Chapter 102: The Best Help You Can Give Me? Stay Out of My Way!
The abandoned warehouse sat a fair distance from the residential area, hidden away in obscurity. Without a guide, finding this place would’ve been nearly impossible.
After Zhang Yangqing’s visit that afternoon, the former landlords had held a meeting.
The scrawny black-clad thief—now exposed as their stalker—explained Zhang Yangqing’s identity and how he’d been caught red-handed breaking into Unit 7-4. He apologized for leading their enemy straight to their hideout.
The scar-faced man waved it off. “Might not be your fault. If he could tail you without being noticed, he’s clearly got skills. Maybe we can use—or rely on—him to take back what’s ours.”
In this rule-bound horror world, certain conditions had to be met for identities to shift. Here, the key was the seals—those living tattoo-like marks.
Gaining a seal meant gaining power.
But power came at a cost: the landlords had gradually transformed into half-beast monstrosities. These men, now stripped of that strength, were barely surviving in hiding.
Zhang Yangqing’s arrival had reignited their hope.
“Can we even trust him?” the thief fretted. “What if this is a trap to wipe us out?”
The scar-faced leader shook his head. “If he wanted us dead, he wouldn’t bother with schemes. That man’s eyes—cold, arrogant. People like him don’t need tricks.”
His words steeled the group’s resolve.
Eight of their strongest would join the mission. The rest could only wait and pray.
Rain pounded the earth as the scar-faced man stared into the downpour, sighing. He reassured the others—“I’ve got a plan”—though inwardly, he was far from certain.
Right on time, a figure emerged from the storm: Zhang Yangqing, strides steady, aura contained. Unshakable.
This was why the scar-faced man had sought his alliance.
True leaders knew how to read people. The fearless glint in Zhang Yangqing’s eyes spoke volumes.
“Where to?” Zhang Yangqing asked, refreshed after his nap.
“A manor halfway up the mountain,” the scar-faced man explained. “That’s where they’re holed up. Get the seals, and we strip their power.”
His confidence wasn’t baseless. Even weakened, he’d once been the community’s most formidable force.
For other challengers, this hidden quest had a solution:
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Steal the seals.
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Hand them to the scar-faced man.
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Let his strength carry the team to victory.
The trigger wasn’t obscure—ragged figures lurking near the apartments were clues. But without explicit rules mentioning it, most wouldn’t risk the detour.
Zhang Yangqing nodded. “Lead the way.”
The trek through the storm was treacherous.
While the former landlords stumbled over roots and mud, Zhang Yangqing moved effortlessly, as if the darkness posed no obstacle.
“Tiger crouching, dragon coiling… Good feng shui,” he mused, eyeing the mountain’s contours. A habit from his Taoist training.
As they neared the manor, flashlight beams cut through the rain—four landlords patrolling downhill.
The scar-faced man signaled a retreat to a nearby cave.
But someone had slipped up. The beams began veering toward them.
“Boss—they’re coming straight for us!” the thief hissed.
Panic set in. If the enemies entered the cave, it’d be a slaughter.
The scar-faced man made his choice: “I’ll draw them away. You all seize the manor—reclaim our homes! Our power!”
Sacrifice was inevitable. He’d prepared for this.
But his men refused.
“No, I’ll go!” the thief insisted. “You’re the only one who can find the seals!”
Others clamored to volunteer—“Take me!” “I’m weakest!” “I owe you all!”
Tears welled in the scar-faced man’s eyes. These were brothers worth dying for.
Then—click—a flashlight flooded the cave.
The holder? Zhang Yangqing, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
“My bad,” he deadpanned. “Didn’t realize you were doing a dramatic sacrifice scene. Already killed those four. Next time, give me a heads-up so I don’t ruin the mood.”
Silence.
The men’s tear-streaked faces froze mid-heroic resolve.
…We were ready to die for this, and you just oneshot them?!
The anticlimax was almost offensive.
Global chat erupted:
“I was moved, damn it! Give me back my tears!”
“Laughing and crying simultaneously—what is this feeling?!”
“Zhang Tianshi: forever skipping cutscenes.”
“No sacrifices needed when you’re this overpowered. Safety guaranteed!”
Zhang Yangqing’s expression said it all: You dragged me here for this?
Earlier, seeing the patrol, he’d been ready to strike—until the group’s retreat made him assume some mechanic required hiding.
Turns out? Just melodrama.
The scar-faced man peeked outside. Four corpses lay in the rain.
His throat went dry. “Just… how strong are you?”
He’d thought Zhang Yangqing matched a mid-tier horror. Now? Reality had shifted.
“Dunno,” Zhang Yangqing shrugged. “But trash like this? I’ll clear as many as you’ve got.”
A collective hiss.
The scar-faced man’s posture subtly deflated—from equal to subordinate.
…..
Flashlights lit their final approach.
Two guards loomed at the manor gates.
“What’s the play?” Zhang Yangqing asked, humoring them this time.
“Just… do your thing,” the scar-faced man muttered. “Try not to demolish the building.”
“Should’ve led with that.”
The thief scurried forward. “Need backup? Let me make up for breaking into your place!”
Zhang Yangqing eyed him. “The best help you can give me? Stay far away.”
“Got it, boss!” The thief retreated instantly.
No arrogance here—Zhang Yangqing genuinely fought better without babysitting.
Alone, he strode toward the manor—a lamb walking into a lion’s den?
No.
A dragon descending upon mice.
The scar-faced man’s pulse raced.
(Secretly, he’d had a Plan B: let Zhang Yangqing cause chaos while they infiltrated.)
But what unfolded next rewrote his understanding of power.
Rain dripped from Zhang Yangqing’s coat as he reached the gates.
A guard stepped forward—“You—”
Golden light flashed.
The man’s torso slid clean off his legs, his dying eyes registering his own feet before darkness took him.
The second guard’s limbs fell like chopped wood as he lunged for the alarm.
Helpless, bleeding out, he watched in disbelief as Zhang Yangqing—the killer—casually pulled the alarm for him.
The man’s smirk seemed to say: Should’ve just asked.
This wasn’t battle.
This was art.
