far from the hotel. It wasn't quite an alley—just a long, thin passage between two buildings, too narrow for vehicles. No streetlights. The darkness beneath the city's glitter hid all its crimes.

Seeing Wang Yan enter the alley, the muscular white man pulled a spring-loaded dagger from his pocket. Without a word, he charged straight at the Easterner, who stood smiling before him.

He'd intended to give the kid a chance—but that smile infuriated him. He decided to grant the boy redemption.

Wang Yan liked this. He didn't enjoy talking, especially when killing.

Seeing the foreigner's exposed body, blade in hand, Wang Yan stepped back slightly, seized the man's wrist holding the knife, pulled backward along the man's forward momentum, stepped sideways, and lightly pressed his palm against the man's chest.

One strike sent the foreigner's eyes bulging. His scream died before it formed. Wang Yan retracted his palm, curled his four fingers, and struck the man's throat with the second knuckles, silencing the cry. Simultaneously, his other hand twisted, disarming the spring dagger.

Wang Yan gripped the blade precisely, slashed the artery in one arm, then repeated the motion on the other. He swiftly dislocated both arms, delivered two clean side kicks to the shins, punched the Adam's apple again to stifle the scream, then delivered a front kick that slammed the man into the wall, where he slowly slid down.

With a graceful flick, Wang Yan threw the dagger like a flying knife into the man's belly. He brushed nonexistent dust from his hands, pulled out a pack of Huazhi, lit one, crossed his arms, and stood watching the man's howls, exhaling smoke lazily—done.

This foreigner couldn't even withstand one move. Wang Yan's palm strike could have been replaced directly by the throat strike, shattering the windpipe, severing the brain-body connection, killing him instantly.

But the bastard talked too much. Let him suffer a little—his blood would drain soon enough.

"Sir, I'm sorry, please forgive my offense…"

Through the flickering red glow, the foreigner's blurred face strained against the pain, stammering his plea.

"Sorry, I'm not God. May Satan's hell have no discrimination." Wang Yan still smiled, calmly rejecting the plea.

Hearing Wang Yan's refusal, the foreigner fell silent. Weakly slumped against the wall, his vacant eyes flickered with fleeting nostalgia. With his limited brain, he recalled his evil life.

Wang Yan smoked one cigarette, flicked the butt onto the already unconscious, pseudo-dead foreigner, stepped forward in his polished leather shoes, took a small hop, swung his long leg like a soccer kick, and delivered a low roundhouse to the man's neck, snapping it.

He bent down, searched the body, took a phone and eight gold coins, strolled out of the alley, and re-entered the hotel.

Charon showed no surprise. Two entered, one returned—he'd seen it countless times. "Welcome back, Mr. Wang. Your dinner has just been served. You've returned at the perfect time." He still smiled.

Wang Yan nodded cheerfully, pulled a gold coin from his pocket, curled his thumb around his index finger, and flicked it. The coin whirred as it flew onto the counter, spinning there.

"Handle the body. It's in the alley beside us."

"Happy to serve you. Enjoy your meal, Mr."

Wang Yan waved his hand and turned toward the restaurant.

This time he returned to the restaurant, his treatment improved greatly; when eyes met, he received smiles from some friendly faces. He had killed a man who had proven himself, thereby proving himself—and earned a degree of respect. Even those who had previously looked down on him as an Oriental, more than the white man before, no longer came to bother him.

As Charon had said, all the dishes he had requested were already on the table, and the left-side bottle of Château Mouton Rothschild's recent vintage had been decanted.

The top tier of the criminal chain was indeed generous; this one bottle cost him five or six hundred dollars. Add in the pile of dishes he ordered—many of them so-called premium ingredients—and this meal would cost three thousand dollars outside. A single gold coin was worth only a thousand dollars; even spending gold coins here for this meal was extremely worthwhile.

Especially after tasting it, Wang Yan raised his evaluation of the criminal gang—even more so, because they hadn't been boasting: the chef was a master, the ingredients truly excellent, the flavor outstanding.

Just as he savored his meal alone, an Asian middle-aged man sat across from Wang Yan and spoke fluent Chinese: "Wang Yan, I looked into you—you just got registered. I just saw that white man's corpse. You struck cleanly and decisively. You're no nobody. Where did you work before?"

The man didn't bother with politeness—he poured himself a glass from the decanter and stared fixedly at Wang Yan.

"You should introduce yourself before speaking."

The middle-aged man smiled. "Li Zhenkun. My ancestors were from Hejian. Hmm, I'm a distant relative of Li Shuwen. Now I'm based in Bangkok—haven't returned home in many years."

Wang Yan smiled. "Afraid to go back? I thought the Da Lu Hotel was impressive—they have branches in Moscow, yet none in China."

"So what if there's no Da Lu Hotel? People still die." Li Zhenkun shrugged indifferently.

"Doesn't the Da Lu Hotel keep registered personnel confidential? Do you just sell information freely?"

"Because my clearance is high enough—I even know you're neighbors with John Wick, that troublemaker. Nothing strange about that. Rules are cages made for the weak. Now tell me: what did you do before? Soldier in China?"

"Just a lowly street brat who trained a few moves. Grew up poor. Parents couldn't afford treatment and died in the hospital. Wanted a new life, so followed the line, crossed over. Robbed plenty, bought a fake identity, lived well. But ambition, once born, won't fade. With money, you want more. With endless money, you want even more. By chance, I heard the Da Lu Hotel made money fast. I claimed I could fight, so came looking."

Since you've seen my file, you know my last job paid only five thousand dollars—and they still made me pay IRS taxes. I got three thousand. I'd make more robbing the Mafia."

Wang Yan spoke nonsense, mixing truth and lies.

"Would you be interested in working with us?" Li Zhenkun smiled warmly, extending an invitation.

"Do what?"

"Anything. Assassin. Bodyguard. We own plenty of businesses—gambling, drugs, prostitution, fraud, human trafficking. Whatever's profitable, we do it. Join us, and you'll live in luxury. Far better than now. After all, a dirty-job assassin ends up just like John Wick—killed by a bunch of petty thieves, car stolen. No future."

Wang Yan felt Li Zhenkun was trying to scam him, to lure him into trafficking.

He shook his head. "Money doesn't matter to me now. I can rob anytime. I'll never starve."

"Then what matters to you?"

Wang Yan leaned forward slightly, whispering: "I heard the High Table controls a serum that enhances human bone and muscle strength. Do you know about it?"

Li Zhenkun frowned. "You want it?"

"Yes. If you can get it for me, I'll work for you my whole life."

"Naive." Li Zhenkun sneered, standing to leave.

Wang Yan smiled and blocked him lightly. "Leave me your contact. If I change my mind later, I can still work for you. Exchange numbers—add Facebook, WeChat. Makes communication easier."

Li Zhenkun thought a moment, pulled out his phone, exchanged numbers with Wang Yan, then turned and left.

Watching him walk away to sit with several other Asian faces, Wang Yan continued eating and drinking, smiling. Coming to this hotel was right—Li Zhenkun clearly knew things, probably more than John Wick.

Li Zhenkun was a martial artist—solid stance, real skill. Chinese names are interesting; clearly, "Zhenkun" wasn't random. He's involved in crime, trained in martial arts, and ties himself to Li Shuwen. So this name wasn't accidental: Zhenkun is a hexagram—Zhen above, Kun below. Zhen is thunder, Kun is earth. This is the Yu hexagram—earth yielding to thunder, symbolizing spring's birth, an auspicious sign, carrying meaning.

Only two kinds of families choose such names: cultured ones, or uncultured ones. Clearly, Li Zhenkun's family had some heritage. That was good.

Wang Yan quietly finished his lavish dinner, didn't rush to leave, but sat on a high stool at the bar, ordered a glass of neat whiskey on ice from a sexy woman with her hair coiled and body tattooed, and silently observed Li Zhenkun's movements.

"I'm Adi Bonnet. Hello, sir. Rare to see an Oriental here."

Wang Yan swirled his glass. "Why?"

"You're new, then." Adi smiled. "Da Lu Hotel has branches in Tokyo, Singapore, Bangkok. Orientals have their own bases too. Remember: Da Lu Hotel is just a hotel."

"I am new. Whether I'm a rookie? You'll find out firsthand." Wang Yan kept drinking, tossing off flirty remarks.

People who earn their lives with death have only one attitude toward this: indulgence. They need an outlet, and this pleasure is different.

Adi leaned forward, pressing her chest against the bar, the deep cleavage exposed. She traced Wang Yan's face with her fingers. "Then let me experience it?"

She'd seen him fight earlier—otherwise she wouldn't waste words on someone powerless. Now, this Oriental man had stirred her interest. Let's play.

Wang Yan calmly removed her hand, checked her pulse, then reached forward, felt the curve's elasticity, and shook his head slightly in regret. "Not today. I've other business."

"You're interested in them? I'd advise you to drop it."

"You know about them?"

Adi smiled. "Not exactly. They're in business. We're killers. But they're strong—individually, and their families are stronger. We're lone wolves. Don't provoke them. Even if you kill one, endless others will come after you."

"I'm not thinking of killing him. Just curious. He just tried recruiting me. What I wonder is—why is he here? You said Orientals have bases here."

"Who knows?"

Wang Yan didn't care. Let them do what they wanted. His eyes were only on the human enhancement gene project. As long as John Wick lived, everything else was trivial—he didn't care.

The hotel's manager, Winston, probably knew. But Wang Yan was nobody—he couldn't even speak to him. If he coerced or threatened, he'd invite trouble. Then he wouldn't need to do anything else—he'd be just like John Wick, hunted daily.

He didn't mind. After all, he was an old man—needed to move. But it would delay his real goal. Not worth it.

In this short time, Li Zhenkun had risen and left with his group. Wang Yan drained his glass, brushed his thumb across Adi's well-kept, lightly made-up face, and traced her lips. "I'll come find you tomorrow night. Let you see if I'm really a rookie."

"Come back alive first."

Wang Yan knew the foreign woman didn't believe him. He didn't believe himself either. He grinned and raised an eyebrow at Adi. "Keep it quiet."

He rose and left without hesitation. At the hotel entrance, he watched Li Zhenkun's group get into their car. When his own car arrived, he followed behind.

Adi watched Wang Yan leave, shrugged indifferently, kept drinking, and endlessly wiped glasses. Her main job was bartender at the Da Lu Hotel. Her side job: killer…

(Do bullets turn corners?)