119: Chapter 119 All Taken Down
After the Scarface Man took half a step back, his expression changed.
It wasn't fear; it was an uncontrollable irritation after having his pride trampled on.
The old scar at the corner of his mouth twitched. He raised his rubber baton and pointed it forward.
"Go."
This time, there were no separate groups and no testing the waters.
Twelve men closed in from the front and back simultaneously. Their rubber batons were raised to shoulder height, and their footsteps were hurried and dense, making a crunching sound as their soles ground over the gravel on the road.
The light was dim under the shade of the Plane Trees, and shadows intertwined. The sound of batons whistling through the air surged from different directions like a tightening net.
Jiang Chen stood behind Lu Zheng and did not move.
His gaze passed over Lu Zheng's shoulder, landing on the group charging from the front. His breathing was steady, and his fingers hung naturally at his sides.
He wanted to see how much Lu Zheng could achieve in this situation.
Lu Zheng moved.
He didn't wait for the two groups to close the gap.
His body lunged diagonally to the left, covering nearly two meters in a single stride, crashing directly into the densest part of the crowd in front.
Standing still to defend would only compress his space; actively cutting in was the only way to disrupt their rhythm.
His angle of entry was very tricky. Instead of a head-on collision, he squeezed through the gap between two people. As his shoulder knocked aside the first man's arm, his right elbow had already swung out horizontally.
The tip of his elbow struck the first man squarely in the jaw.
The jaw is the furthest point of the head's lever; being struck there causes a brief concussion in the brain, and a person's sense of balance is lost instantly.
The man didn't even have time to swing his baton before he keeled over sideways. The rubber baton slipped from his hand, his knees hit the ground first, and then he collapsed onto the road.
Lu Zheng didn't stop.
As the elbow strike landed, his left hand had already seized the second man's wrist—the one holding the baton—pressing his thumb against the inside of the wrist joint and twisting it outward.
There was almost no pause between the wrist lock and the twist. The man's wrist let out a sharp crack, and before the rubber baton even hit the ground, Lu Zheng's knee had already driven into his abdomen.
The time difference between the two men hitting the ground was less than a second.
There was the wind of a baton behind him.
Jiang Chen saw it.
In the group behind, two men had already rushed to Lu Zheng's back, their rubber batons raised above their heads, targeting the back of Lu Zheng's skull and his cervical spine.
The angle was very sharp; from Lu Zheng's position, it was impossible for him to see behind him.
But Lu Zheng didn't look back.
He leaned his body forward, shifted his center of gravity to his left leg, and kicked out backward with his right leg.
The angle of this kick wasn't a horizontal back-kick, but a forty-five-degree upward slant. His heel kicked squarely against the wrist of the man holding the baton behind him.
The rubber baton was kicked flying, spinning as it crashed into the branches and leaves of the Plane Trees, sweeping down a large cluster of leaves with a rustle.
The man clutched his wrist and stumbled back. The expression on his face wasn't pain; it was bewilderment.
He hadn't seen which angle that kick had come from at all.
A second baton followed immediately, swinging from the right toward Lu Zheng's waist.
Lu Zheng retracted his right hand and used the outside of his forearm to block the strike. The rubber baton hit his arm with a dull thud.
His arm didn't budge an inch.
His left hand followed the momentum, scooping up from below to hook his fingers around the man's elbow joint, pushing it outward. Simultaneously, his right hand flipped to grab the man's wrist, pulling it inward.
The forces from two directions acted on the elbow joint at the same time, twisting the man's arm into an impossible angle.
The man was forced to flip sideways, his shoulder hitting the ground. The rubber baton bounced out of his hand and skipped twice on the pavement.
Three people.
From the start of the fight until now, less than five seconds had passed.
Jiang Chen's pupils contracted slightly.
The movements were clean, the judgments precise, with no unnecessary flourishes.
Standing here now, less than two meters away, he finally saw clearly just how fast Lu Zheng's movements were.
It wasn't just speed; it was the speed of his judgment.
As each movement landed, the route for the next one was already planned.
The moment the elbow strike landed, the knee was already on its way.
As the knee drove out, his hand was already locking the next person's joint.
There were no gaps between movements. It wasn't a breakdown of individual techniques; it was as if the entire battle had already been rehearsed in his mind.
This wasn't something learned through practice.
It was something forged in combat.
It was an instinct honed through countless real-life battles during his eleven-year career as a Special Forces Soldier.
Jiang Chen didn't make a sound.
He stood where he was, his gaze never leaving Lu Zheng's back. His breathing was steady, but a layer of coldness in his eyes had faded, replaced by a quiet, scrutinizing look.
The surrounding formation began to loosen.
The remaining nine people no longer pressed in as densely as before; their steps were clearly hesitant.
Some subconsciously took half a step back, while others held their rubber batons up, but the tips were drooping slightly.
Lu Zheng didn't give them a chance to adjust.
He actively crashed into the densest part of the crowd, keeping his body low and his center of gravity almost touching the ground.
One rubber baton swept over his head, and a second one missed, grazing the outside of his left shoulder.
He struck horizontally with his left elbow, hitting a man squarely in the ribs. The man's breath was instantly knocked out of him. The moment he bent over, Lu Zheng's knee slammed into his face.
At the same time, his right hand formed a palm, pushing the heel of his palm against another man's xiphoid process. As the man doubled over, Lu Zheng grabbed the back of his neck, pressed down, and drove his knee into the man's forehead.
The force was precisely controlled to knock the opponent unconscious without causing permanent damage.
A shoulder throw sent a burly man flying through the air, crashing into another person who was about to charge. The two of them tumbled into a heap.
A spinning elbow strike hit a man squarely in the temple. The man swayed on the spot twice before kneeling on the ground.
He grabbed another person's wrist holding a baton and twisted it outward. The wrist joint made a faint popping sound, the baton fell, and the man crouched down clutching his wrist, his forehead covered in cold sweat.
With each person that fell, the hesitation on the faces of the remaining men grew.
It wasn't just cowardice; it was the confusion of never having encountered such a situation.
They were used to opponents retreating, dodging, and protecting their heads under their batons. They had never seen anyone who, when flanked by twelve people, would actively crash into them.
Using elbows, knees, and the heels of his palms—weapons shorter but faster than batons—he stopped each of them before they could even strike.
Five minutes.
From the first person charging to the last person falling.
Five minutes.
Jiang Chen counted the time in his head.
Twelve people lay scattered in all directions under the shade of the Plane Trees.
Some were curled up on the road clutching their arms, some were gasping for air while holding their ribs, and some lay on the ground unable to even make a sound.
Rubber batons were scattered everywhere. One rolled to Jiang Chen's feet and stopped.
The Scarface Man stood in front of the three off-road vehicles, the expression on his face beyond description by the word fear.
It was blank.
Completely empty.
The rubber baton in his hand was still raised, but not in a way that suggested he was preparing to attack; it was more like he had forgotten to put it down.
The old scar at the corner of his mouth was twitching slightly. His lips moved several times, but he couldn't utter a single word.
Twelve people.
The twelve best fighters among his men.
Eight minutes.
All of them were lying on the ground.
And the man in front of him was only breathing slightly faster than usual.
There was sweat on his forehead, sliding down his brow bone, but he didn't raise his hand to wipe it.
His back was still straight, his center of gravity still stable. Standing among the people sprawled on the ground, he looked like a stake driven into the earth.
The Scarface Man took a step back.