Chapter 521: Die If Guilty

"Hey, Zhanmusi, why do you have that terrified expression? What scared you into looking like a grandson?"

At the nightclub entrance, Keloduo, who was on duty today, was leaning against the wall chatting with his companions when he caught sight of a lanky figure bringing a yellow‑skinned man over; a hint of drunken surprise flashed across his dark face.

He squinted, his gaze circling Zhanmusi's ugly face, then sweeping over the few henchmen behind him who seemed as if an entire family had just died, a mocking curve forming at the corner of his mouth.

"And who is that yellow‑skinned guy behind you?"

He spat onto the ground, ready to watch a good show.

Zhanmusi stopped in his tracks.

He was still seven or eight meters from Keloduo, yet it felt as if taking another step would plunge him into Hell.

Those eyes, once accustomed to prowling the streets with impunity, now held only a pure terror, completely shattered.

His lips trembled a few times:

"Keloduo... damn guy, shut your mouth!"

His voice quivered, every syllable shaking.

"You, you, you have no idea who he is! He could kill every single one of us here!"

"Where's the boss? He wants to see him, see the boss!"

Silence.

Then—

Hahaha!

Keloduo laughed uproariously, leaning on the wall with one hand while the other haphazardly wiped away tears streaming from his eyes.

A few of his comrades behind him laughed together, some even whistling.

"Zhanmusi!" Keloduo finally managed to stop laughing, shaking his head as if trying to shake the absurd joke out of his mind:

"It's not funny."

He restrained his smile, his tone turning cold as the winter wind of Chicago.

"He could kill all of us?" He scanned Yu Lin from head to toe, not muscular, looking incapable of fighting, the yellow‑skinned man standing amid a group of armed gang members with both hands empty and expression blank:

"Do you think he's one of those Knights, or one of those Exorcism Bishops?"

He paused briefly, reaching for the gun holster at his waist.

"This joke, I—"

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Gunfire ripped through the nightclub's din.

Keloduo hadn't even finished drawing his gun when his hand already pulled the trigger.

The pistol spat fire from his hand, seventeen rounds emptying in less than three seconds, the casings clattering on the cement like a hailstorm of metal.

The muzzle smoke cleared.

Then everyone saw clearly—

Those bullets, the 9mm rounds that should have torn flesh and shattered bone, were now peeling off Yu Lin's body one by one.

They didn't penetrate, didn't embed, not even leaving a mark on his clothing.

They simply hit an invisible steel plate, flattening into thin metal discs that fell to the ground, landing before Zhanmusi and his few brothers, forming a small patch.

The sound of them hitting the ground was faint.

Yet everyone present heard it crystal clear.

Zhanmusi's knees reacted faster than his mind.

"Thud," he was already kneeling on the scorching metal fragments, the sting in his knees completely drowned by fear.

The few brothers behind him knelt almost in unison, like marionettes whose spines had been collectively pulled out.

"This has nothing to do with us!" Zhanmusi's voice was already hoarse, his head bowed, unwilling to look at Yu Lin's face, only staring at his sneakers:

"Please don't kill us, I beg you!"

His forehead pressed to the cement, his posture humble as if on a pilgrimage.

"You, you, this, this................." Keloduo's hand still held the gun, the muzzle still faintly smoking.

But his fingers were so stiff they couldn't move, the color in his face draining away cleanly like water flushed down a toilet.

Mouth open, a few garbled breaths rolled from his throat, yet he couldn't piece together a single complete word.

Yu Lin didn't look at the kneeling people.

He stepped forward, walking past Zhanmusi, treading over the scattered metal fragments, and approached Keloduo.

"Give me the gun."

He extended his hand.

Keloduo's hand rose as if uncontrolled, handing over the still‑hot pistol.

Yu Lin took the gun and gave it a weigh.

"Give me another magazine," he said.

"What?"

"I said, give me another magazine."

Keloduo's lips trembled once.

His body obeyed before his mind, his hand already reaching for the spare magazine at his waist, a modified extended version that held thirty‑five rounds.

He pulled it out, handed it over, the motion stiff yet tinged with urgency, as if eager to surrender a piece of evidence that could burn his hand.

Yu Lin took it and inserted it into the gun's grip.

Click—crisp.

He lifted his head, scanning the surroundings.

The crowd gathered at the nightclub entrance had already exceeded twenty people.

Some had just come out from inside, some were already loitering nearby, and some had been drawn by the gunfire but dared not approach.

They stood at various corners, behind Keloduo, in the shadows, in dark spots the streetlights couldn't reach.

Everyone's gaze fell upon him.

Yu Lin spoke, his voice not loud, yet it drilled clearly into everyone's ears:

"From now on, you can pray to God."

He paused, letting the weight of those words sink in.

"If anyone is innocent, the bullet will misfire, it will jam."

He raised the gun barrel.

"Are you ready?"

The gun barrel turned toward Keloduo.

Keloduo stared at the dark muzzle, at the face behind it still wearing a smile, and finally found his voice:

"Don't, I—"

Bang.

The bullet pierced his brow.

There was no extra motion, no aiming delay, and no room for any reaction.

Keloduo's body fell like a stake stripped of its support, toppling straight backward, the back of his head striking the steps before the nightclub entrance with a dull thud.

The spurting blood and brain matter traced a brief arc on the wall before slowly trickling down.

"What a pity," Yu Lin shook his head and said calmly:

"You are guilty."

He did not look at the corpse again.

The gun barrel turned.

Next.

Three people stood behind Keloduo.

One of them had already wet his pants, dark liquid dripping down the trouser leg and pooling into a small patch on the ground.

Another sat slumped on the ground, hands clasped over his head, muttering something over and over.

The third wanted to run.

His leg had already stepped out, his body twisted forty-five degrees, just one step away from ducking into the darkness behind the nightclub door that he thought was safe.

Bang.

The bullet drilled in from the back of his head and out through his brow.

His body kept the running posture, lunged forward half a step, then went limp and collapsed to the ground like a sack of trash carelessly thrown away.

"What are you running for?" Yu Lin said:

"You also know you're guilty?"

The gun barrel turned again.

This time, it was aimed at the other gang members who had rushed over.

There were black people, white people, and Latinos.

Yu Lin looked at them, the corners of his mouth turning up as he revealed a smile:

"Your turn."