Rise of the belittled: MARCUS HALE

Chapter 8

At that moment Marcus twisted his wrist.

The baton snapped like a dry twig. The guard's wrist broke with an audible crack not just broke, but shattered, the bones fragmenting under the pressure Marcus applied. The man screamed and stumbled backward, cradling his arm, his face white with shock and pain.

The second guard had pulled a knife a folding tactical blade and rushed forward, slashing wildly at Marcus's throat.

Immediately Marcus moved.

Not fast enough for the eye to track. One moment he was standing in front of the knife. The next, he was behind the guard, his hand closing around the back of the man's neck.

The martial arts knowledge in his head told him exactly where to strike, exactly how much pressure to apply. The point was called Fengfu—the Wind Mansion, at the base of the skull where the spine met the brain.

He pressed.

The guard's eyes rolled back. His body went rigid, then limp. The knife clattered to the pavement.

Marcus let him drop.

The first guard the one with the shattered wrist was trying to crawl away now, whimpering, dragging himself across the pavement with his good arm.

"Please—" he gasped, looking back over his shoulder at Marcus. "Please, I was just following orders I didn't want to Mr. Zhao said to—"

"You held me down," Marcus said quietly, walking toward him. "You watched her break my leg. You put a needle in my neck. You drove me here to die."

"I'm sorry—"

"No, you're not."

Marcus crouched down beside him, and the guard could see his face now in the moonlight. Could see the cold, absolute calm in his eyes. Could see something that looked almost like pity, but wasn't.

"But you will be," Marcus said softly.

He reached out and touched the guard's neck. Found the pressure point called Renying the Man's Welcome, where the carotid artery pulsed just beneath the skin.

He pressed.

The guard's eyes widened. His mouth opened in a silent scream. His body convulsed once, twice.

Then he was still, Marcus stood slowly, looking down at the two bodies lying on the pavement.

He felt... nothing.

No guilt. No remorse. No horror at what he'd just done.

They had tried to murder him. They had tortured him. They had left him to die in a garbage heap while they waited to confirm his death.

This was justice.

The knowledge from his ancestors agreed., the general who had never lost a battle, Show no mercy to those who would show none to you. From the physician Some diseases cannot be cured. They must be cut out completely.

At that moment From inside one of the guard's pockets, a phone began to ring.

Marcus reached down and pulled it out.

The name on the screen read: Ryan Zhao.

He stared at it for a long moment, something cold and final settling in his chest like iron.

Then he answered, Silence on both ends.

Then Ryan's voice, sharp with impatience: "Is it done? Did you confirm it? Is he dead?"

However Marcus said nothing, just listened.

"Hello? Are you there?" Ryan's voice climbed slightly, irritation bleeding into confusion. "Why aren't you answering me? What's wrong with you people? I'm paying you to do a job, not to stand there and breathe into the phone. Say something."

Marcus's voice came out quiet. Cold. "It's done."

A pause.

Long. Heavy. He could hear Ryan's breathing change on the other end—faster, shallower.

"...Who is this?"

"You know who this is," Marcus said. His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "And I want you to hear me clearly, Ryan."

Another pause. Longer this time. He could almost see Ryan's face the color draining from it, the realization dawning.

"I'm coming for you," Marcus continued, his voice still perfectly calm. "I'm coming for Elena. I'm coming for everyone who did this to me."

At that moment he could hear Ryan's breathing now, fast and panicked.

"Don't make any plans," Marcus said. "Don't go anywhere. Don't think you can hide or run or buy your way out of this."

Then his grip tightened on the phone.

"I'll be there soon."

He ended the call.