Chapter 25: One Man Stands Guard, Ten Thousand Cannot Pass

As their companion fell to the ground in the blink of an eye, the rest of the group froze in place, unable to move a step.

What just happened? They stared at the man gripping the back of a chair before them. He stood alone, yet in this moment he seemed as insurmountable as a city wall, and they, mere flesh and blood, could no more bring him down than topple a mountain.

“What the hell are you all standing around for?” roared Cheng Minghui. “It's only one man down—what are you so afraid of? There’s a dozen of you and only one of him! Get in there and beat him down, now!”

His outburst snapped them from their stupor. Yes, there were more than ten of them, and only one opponent—how could they possibly lose? Emboldened, they surged forward, feet pounding toward Wang Zheng.

“Idiots. Do you really believe that all the pigs in the world, joined together, could knock down a mountain?” Wang Zheng sneered, swinging the chair in his hands once more.

In Wang Zheng’s grip, the heavy chair seemed to come alive, as if it were an extension of himself—each movement as fluid and precise as Bruce Lee with his nunchaku, every action seamless as flowing water.

Chaos erupted in a corner of the restaurant. The timid customers had long since paid and fled, while the bolder ones could do nothing but watch from afar. Not a single manager, waiter, or security guard dared intervene, terrified that a steel pipe might come crashing down on their heads. Blood spattered across the floor as bodies fell one after another—was this some kind of gangland brawl?

The restaurant manager’s face had turned ashen; his tongue was numb, unable to form words. Shivering, he grabbed the phone and called the police.

As more of his men crumpled to the ground, Cheng Minghui could no longer sit still. With a sudden movement, he shot to his feet, seized the table with both hands, and heaved it toward Wang Zheng.

A loud crack rang out as the table soared through the air.

With seven or eight men still encircling Wang Zheng, he had “no way out”—or rather, he chose not to retreat. Wang Zheng knew that behind him sat Su Xue and Chu Jun; if he stepped aside, who would protect them? Su Xue had once worked for national security, but her expertise was in hacking, not fighting. Wang Zheng had no choice but to stand his ground, no matter what happened.

The table hurtled toward him. Without a second thought, Wang Zheng hurled the chair, knocking back a bumbling thug, then pressed his right foot to the ground, shifting his weight to his left. Pivoting on the ball of his left foot, he spun outward about ninety degrees, then, with a powerful motion from his knee and hip, snapped his right leg out—a textbook side kick, simple in form yet brimming with force.

With a deafening crash, the table split into four, debris scattering everywhere. Several men, caught off guard, were swept off their feet by the flying wreckage.

He stood alone, holding the line—one man barring the way, a thousand unable to pass.

Wang Zheng slowly lowered his right leg and stood firm, gazing at the fear-stricken men before him. He grinned, a twisted smile curling on his lips. “Well? Do you feel small in the presence of someone as magnificent as me? I understand how you feel. I used to be afraid to look in the mirror, lest my own greatness frighten me. God gave you all passions and desires, but you’ve only turned them into lust and violence—pathetic. The time for your mindless performance is over. Now, let me—God’s chosen—teach you a truly ‘magnificent’ lesson!”

As soon as he finished speaking, a sharp crack echoed through the hall—a bone snapped. Someone attempting a sneak attack now held his arm in an unnatural, grotesque twist, his scream slicing through the air.

Another jarring crack, and the man’s arm snapped back to its normal shape, but the pain was too much; he collapsed unconscious to the floor.

“What a beautiful sound—like a sweet melody, so pleasing to the ears,” Wang Zheng said, clearly savoring the moment. “I love it. It reminds me of the cannibal tribes of Africa and their ‘cracking drum songs’—human skin for drumheads, human bones for drumsticks! But that's not all. Something even more interesting is about to happen. If you hear it, don’t be startled; if you see it, try not to scream.”

Amidst the shocked and bewildered gazes, Wang Zheng stooped to pick up a steel pipe from the ground, gripping both ends with his robust hands. The veins on his forearms bulged, cords of blue beneath the skin. Slowly, under the pressure of his arms, the straight steel pipe began to bend, gradually curling into a ring.

He smiled, shaking the steel ring before them. “I’m going to slip this around someone’s neck, and I’ll keep tightening it until their face turns red from lack of air. Try to pull it off if you want, but be careful—a slip of the knife could slice your carotid artery. Or maybe you’ll try welding it off, if you’re brave enough to be roasted like a suckling pig. So, who wants to volunteer?”

Cheng Minghui swallowed hard as he stared at the steel ring in Wang Zheng’s hands and recalled his words. Only five of his men were still standing—eighteen had been reduced to five, and those five trembled, fear clouding their eyes.

What was the point in fighting now?

“You—you just wait! I won’t let you get away with this!” Cheng Minghui shouted at Wang Zheng, but his quivering voice and terrified expression made his threat laughable.

Seeing Cheng Minghui begin to leave, the remaining men dropped their ‘weapons’ and bolted.

“Don’t rush off—I’m not finished!” Wang Zheng called after him, then hurled the steel ring with precision, smashing it into Cheng Minghui’s ankle. The man executed a move long lost to the martial world—the “boar’s prostration,” also known as “dog eating dirt”—and sprawled face-first onto the floor.

Laughing, Wang Zheng strode over. As Cheng Minghui struggled to rise, Wang Zheng stomped him hard between the shoulder blades. With his feeble constitution, Cheng Minghui was powerless against Wang Zheng’s forceful step; no matter how he fought, he couldn’t escape the weight pinning him down.

Long ago, the Buddha subdued the Monkey King beneath Five-Finger Mountain; today, Wang Zheng pressed Cheng Minghui beneath his own Five-Toed Hill. Of course, Cheng Minghui was no Monkey King—perhaps the sixty-ninth descendant of Pigsy, at best.

“Leaving so soon, Mr. Cheng? I was so looking forward to your revenge.” Wang Zheng leaned down, his expression turning cold and menacing as he spoke to the gasping man. “Stay away from Su Xue. If I ever hear of you harassing her again, wash your neck and wait for me at home. Did you hear me?”

He pressed down harder with his foot, wrenching another pained groan from Cheng Minghui.

“There’s no shame in keeping your head down. As the egg once said, ‘I never wanted to become slick—I was born good.’ Try to behave yourself from now on, or I’ll stomp you every time I see you. Of course, if you turn into a pile of crap, I won’t bother. Now get lost!”

Wang Zheng had no real interest in punishing someone like Cheng Minghui—they simply weren’t on the same level. Cheng Minghui scrambled away in humiliation, while Wang Zheng kicked at the unconscious thugs littering the floor. Those able to move crawled away; the rest he revived with a splash of hotpot water. Within a minute, peace returned to the world.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” Wang Zheng said, returning to his seat and glancing at Su Xue and Chu Jun. Both women stared at him, wide-eyed. The moment he spoke, Chu Jun quickly averted her gaze, unable to meet his sharp eyes. Su Xue was more direct—she reached out to pinch Wang Zheng’s arm, her voice a soft, breathless sigh of admiration:

“So cool… so incredibly cool!”