Chapter 22: The Belt Goes Mad (Seeking Collections and Recommendations)

Li Huan had no patience to play their game of taking turns. He knew he couldn’t outlast a group of more than twenty, even just by sheer stamina. With that in mind, he rushed forward without hesitation, hugging the wall as he went, the belt in his hand cracking through the air with explosive force.

Snap! Snap! Snap!

Li Huan, tall and long-armed, wielded the belt with such reach that no one could get close. Every so often, someone was struck, and cries of pain echoed all around.

It didn’t take long, however, for a few of the thugs to react. They drew machetes from their belts and charged in from the rear, faces fierce, their lawless bravado at its peak. Though they were about the same age as Li Huan, these newcomers were obviously hardened; their arrogant expressions and reckless aggression left no doubt. Brandishing their blades, they swung mercilessly at Li Huan’s head, unconcerned about the potential for fatal consequences.

Sun Feifei let out a terrified shriek, nearly fainting from fear.

Li Huan noticed the shift immediately. Sun Feifei’s scream only confirmed his unease. A flash of steel caught his eye, and a sudden, intense sense of danger surged within him. There was no time to see where the blade was falling—he grabbed Sun Feifei’s hand and lunged toward the wall behind them. At the same time, the machete swept down, grazing his cheek; he could hear the sickening sound of hair being sliced away.

A cold shiver ran through Li Huan, sweat breaking out on his nose. That blade had come within a hair’s breadth of his skull. Damn it, these guys were really out for blood!

While searching desperately for an escape route, Li Huan pressed close to the wall, pushing outward, swinging the belt with wild abandon. Though his strikes lacked finesse, the sheer force scattered the thugs in front of him, leaving only those with blades to face him, hacking at the air with murderous intent.

The machetes were sharp, but their reach was no match for Li Huan’s belt. The supple leather was difficult to break, and it inflicted plenty of pain—much to the thugs’ dismay.

Li Huan had picked up this trick from action movies, often fantasizing about single-handedly facing down an army, calmly drawing his belt from his waist to lay waste to foes, the very picture of heroic swagger—like a general striding through enemy ranks to claim the enemy commander’s head with ease.

Of course, fantasy rarely survives reality. Here and now, Li Huan was hardly the invincible hero; that honor belonged to the guy with the exaggerated pompadour, barking commands from the rear.

“Damn it, all of you—get in there! The one with the blond hair—take him out! You, Er Lai, stop hanging back and get your ass up front! Useless idiots, the whole lot of you!”

“If you’ve got the guts, why don’t you get in there yourself?” someone shouted back in anger.

At that moment, one of the machete-wielding thugs suddenly lunged forward, swinging hard at Li Huan’s shoulder. The blow was vicious, clearly intended to take Li Huan down with a single strike. But the attacker had underestimated the belt. With a flick of his wrist, Li Huan sent the belt cracking through the air; the tip snapped back and wrapped around the blade, and with a powerful tug, he yanked the machete from the thug’s grasp.

Caught off guard by Li Huan’s speed, the thug felt the weapon ripped from his hand and was wrenched off balance, tumbling headlong into the crowd. The thugs near the wall scattered, several knocked to the ground, and a gap opened up in their ranks.

“Run!” Li Huan shouted, grabbing Sun Feifei’s hand and charging through. The “divine weapon” in his grasp lashed out, a black blur streaking through the air and striking another thug across the face. A scarlet welt instantly marred the man’s fair skin—a vicious, ugly mark.

Li Huan had barely run a few steps with Sun Feifei before the thugs behind them recovered and gave chase, their shouts and curses swelling into a furious roar, raising the mob’s morale.

In a melee, momentum is everything. Hearing the chaos behind him, Li Huan felt his heart sink. Outnumbered and facing men with nothing to lose, he knew they wouldn’t get far with him dragging Sun Feifei along.

Grinding his teeth, Li Huan let go of Sun Feifei’s hand and shoved her forward. “Run! I’ll hold them off. Don’t look back!”

Even as the words left his mouth, he turned and charged back, swinging the belt with all his might. In the darkness, it danced like a venomous serpent, striking down any who dared come close.

Stunned, Sun Feifei hesitated only a moment. Tears filled her eyes as she watched Li Huan plunge into the mob, then, kicking off her high heels, she ran barefoot out of the alley.

Li Huan, relying on the belt’s reach, managed to hold the mob at bay as he retreated, blocking over twenty men in the narrow alley with the force of a lone defender. Yet, leather is no match for steel; the machetes soon hacked a significant chunk off his belt, stripping away his advantage.

Seeing the belt shortened, one thug rushed in with his blade raised. Li Huan whipped the man’s hand with such force that the skin broke open, sending the machete flying. But now, with his weapon crippled, Li Huan’s range was cut in half. As he tried to counter, a crew-cut thug armed with a short club lunged in and kicked Li Huan hard in the chest, following up with a swing of the club.

Li Huan staggered back three steps before regaining his footing, his chest aching as if crushed by a boulder. As the club came crashing down, he could only raise his arm in defense. There was a sharp crack—the club broke in two, and pain shot through Li Huan’s arm, almost unbearable.

“Brothers, beat him to death!” the pompadour shouted, pointing out a few men. “You, go catch that girl and bring her back!”

A handful of thugs broke away, racing for the mouth of the alley. Li Huan’s heart seized. He glanced back—he could still see the shrinking figure of Sun Feifei, but she was clearly not fast enough to escape.

“Damn you!” he spat, fighting through the pain in his arm. With a leap, he blocked the path, whipping the belt across one thug’s face and sending blood streaming from his nose.

There was no room left for mercy. These thugs fought like hardened criminals, each blow meant to maim or kill. If Li Huan hesitated for a second, they’d tear him apart without regret.

The pompadour, seeing his men blocked yet again, was furious. He snatched up a machete and prepared to charge, but just then, a voice rang out behind him.

“Hold it! I’ll handle this myself.”

Li Huan froze, looking over to see a bald-headed man pushing through the crowd. He took the machete from Pompadour’s hands and strode forward, emanating a wild and ruthless energy—a true ruffian.

“You’re a tough one, aren’t you?” the bald man sneered, sizing Li Huan up. “Let’s see which is faster—your belt, or my blade!” He signaled to Pompadour with his eyes, then hefted the machete and set his stance.

Alarm bells rang in Li Huan’s mind. Just from the man’s grip and posture, it was clear he had genuine skill with a blade. He planted his feet, lowering his center of gravity. The machete was held steady in front of him, and with a swift horizontal slash, the blade cut toward Li Huan’s chest.

Li Huan leaped backward just in time, narrowly dodging the strike. At that moment, Pompadour and his men broke through his defenses, racing for the alley’s exit.

“No!” Li Huan’s heart lurched. He spun, ready to give chase, but a gust of wind swept past the back of his head, making his scalp tingle with dread.

“Hey, you’ve got some nerve—still distracted while fighting me?” the bald man sneered. “Thinking about that girl? Don’t worry, soon you’ll have a front-row seat to a real show!” The tattoo on his forehead seemed to ripple, giving him a sinister air.

Li Huan had no time to study the tattoo. He dodged the blade by a hair, scrambling backward, hoping to escape. But the bald man was lightning fast, giving him no chance to breathe. After the missed strike, he closed in with a vicious kick.