Chapter Sixty: Courting Death

"Big brother! Please spare us!"
With a heavy thud, one of them dropped to his knees before Song Nianqiang, clutching desperately at his leg and bursting into tears. After the two previous brutal lessons, they were utterly terrified—Song Nianqiang was ruthless, and they dared not take any risks.

"Alright! If each of you leaves me a finger, I'll let you go. How about that?" Song Nianqiang stood before the two green-haired thugs, a chilling smile twisting his lips. The two punks shivered at his words. Their classmates, having given up on studying, now surrounded the pair.

"Big brother, please, have mercy! I swear, I'll never do this again—I'll go back and study hard! If you ever catch me causing trouble again, you can beat me every time! I swear!" The two thugs were so frightened that they could barely speak. Song Nianqiang, his mood thoroughly ruined by their whining, waved his hand impatiently. "Get lost!"

As if granted amnesty, the two stumbled and crawled toward the door. "Wait! Not so fast!" Song Nianqiang's voice nearly sent them sprawling in terror. Tears streamed down their faces as they sobbed, "We swear we've changed! We'll never do this again!"

Irritated, Song Nianqiang gestured at the two men lying on the ground. "Take them with you. And leave your cigarettes and lighter here." Realizing he wasn't going to make things harder for them, the two punks broke into relieved grins—nearly as fast as jet planes, they respectfully set their cigarettes and lighter on the table, hoisted their companions, and rushed out.

His foul mood only worsened after the recent events. Lighting a cigarette, Song Nianqiang stepped out into the hallway. He glanced up at the night sky—pitch black, not a single star in sight, much like his current spirits. "What's wrong with me?" he muttered, taking a deep drag and exhaling slowly.

Suddenly, a lewd burst of laughter echoed up the corridor. "Hey, pretty girl! Come try what I've got for you!"
Song Nianqiang's face darkened. "Damn it! Who's raising hell at No. 1 High? Don’t they know I’m here?" He strode quickly upstairs, finally finding an outlet for his pent-up frustration.

"Class 35?" A sudden sense of dread washed over him. That was Jiang Ningzhi's class. He rushed to the door, but it wouldn’t budge—it was locked from the inside. But that hardly mattered when he was in this kind of mood. With a powerful kick, the door flew open, and what he saw nearly made his blood boil.

A group of thugs, origins unknown, had surrounded several girls—Jiang Ningzhi among them. Their leader had already exposed himself, advancing step by step toward the terrified girls, his obscene pride on full display as if he believed he'd soon claim a fresh victim.

"Motherf—!" Song Nianqiang snatched up a stool, stormed up behind the thug leader, and brought it crashing down on his head with a sickening crack. The stool shattered, but the thug’s skull was tough; though he writhed on the floor in pain, he wasn’t seriously hurt.

"Get out! Lock the door from the outside!"
He barked at the girls. Perhaps still paralyzed with fear, they didn’t move at first. Fortunately, Jiang Ningzhi reacted quickly, shoving them toward the door. At last, they came to their senses and fled, while Song Nianqiang blocked the eight thugs inside.

"Heh. I’m in a foul mood tonight. Each of you leaves me a finger, and you can crawl out. Otherwise, I’ll take a whole hand from each of you!" Song Nianqiang fixed a mocking gaze on the thug leader, who had just staggered to his feet. No one in this district had ever dared cross him. With a snarl, he whipped out a watermelon knife and roared at his underlings, "What the hell are you standing there for? Cut him up!"

The seven remaining thugs rushed at Song Nianqiang, but they were woefully outmatched. Song Nianqiang had once faced down professional mercenaries and felled four of them; these small-time punks were nothing.

With barely any effort, he dispatched them. A sudden kick sent the first thug flying into a cluster of desks. Twisting aside, Song Nianqiang drove his fist into another’s face—he dropped to the floor, clutching his nose, likely with a shattered or even crushed bridge. He had barely moved, and two were already down; the rest hesitated, rooted to the spot.

"You want a taste of my blade? Move it!" the leader bellowed, brandishing his knife. The thugs, resigned to being cannon fodder, charged forward.

"Fine! You brought this on yourselves!" At first, Song Nianqiang had held back, but now he was done playing. With a predatory leap, he crashed his knee into a thug’s forehead—so fast the man didn’t even groan before passing out. Landing smoothly, Song Nianqiang swept two more off their feet with a spinning kick, then sent another flying five or six meters with a boot to the gut; he lay motionless on the floor.

He toppled a desk onto another, pinning him down, and stomped hard—blood spurted from the thug’s nose and mouth, certain internal injuries.

The last two, sensing disaster, tried to escape through the windows—one on each side. Song Nianqiang grinned; there was no way he’d let them go. He kicked a stool at one, knocking him down, then calmly fetched another stool and slammed it over his head.

Dead or not, he wasn’t moving. As for the other, Song Nianqiang didn’t bother to stop him—it was the fourth floor, after all. Even if he didn’t land on concrete, survival was still uncertain. Now, only the thug leader remained.

Swallowing hard, the knife trembling in his hand, the thug finally realized he’d picked the wrong fight. But at this point, there was no use begging—he could only brace himself.

He gripped the knife tightly and charged, screaming. Song Nianqiang regarded him like an amused cat toying with a beaten monkey. With a sidestep and a raised foot, he sent the thug sprawling. Quick as lightning, the thug twisted midair, avoiding a fatal head injury on the desk corner.

"Brother, we’re all men of the street! Don’t drive me to the end!" the thug pleaded, clutching his knife as if it were his lifeline—he knew without it, his fate would be a hundred times worse.

Outside, Jiang Ningzhi vetoed the idea of calling the police. She understood Song Nianqiang too well; if the police came, he wouldn’t escape blame, and he had likely left no one unscathed. When provoked, Song Nianqiang cared nothing for consequences—killing wasn’t beyond him.

Jiang Ningzhi and the other girls pressed their ears to the door, listening anxiously.

"Men of the street? You?" Song Nianqiang sneered, kicking aside a stool as he advanced, step by step.

The closer Song Nianqiang drew, the more desperate the thug became. "I don’t know who you are! But do you have to push me this far? If you kill me, you won’t get off easy either!"

Hearing this, Song Nianqiang paused and looked at him as if he’d just heard the world’s greatest joke.

"Don’t you realize what you just did?" Song Nianqiang asked, feigning surprise.

"I know! I only teased a few girls! Is that worth driving me to the edge?" the thug shouted, genuinely bewildered by the fury of the man before him.

"So you really don’t know," Song Nianqiang said, as if suddenly enlightened. His face turned icy as he added, "Did you know that among those girls is Jiang Ningzhi—the one I’ve secretly loved for so long? And you dared to disgust her? You really have no idea what’s good for you."