Chapter 749: A Different Approach

Driving far behind, Wang Yan followed Li Zhenkun's car to Tang Renjie in southern Manhattan.

This Chinatown covers four square kilometers, encompasses over forty streets, and is home to 150,000 Chinese people. Its restaurants serve Chinese food, there are large markets, and people communicate in Chinese. Life here feels no different from home unless you're consciously aware you're in a foreign country. The majority are from southeastern coastal regions—Guangdong, Fujian, and Hong Kong.

In fact, compared to people from other areas, those from the coastal regions are more spirited and bold. It has nothing to do with individual combat ability; rather, their will to survive the sea—facing storms and tempests—is overall stronger and more aggressive. Overseas Chinese are predominantly from these coastal areas, either due to wartime displacement or later pursuit of fortune abroad.

Parking outside a shop with a sign reading "Li's Massage," Li Zhenkun and his group got out and entered through the back door.

Wang Yan made no move—he stopped the car, turned off the engine, lit a Huazi, and sat quietly inside. Long minutes passed without anyone emerging; Wang Yan confirmed this was Li Zhenkun's base.

He raised his hand to glance at the tactical watch on his wrist. It had no flashy features—just waterproofing, dustproofing, an acid-alkali-resistant strap made of special material, and most importantly, precise timekeeping with minimal error.

The watch showed 10:35—a neither-here-nor-there hour. Those who rest had already slept; those who didn't rest were just waking up.

Tang Renjie's population density was high: ordinary merchants, ordinary laborers, and ordinary thugs lived here. Undoubtedly, the foundation of Chinese gangs was Chinese people, so as a Chinese enclave, Tang Renjie naturally bore traces of Chinese organized crime. All kinds of people roamed the streets, and there were still plenty of folks out and about.

Wang Yan was not John Wick. Police didn't chase John Wick, but they'd certainly chase him. He didn't want to cause trouble and then spend his life hiding.

Earlier, at the hotel, when that white man pulled a switchblade instead of a gun, that was suspicious. Street gunfights and daytime building explosions? Fine for them. But for Wang Mou? Not so much. Better to be cautious.

So even though he carried a gun, he still stepped out of the car holding his "Hanfeng" treasure blade.

He circled to the back door, knocked with the pommel of his blade—three thuds—and a short-haired, muscular man in casual clothes opened the door. Seeing Wang Yan's unfamiliar face, formal suit, and the expensive-looking blade in hand, he narrowed the gap warily and asked in a Shandong accent: "Who are you looking for?"

"Li Zhenkun sent me to find him," Wang Yan said, his face always wearing a friendly smile.

"Wait a moment—I'll verify." As he spoke, the man moved to shut the door.

Without hesitation, Wang Yan reached out, locked his throat, and slammed the scabbard into his stomach—rendering him instantly incapacitated, his grip on the door loosening.

Stepping calmly inside, he closed the door with good manners, then frowned at the surveillance camera at the entrance. Indeed, the new century meant criminals were better prepared.

He drew his blade, suspending the edge against the man's neck, and asked coolly: "Where is Li Zhenkun?"

"S…second floor."

"Good."

As he spoke, Wang Yan fully drew his blade, slicing open the man's throat, sheathed the scabbard, and advanced toward the several men who had already rushed out wielding knives.

On first contact, he sensed the difference. These men—whether in blade angle, force, or footwork—were not ordinary thugs swinging knives in street brawls.

The Eight Methods of the Blade: sweep, chop, parry, shave, flick, press, slash, thrust—each had its own technique. Most people only chopped or hacked. These men were vastly different. They coordinated well: some feinted at the face, others targeted the lower limbs, some drove straight thrusts, nearly sealing off all of Wang Yan's escape routes.

As the saying goes: two fists can't fight four hands. When multiple attackers strike vital points simultaneously, the defender becomes flustered, guarding the head but leaving the rear exposed.

But for Wang Yan, it was useless. Again, in life-or-death combat, it's all about speed and strength. Before absolute power, everything else is showmanship. Only when strength is evenly matched does one care whose ultimate technique is deadlier.

Back then, Wu Song, Lu Junyi, and others could parry Wang Yan's attacks and trade blows because they didn't intend to kill. A single level of martial skill difference meant life or death. Even if they were truly formidable, they'd fall within three to five strikes.

Instantly, Wang Yan executed a tactical backward step, parried the face-sweeping blade, blocked the thrust aimed at his abdomen, then closed in with a front kick that sent the leg-striker flying. Two swift slashes followed—the other two clutched their throats and collapsed, blood oozing through their fingers, trembling as they awaited death.

He stepped forward two more paces and finished off the man he'd kicked with another slash, then walked calmly through the back of the massage parlor, blade in hand.

This area was separated from the front massage shop; only these few guarded the first floor. Around the corner, a staircase led underground, sealed by an iron door requiring a password to open. The door also had a camera—clearly, below lay another world.

He felt no curiosity. Whether it was gambling, drugs, or a warehouse—he didn't care. Right now, his eyes saw only Li Zhenkun.

When people have strong self-confidence, faced with an intruder breaking in, they typically don't flee—they want to see what's going on.

Fortunately, Li Zhenkun was one such confident man.

When Wang Yan reached the second floor, over a dozen men stood waiting with knives. They'd seen how fast Wang Yan had killed four men in under a minute, so they'd gathered in force. Li Zhenkun stood behind them, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette, exuding the air of a big boss.

"I swear, we only met today. We have no grudge. I even gave you my number—if you ever have nowhere to go, you could come to me. Can you tell me why you're doing this?"

Li Zhenkun couldn't help scratching his head with his cigarette, truly baffled. Why? Why?

Wang Yan smiled, gripping his blade with both hands at the stair entrance: "You know about the Gaozuo Gene Project. I'm here for that. Tell me everything you know, and I'll leave."

Leaving his number wasn't an offer of loyalty—he just didn't know where Li Zhenkun lived. If he'd stayed at a mainland hotel, he'd have lost track. The number was for later phone calls and tracking.

Li Zhenkun laughed bitterly: "The more you know, the faster you die. You killed four of my men. Now you think you can just walk away? I'll give you a chance—if you…"

Wang Yan had no patience for his words—he charged forward with his blade.

Though the corridor wasn't narrow, only two men could swing effectively at once. In a full-scale battle, he'd have charged head-on with wide, brutal strikes—chopping arms, severing heads, even splitting torsos if he got excited.

But now he chose technique. Wide, brutal strikes would be too bloody. After killing these dozen men, the corridor would be drenched in blood—and that would dirty his clothes.

He slashed once—the two men before him, unprepared for such sudden violence, had their throats cut. He then retreated, parrying the attacks of those who reacted.

Blade techniques, like fist techniques, have no fixed moves—only fluid sequences combining forms and energy control.

Wang Yan channeled strength through his entire body, releasing it at will. Each movement carried lethal force. These minor players—even with his restrained technique to avoid excessive bloodshed and mess—fell within about a minute.

Li Zhenkun knew Wang Yan was capable, but never imagined this level. He'd already tossed his cigarette, raising his cleaver in readiness. He'd once thought Wang Yan merely a somewhat skilled minor player. Now he dared not underestimate him—this man could end his life.

Seeing Wang Yan slowly advance, blood pooling behind him, Li Zhenkun spoke: "Let's not fight. I'll tell you everything I know."

He wasn't sure he could beat Wang Yan. For him, uncertainty was already death. He knew his dozen men—he could kill them all, but he'd take two cuts himself, and it'd take time. But Wang Yan? Not a single drop of blood on him. If anything, only his shoe soles were stained.

Unlike Wang Yan, who fought alone, Li Zhenkun had power—and his comforts were beyond Wang Yan's reach. He was porcelain. Unless absolutely forced, he wouldn't risk his life against Wang Yan. Even if he killed Wang Yan, a crippling injury would be pointless. So he'd appease this moment, deal with the rest later.

Hearing this, Wang Yan stopped walking, still gripping his blade with both hands, smiling as before, nodding approvingly at Li Zhenkun.

"Wise choice. Speak."

Li Zhenkun exhaled a long, frustrated breath: "Every country researches gene projects, but only Gaozuo has succeeded so far. Behind Gaozuo are six major conglomerates, pouring massive resources into research—including human experiments. No one knows how many died. Currently, it seems successful—John Wick is proof—but no one knows if there are other side effects."

Though John Wick appears fine, dying now versus days or years later is still a side effect. After all, tampering with genes—though I don't understand it—isn't that simple. It can't just work on a whim.

In recent years, I've supplied Gaozuo people of various ethnicities—men and women, ages from a few years to decades. We handled only East Asia, but there must be other regions too. They never said outright, but I believe these people were used for experiments.

I don't tell you more because no one who investigates survives. I don't want to get involved. Above the Mainland Hotel is the Elders' Council; above them lies Gaozuo's true core. Do you know who they are? I don't. Such matters—whether you're a lone wolf like you, a minor power like me, or even nations themselves—can't remain indifferent.

They're buried too deep. I truly know no more. Those people I sent here—I have no idea where they were moved afterward. Gaozuo is powerful, backed by multiple powerful international conglomerates, possibly even with government shadows. You want project data or drug formulas? That's fantasy.

"So you know nothing…"

"What I've told you is already more than most know. Don't believe me? Go ask anyone at the Mainland Hotel. How many know about this gene experiment? How many know John Wick was a subject? Aside from hotel managers, if you find even one person who knows, you're lucky. We have higher clearance because we've done more for Gaozuo—and added our own guesses. That's how we know this much." Li Zhenkun defended his ignorance.

Wang Yan nodded, then asked: "I saw online that some Chinese mysterious clans exist. Is your Li family one?"

"We're nothing compared. We just do dirty work. You mean those martial artists who fled during the Republic era? Not mysterious at all. What society is this now? Everything's about money. How do martial artists supplement, how do they improve without money? We're just low-key—family members are skilled and ruthless, so no one dares provoke them. That's all."

"I know five powerful ones in Southeast Asia, and one in Myanmar has armed forces. Here, two Hongmen branches are especially fierce and low-key. I admit you're strong—but they're no weaker. I advise you not to provoke them. You won't even know how you die."

Wang Yan smiled and nodded, then lifted his blade and walked slowly forward.

Li Zhenkun glared, raising his knife in defense: "You're breaking your word!"

"Did I say I agreed? I know you'll put a bounty on me afterward, maybe even tell the High Table I'm after the gene experiment data. If that's the case, why not kill you first? Either way, your family will seek revenge. And as a martial artist, showing fear before battle means death anyway—I'll just send you ahead."

As he spoke, Wang Yan brought his blade down; Li Zhenkun blocked with a crosswise slash.

Wang Yan's strike was feint—he shifted from chop to slash, slicing across Li Zhenkun's gripping hand. Against an ordinary man, like the ones he'd just killed, this would have severed two or three fingers. But Li Zhenkun had real skill: though slow, he reacted in time, barely raising his blade to parry, then lunging forward, thrusting his knife straight at Wang Yan.

A soft laugh. Wang Yan exerted a touch of force; the tip of Han Feng, blocked at the hilt, tapped lightly—deflecting Li Zhenkun's thrust. One more tap, and the blade tip sliced through Li Zhenkun's wrist, severing his tendons.

Then came a flash of blade-light—Li Zhenkun's other hand lost half its palm. The cut had aimed for the throat, but Li Zhenkun knew his thrust would fail; this motion was meant to redirect momentum, reposition, or strike with a fist to the face.

Wang Yan kicked Li Zhenkun away with disdain, then hurled Han Feng—it pierced Li Zhenkun's heart and embedded in the wall behind, pinning the dying man to it.

Blood bubbled from Li Zhenkun's mouth as his heart was pierced; he stared fixedly at Wang Yan—dressed in a suit, checking whether any blood from his severed hand had splattered on him.

Confirming no blood had stained him, Wang Yan stepped forward, pulled out the blade, and didn't even glance at the corpse.

He'd been willing to talk longer only because Li Zhenkun was sensible—didn't force him to interrogate. How could such a man live? He'd scammed Chinese people, trafficked humans, betrayed his ancestors and lost his conscience—no reason to let him live.

Carrying the knife, he walked through each room, finding nothing useful. The surveillance room was on the second floor—that helped Wang Yan. If Li family later reviewed the footage and identified him, he'd have to fly to Bangkok to fix it—annoying. Now, with surveillance destroyed, he'd buy himself some quiet.

Better still: this surveillance system shared a control panel with the basement's. As expected, the basement was a casino—filled with Chinese faces, enjoying themselves.

He slashed a few times, dismantled several hard drives from the computers, took Li Zhenkun's phone, exited through the back door, drove off into the street, and returned to his suburban residence.

As soon as he entered the community, Wang Yan saw a police car with flashing lights approaching from the opposite direction.

He passed it, parked in the garage, lit a cigarette, and strolled casually toward the neighbor's house. In the dim glow of a distant streetlamp, Wang Yan clearly saw several shattered windows on John Wick's house.

He walked to the door, politely rang the bell. Soon after, John Wick opened it—dressed in a suit, fresh wounds on his face.

"So the invincible Night Demon hasn't avenged his dog or recovered his car yet—someone's already broken into your home." Wang Yan stepped inside, surveying the corpses, bloodstains, shattered furniture, and bullet-pocked walls. He raised an eyebrow at John Wick, dripping with mockery.

John Wick replied coldly: "Looks like you've been busy today."

"I just killed Li Zhenkun in Tang Renjie. You know him?"

"Bangkok?"

"That's him."

"Over the gene project?"

Wang Yan shrugged, walked over, and returned with a bottle of Chivas Regal and two glasses. As he poured, he said: "What else? Heard they're powerful in Southeast Asia. Why else would I provoke them?"

John Wick took a large gulp, frowned: "They'll put a bounty on you. Li was important—two million is enough to make you untraceable. So why come to me instead of hiding?"

"I heard New York's beggars have an organization. This guy's got serious influence. I want to meet him."

"About the gene project, he won't know more than I do."

"Of course—no one knows more than you, the beneficiary. But I need him to overthrow the High Table."

"No one abandons peace for death—except you, a madman chasing suicide."

"Thanks." Wang Yan grinned, sipping his whiskey.

John Wick asked: "What do I get?"

"I'll help you again."

"Deal."

"When do you take me to him?"

"After you kill Joseph Tarasov and recover my car."

"How long?"

"Two or three days."

"Fine. I'll wait."

Wang Yan raised his glass; they drank, sealing the pact. Then they exchanged casual farewells, and Wang Yan opened the door and left.

He knew John Wick still had to wait for cleanup crews before moving to the Continental—before beginning his gunfight without police pursuit…

Back home, Wang Yan washed up, put on pajamas, sat at his computer with his phone.

This was the age of the internet—technology ruled. He needed to crack the white man's phone and Li Zhenkun's, to see if there were bigger troubles—or bigger gains.

Li Zhenkun was dead, and he knew some things—but mostly nothing. Just a lot of empty talk.

Human experiments came in many forms; gene experiments even more. The High Table wanted subjects of different ages, genders, ethnicities—but whether they were researching bone or muscle enhancement was uncertain.

The only thing Li Zhenkun got right was that the lab might not even be on American soil.

But that made it harder to find. Wang Yan now had to consider targeting High Table members directly. Their secrecy was high; low-rank members knew nothing—this was inevitable.

He'd always known this. After all, no one else could know more than those inside the High Table. But he'd wanted to act quietly—destroy the lab, relocate everyone and all data, then study in peace for years.

Clearly, that wasn't possible. Now he'd have to build a team and fight the High Table head-on. But this time, it differed from his usual thug identity—he was a killer, after all.

The team couldn't grow too large, or it'd become a terrorist organization—and he'd likely face missiles. That'd be bad.

Wang Yan pictured the scene of being bombed by missiles, shook his head with a smile, and kept operating the computer, cracking the phones.

For him, cracking phones was easy—two or three minutes.

He skimmed through them. The white man was trash—a lone wandering killer, dreamless. Li Zhenkun's phone held little secrecy: a few dirt files on local politicians, evidence of dealings with gangs, some family member info, and of course, several million dollars in his personal bank account.

Wang Yan took it all—after all, to do anything these days, you needed money.