Chapter 458: Done for! The Villain Immersed Too Deeply in the Role! |
Six in the morning, Kapok Alley.
Normally at this hour, the film crew would already be making a ruckus.
Breakfast vendors would wheel their carts in, the set assistant’s megaphone could wake the neighborhood dogs.
But today, it was terrifyingly silent.
A damp, earthy smell hung in the air, last night’s rain still not fully dried,
the flagstone path slick and shining with cold light.
Because that old man had arrived.
Jiang Wen sat behind the monitor, clutching a folding fan he used to direct.
His eyes were red-rimmed as he stared at the alley entrance, like a wolf fixated on prey.
Jiang Wen grabbed the walkie-talkie, his voice dark and frightening,
“There are no NGs for this scene today. Whoever drops the ball packs up and gets out.”
No one answered.
Even the lighting technician, usually the biggest joker, was drenched in cold sweat, gripping the light stand.
At the alley mouth, mist was rising.
A stooped silhouette parted the morning fog and silently walked in.
It was Ghost Claw Chen.
He wore a black long robe, the mud-stained layered cloth shoes under his feet.
No makeup; the ravines of wrinkles on his face were his makeup.
Hands folded behind his back, he walked slowly.
One step, two steps.
The sensation was strange.
Though clearly a frail old man on his last legs, whenever his soles hit the ground, everyone nearby felt an inexplicable oppression.
Cinematographer Old Zhao pushed the lens in for a close-up on Master Chen’s back.
Loneliness, eeriness, as if freshly risen from a grave—death’s chill seeped through the screen.
“Good…” Jiang Wen forced the word from his throat.
Midway down the alley.
The road was blocked.
Three people stood in the middle, arranged in a triangular stance.
On the left was barber Fa Shu, holding an old folding razor;
on the right was fish seller Aunt Gui, gripping two boning knives reverse-handled;
in the center was blacksmith A Jiu, hoisting a two-meter-long waxwood pole wrapped in iron at the tip.
These three were not ordinary extras; Jiang Wen had specially recruited retired instructors from the provincial martial arts team—real trained fighters.
“Master Chen, turn back.”
The stuntman playing Fa Shu intoned the line in a deep voice, “Kapok Alley does not welcome outsiders.”
That line was supposed to thunder with force.
But when Master Chen’s murky eyes swept over him,
Fa Shu’s voice noticeably trembled.
Master Chen stopped.
He raised his eyelids and sneered.
“Turn back?”
His voice was hoarse, “The only thing that blocks my way is the dead.”
There was no warning.
Truly no warning at all.
Master Chen’s figure suddenly blurred in the frame.
“Watch out!!” A Jiu roared.
Too fast!
That speed was not fitting for an elderly man; it exceeded human explosive limits.
Jiang Wen sprang up, eyes glued to the monitor.
High-speed cameras madly whirred, capturing the residual shadow.
Whoosh—!
A gale hit their faces.
Fa Shu saw a flash and the wrinkled old face was suddenly inches from his nose.
A thick, rotten old-man stench invaded his nostrils.
“Die.”
One word, spat lightly.
Fa Shu’s scalp exploded; decades of training made him reflexively swing the razor toward Master Chen’s throat.
Though a prop, the razor was made of real steel for texture; the blade wasn’t sharpened, but a solid hit could still shatter a throat bone.
Yet Master Chen neither dodged nor flinched.
He raised his right hand, that gray, knuckled palm, and casually slapped at the razor-bearing hand.
Clang—!!
A shrill clash of metal reverberated through the alley.
Sparks flew!
Everyone stood dumbfounded.
The camera zoomed in, and a horrifying sight appeared.
Master Chen’s index and middle fingers had, with surgical precision, clamped the rapidly swinging razor blade.
That blade was steel!
“Hmph.”
Master Chen snorted, pressure from his fingertips intensifying.
Crack!
Under his finger strength, the specially made prop razor fractured, a chip the size of a fingernail breaking off!
Fa Shu’s eyes bulged in terror.
But this wasn’t over.
Master Chen flipped his wrist, and that ghostly claw slid down like a venomous snake winding a tree, locking firmly onto Fa Shu’s wrist.
Crack.
A crisp grinding of bone.
“Ah—!!!”
Fa Shu let out a piercing scream.
This was no act; the pain was real! Agonizing pain robbed him of control,
and the razor clattered to the ground.
Cold sweat soaked his undershirt at once.
Although the grip didn’t sever the wrist, the tearing, bone-twisting pain made him feel the whole arm useless.
“Old Fa!”
Aunt Gui nearby panicked.
Trained in Tan-style kicks, she twisted her waist and launched herself into the air.
Whoosh whoosh whoosh!
Her legs whipped like whips, cutting the air toward Master Chen’s temple and occiput.
These were real kicks!
To face such an opponent, Aunt Gui didn’t dare hold back.
But Master Chen didn’t even turn his head.
His left hand still held Fa Shu; his right hand, as if with eyes in the back of it, casually swung backward.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
Three muffled thuds.
Master Chen’s palm landed precisely on Aunt Gui’s ankle and the forward-facing bone of the lower leg.
The motion looked casual, like brushing dust off clothes.
But Aunt Gui felt as though she’d kicked granite.
Rrip—!
On the final strike,
Master Chen hooked his fingers into Aunt Gui’s trouser leg.
That tough coarse cloth immediately proved fragile under his fingertip and was torn to shreds.
“My leg…” Aunt Gui stumbled to the ground, gritting her teeth in pain, staring in horror at the old man with his back to her.
Too strong.
This was no contest in the same dimension.
“Clear the way!!”
A roar.
A Jiu was desperate.
He heaved the two-meter waxwood pole with both hands.
The waxwood pole was extremely tough, a staple weapon for stuntmen; it could bend ninety degrees without snapping, and a hit across someone’s body left a purple bruise.
Woooo—!
The long staff swept with a howling wind toward Master Chen’s flank.
If it connected, it would fracture the lumbar vertebrae.
The martial arts director, Old Zhang, almost shouted to stop; A Jiu had lost his head, how could he strike so hard at an old man?
But his mouth stayed shut.
Because he saw something even more incredible.
Facing the sweeping heavy pole, Master Chen did not dodge; instead, he stepped forward into the staff.
Just as the tip was about to hit his waist,
Master Chen suddenly leaped.
Not by wirework flight, but a crisp, decisive hop—only half a meter off the ground.
In that half meter,
his feet landed squarely on the sweeping waxwood staff!
“What?!” A Jiu felt the staff in his hands go suddenly heavy, as if a thousand-pound weight pressed down.
He tried to pull the staff back, but it wouldn’t budge.
Master Chen stood on the pole, his body rising and falling with the staff’s tremor, a cruel smile appearing on that wrinkled face.
“Rotten wood.”
Master Chen murmured.
Then his right foot stomped down forcefully!
The force was short, penetrating, with immense shock.
Crack!!!
That flexible waxwood staff, which could survive being run over by a car, snapped in half under that stomp!
Wood splinters flew, embedding into A Jiu’s arm.
A Jiu howled; the tiger’s mouth of his hand burst, and the recoil threw him backward, slamming heavily onto the flagstones.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Only rainwater dripping from eaves.
In under a minute,
three martial champions were finished.
This was not acting.
This was a one-sided slaughter.
The crew stood stupefied; several timid female assistants even covered their mouths to prevent themselves from screaming.
Is this old man… a monster?
Jiang Wen did not call cut.
He stood behind the monitor, both hands clawing the chair back.
His body shook—an involuntary reaction born of intoxicating excitement braided with fear.
“Continue… keep rolling…” Jiang Wen murmured.
On the screen,
Master Chen stepped off the broken staff.
He dusted his robe as if he had just crushed a cockroach.
His gaze, passing over the scattered wreckage, settled on the depth of the alley.
There, by the script, a child who should be petrified sat huddled in a corner weeping.
That was Jiang Ci’s (A Jie’s) only dry son in this world, Little Bean.
Little Bean was a real six-year-old background actor.
At this moment, he didn’t need to act.
Watching the demonic old man approach step by step,
watching the previously imposing Fa Shu and Aunt Gui lie bloody on the ground, Little Bean truly wet himself from fear.
Wah—!!
Little Bean wailed, mucus and tears smeared across his face.
Master Chen walked up to him.
He looked down on the crying child with no pity, only contempt for the weak.
“So noisy.”
Master Chen raised that same ghostly claw that had shattered the wooden pole and split the razor.
That murderous intent felt tangible.
“No… no…”
Fa Shu on the ground, pushed by whatever immersion the old man had brought, or perhaps roused by the raw killing aura, scrambled over despite his wrist.
He had no thought for his injured arm and crawled forward.
“Don’t touch the child!!”
Fa Shu summoned his last strength and threw himself over Little Bean, shielding the child with his back.
It was an utterly defenseless posture.
His back was completely exposed beneath Master Chen’s claw.
Master Chen’s eyes narrowed.
He did not stop.
If anything, the red light in his eyes burned brighter.
This old man… had gone mad!
He seemed to have forgotten that this was a film set, forgotten that the people before him were fellow cast members.
In his era’s underworld, you cut the grass and you remove the roots; those who block the road—die!
Huu!
The ghost claw rose, slicing the air with a heart-stopping hiss, driving toward Fa Shu’s back!
The fingernails were razor-sharp; if that strike landed, it would tear through a lung!
“Stop!!”
“Cut it out!!”
The martial arts director Old Zhang and the assistant director screamed in unison, racing onto the stage like madmen.
But it was too late!
Master Chen’s hand had already fallen.
Less than ten centimeters remained between the claw and Fa Shu’s back!