Chapter 77: While You Fight, I Reap the Rewards

What began as a solemn gang negotiation was first disrupted by Ao Xi, and then a group of bikers arrived just to watch the chaos. The bosses of Lomas 13 and Barrett Street both felt that today’s meeting was doomed to failure.

They wanted to leave, but pride kept them rooted in place; neither wished to lose face in front of their subordinates. The two men gathered together, exchanging glances, neither managing to utter a word.

Their men, having lost patience after waiting so long for orders to fight, simply went off to the restroom—they were, after all, rather tired from the long ordeal.

Ao Xi, hand resting on his pistol, was also waiting for them to start fighting, growing increasingly anxious. He’d been forced to switch to a handgun, strictly forbidden from using the shotgun amid so many people; collateral damage was likely. While Ao Xi himself didn’t care, the police department certainly did.

Watching the gang members file into the restroom, Ao Xi sighed inwardly with boredom.

Just as Ao Xi was lamenting the lack of action, a sudden argument erupted from within the restaurant.

"You pissed on my shoes! Take a look at what you’ve done!"

"Yeah, I did—so what?"

"Lick it off with your mouth!"

"You’re one sick bastard! I’m not licking anything—what are you gonna do about it?"

"If you’ve got guts, come out here!"

"If you want to die, I’ll oblige you."

A furious Mexican stormed out, glaring back in challenge. A swaggering black man emerged, strutting with all the arrogance in the world, gesturing provocatively at the Mexican.

The Mexican wasn’t having any of it—he marched up, cursing, and shoved the black man. With so many onlookers, the black man refused to back down, and the two began shoving each other.

After only a few pushes, the Mexican landed a punch squarely on the black man’s face. Another black man nearby promptly kicked the Mexican in the side.

In an instant, what began as a one-on-one scuffle erupted into an all-out brawl.

Excited, Ao Xi shouted, “They’re fighting! Should we get involved?”

“Get involved? No. Let them fight—it’s none of our business, as long as nobody gets killed.”

As they spoke, the brawl swelled to involve more than a dozen men. One black man, beaten to the ground by the Mexicans, pulled a set of brass knuckles from his pocket, seized the Mexican’s kicking leg, and slammed his fist down hard.

The Mexican screamed in agony as the black man grinned savagely and rained blow after blow, leaving him battered and bleeding.

Seeing this, the other Mexicans’ eyes blazed with fury. One tore off a heavy iron chain from around his neck and swung it at the black man, shredding his T-shirt.

Writhing in pain on the ground, the black man found no mercy—the Mexican kicked him hard in the back, then wrapped the chain around his throat, intent on finishing him.

Seeing his comrade in peril, another black man abandoned his own fight, delivered a flying kick to the Mexican, and pulled a pair of nunchucks from his waistband, swinging them viciously until the Mexican’s screams filled the air.

While the fight raged, the onlookers were thoroughly entertained. The police watched, while the Hell’s Angels, observing from up close, were utterly delighted.

They stood, sipping sodas and munching on burgers, jeering and egging the brawlers on.

Pushed too far, one of the black men shouted at them, “Shut the hell up, you bastards!”

The Hell’s Angels members were momentarily taken aback, then swore and leaped into the fray. They weren’t the type to turn down a fight—just watching had already set their blood boiling.

Bikers were crafty, often wearing thick, heavy rings—perfect for brawling without needing to draw weapons. One punch landed, imprinting four ring marks on a black man’s face and knocking out a tooth.

He couldn’t take it any longer.

He drew a pistol from his waistband and fired at the Hell’s Angel chasing him.

Bang!

It must be said, Americans are well-trained in such matters. Just moments before, the fight had been in full swing, but the instant the gunshot sounded, everyone ducked and scattered.

The waitresses from Twin Peaks, who’d been watching, sprinted off on their long legs, vanishing in a blink.

Fistfights were no big deal; the gang bosses had calmly watched their men brawl, knowing it wasn’t easy to kill someone barehanded. But the moment a gun went off, everything changed. Did only they have guns? The bosses wanted to order their men not to shoot, but chaos had taken over. They had no choice but to flee—bullets don’t discriminate between leaders and lackeys.

Don’t be fooled by their usual bravado—when the shooting started, these gangsters ran faster than anyone, some of the fattest among them suddenly moving with startling agility.

Still, some were true to their reputations. When one black man fired the first shot, others immediately drew their weapons, and soon the gunfire was nonstop, men dropping left and right.

Prepared for violence, both sides had come armed. A Mexican popped open the trunk of his boss’s car, pulled out an AK-47, and began spraying bullets.

He was answered by a black man brandishing an AR-15, and the two sides exchanged fire.

The unlucky ones were the Hell’s Angels. Riding motorcycles on highways, they dared not carry rifles for fear of state trooper inspections, and there was nowhere to hide them anyway. All they had were handguns.

“What do we do now that they’re shooting?” someone asked.

“What else? We fight back!” came the reply.

Sheriff Anderson cursed loudly, “Fire smoke grenades and flashbangs—disperse them! Target anyone with an assault rifle!”

Ao Xi felt reassured. Finding cover, he fired a few shots for show before retrieving a black-market pistol from his personal space and firing wildly at the gang members, both guns the same model so no one could distinguish the sound.

Other officers only wondered how this side was shooting so fast and with such ruthless efficiency.

He wasn’t even the most ruthless—some officers clung to their AR-15s, firing without pause. In moments, the ground outside the restaurant was littered with bodies.

Some were truly shot; others simply hit the ground to avoid being shot.

Seeing the gunfire cease among the gang members, Anderson quickly ordered, “Cease fire! No more shooting!”

Ao Xi stopped immediately. Taking advantage of the distraction, he discreetly picked up the shell casings for his spatial stash—a box that allowed him to store bullets—then grinned as he checked his rewards.

[Congratulations, Host, on completing the elimination task. Reward 1: One free attribute point. Reward 2: Passive skill—Boundless Energy. Reward 3: Passive skill—Low-Light Vision.

Skill description—Boundless Energy: Some people can work long hours at high intensity, need only two or three hours of rest to recover fully, and are as tireless as machines. Unfortunately, this trait is more common among the successful than among wage earners—perhaps because self-employment brings greater joy.

Low-Light Vision: In starlight, moonlight, torchlight, or similar dim conditions, you can distinguish colors and details as clearly as in daylight (skill source: D&D Elves).]

Upon gaining the Boundless Energy skill, Ao Xi instantly felt wide awake and alert, his mind sharp and fatigue forgotten.

Following a suggestion from readers, he allocated his free attribute point to Constitution. Suddenly, his waist no longer ached, his legs weren’t sore, and his kidneys felt warm and strong.

With energy to spare, Ao Xi was growing restless. Baby Zhuo Ning, where are you?