The sign for the Renxin Hall was carved by an old craftsman from the neighborhood at Uncle Chen’s request.
Red with gold lettering, it hung over the small shopfront with a surprisingly professional flair.
At four in the afternoon on their seventh day in business, Mack Vance saw off his final patient of the day, a dockworker suffering from an acute flare-up of cholecystitis.
Uncle Chen was organizing the medicine cabinet, scooping dried herbs into glass jars.
“Doctor Vance, here’s the ledger for this week.” Uncle Chen handed over a notebook.
“Four hundred and twenty dollars from consultations, three hundred and fifteen from herbal remedies.
After rent and inventory costs, our net profit is around five hundred.
A hell of a lot better than running a street stall.” Mack glanced at the ledger.
“Uncle Chen, have you heard anything lately?
About the Wah Ching gang?” Uncle Chen lowered his voice.
“I have.
That Mad Dog Johnny guy—the one who runs the docks and our street—supposedly fell sick recently.” “Sick?” “Word is he suddenly lost all his strength, and his temper turned downright foul.” Uncle Chen shook his head.
“The day before yesterday, he got into a fight with his own men at the pool hall and even threw hands.
His lackeys are whispering that Johnny hasn’t been sleeping well at night.
He keeps feeling like someone is watching him.” Mack nodded, continuing to organize his acupuncture needles.
The effects of Negative Energy Absorption were working better than he had anticipated.
It wasn’t lethal, but it steadily drained the target’s stamina and judgment, leaving them paranoid and volatile.
For a gang boss, this was far more effective than outright assassination.
An unhinged leader would lose his authority in no time.
“Who else among his crew is making waves?” Mack asked.
“There’s a guy named Butch, the one with the scar across his face who caused trouble here last time,” Uncle Chen said.
“Then there’s a minion named Skinny Monkey, who usually handles protection money.
Those two are pretty active right now.
With Johnny sick, they want to use the chance to prove themselves.” “Got it.” Mack locked the needle kit inside a drawer.
“Uncle Chen, let’s close up early today.
I have some business to attend to tonight.” “Doctor Vance, be careful out there.” “Don’t worry.” At nine o’clock that evening, Mack changed into dark clothes and left the clinic.
Avoiding the front door, he slipped out through the back alley and came to a stop in a deserted corner.
*Fetal Transformation.* His facial muscles twitched softly, and his bones emitted faint clicking sounds.
Ten seconds later, the reflection in a nearby window showed a completely unfamiliar Asian face—around thirty years old, thoroughly unremarkable, the kind of person who would blend seamlessly into any crowd.
“If facial plastic surgery were this convenient, doctors in Korea would all be out of a job.” Mack glanced at his reflection in the glass of a fire escape to confirm there were no flaws.
The underground pool hall Mad Dog Johnny frequented was three blocks away.
A neon sign above the entrance read “Lucky Star Entertainment,” though half of the glass tubing was burnt out.
Mack walked inside, greeted immediately by a thick wall of cigarette smoke and sweat.
All four pool tables were occupied, and nearby stood several mahjong tables, the clatter of tiles mingling with loud shouting.
He ordered a bottle of beer at the bar and took a seat in a secluded corner.
He activated *Wall-Piercing Vision*, scanning the entire venue.
Johnny was standing by the innermost pool table—around forty, bald-headed, with a blue dragon tattooed across his neck.
He was gambling with someone, cold sweat glistening on his forehead, his grip on the cue stick trembling slightly.
“Johnny, man, you’re off your game today,” his opponent, a fat guy wearing a thick gold chain, chuckled.
“That’s three losses in a row.” “Cut the crap.” Johnny wiped away his sweat.
“Again.” Mack took a sip of his beer, locking his gaze on Johnny.
*Mister Negative Ability: Negative Energy Absorption—Activate.* It wasn’t a broad, wide-area drain, but a precise, targeted operation—like inserting a straw into an orange to extract only the juice while keeping the peel intact.
Streams of energy were slowly siphoned from Johnny’s body: vitality, positive emotions, reserves of stamina.
Johnny wobbled slightly, grabbing the edge of the pool table to steady himself.
“What’s wrong, Johnny?” “Nothing.” Johnny gritted his teeth.
“Keep playing.” Over the next ten minutes, however, he blundered repeatedly.
Scratching the cue ball, missing easy shots, and even tearing the felt cloth with a sloppy strike at one point.
Murmurs began to circulate among the onlookers.
“I’m done!” Johnny slammed the cue stick onto the table.
“My luck is shit today.” “Johnny, what about the bet…?” the fat man reminded him.
Johnny pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and threw it over, his expression dark.
“Tomorrow.
See if I don’t bleed you dry next time.” He left the pool hall with two of his men, his footsteps unsteady.
Mack finished the rest of his beer and stood up to leave.
A light rain was falling outside.
Mack walked to a payphone two blocks away, dropped in a coin, and dialed the clinic’s number.
“Hello?” Uncle Chen’s voice answered.
“It’s me,” Mack said.
“I won’t be returning tonight.
Lock the clinic doors tight.” “Doctor Vance, are you—” “Don’t worry.” Hanging up, Mack returned to the clinic.
Entering through the back door, he left the lights off and went straight down to the former storage room, which he had converted into a secret sanctuary.
The hidden room was about ten square meters, its walls lined with soundproofing foam, and a meditation mat sat in the center.
Mack sat down and drew a handful of soybeans from his pocket.
*Beans to Soldiers.* It wasn’t the legendary version that summoned a grand army of thousands; currently, he could only create the lowest-tier reconnaissance units.
The soybeans rolled across his palm as he channeled mana into them, causing their surface to shimmer with a faint light.
Mack selected the plumpest soybean among them and placed it on the floor.
“Go.” The soybean expanded and reshaped itself into a translucent humanoid figure about thirty centimeters tall.
It had no facial features or fine details, looking like a doll sculpted from mist and shadows.
A Shadow Soldier.
Mack closed his eyes, linking his vision with the Shadow Soldier.
He “saw” the floor and walls of the secret room, then commanded the puppet to slip through the gap under the door and into the back alley.
The Shadow Soldier’s mode of movement was unique—not walking, but leaping between shadows.
The darkness of the alley served as its transit route, flitting from the shadow of one dumpster to the next, almost impossible for the naked eye to detect.
Its destination: Mad Dog Johnny’s stronghold, a warehouse disguised as a logistics company.
It took the Shadow Soldier twenty minutes to arrive.
The perimeter of the warehouse was fenced with chain-link wire, but the Shadow Soldier passed right through the shadows.
The interior was brightly lit, where a dozen thugs were playing cards.
Johnny lay pale on a sofa inside an office while a minion poured him water.
“Boss, you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?” “No,” Johnny rasped.
“I’m just tired.
Damn it, things have been freaky lately…” The Shadow Soldier clung to the shadow outside the office window, its hearing amplified.
Mack “heard” the conversation within: “Butch said regarding that dock shipment…” “Let him handle it,” Johnny snapped.
“Those black-clothed bastards stole two of our warehouses last time.
If they dare show up again…” “But boss, those guys aren’t to be messed with.
I heard they’re not normal…
they know…
martial arts.” “Kung fu my ass!” Johnny began coughing.
“No matter how good they are, can they beat a gun?” The Shadow Soldier continued moving, scouting the entire warehouse.
In a rear compartment, it uncovered a few items: several empty wooden crates marked with strange symbols that resembled neither Chinese nor English.
There were also a few shreds of black cloth—unusual texture, thin yet resilient.
Mack maneuvered the puppet closer to inspect the symbols carefully.
Twisted strokes, somewhat like Japanese, but far more ancient.
Ninjas?
The Foot Clan?
Suddenly, a surge of energy fluctuated within the puppet’s perception.
Not from inside the warehouse, but from outside.
Mack immediately commanded the Shadow Soldier to plunge into the darkness and move toward the source of the disturbance—Abandoned Warehouse No.
3 in the docklands.
When the Shadow Soldier arrived, it spotted five figures moving metallic crates.
Clad entirely in black bodysuits and masks, with short swords strapped across their backs, their movements were clean, precise, and completely silent.
Foot Clan ninjas.
The metallic crates were roughly a meter long and half a meter wide, their surfaces carved with intricate patterns that gave off a dull sheen in the moonlight.
Engraved on the side was an emblem: an abstract dragon motif encircling some form of script.
The Shadow Soldier attempted to creep closer to get a better look at the writing.
But thirty meters out, one of the ninjas suddenly turned his head.
Through the Shadow Soldier’s vision, Mack saw the ninja’s eyes narrow beneath his mask, his hand moving to rest on his sword hilt.
He can perceive energy fluctuations?
Although the Shadow Soldier was invisible, the subtle disturbance of mana had likely been detected.
The ninja signaled with a hand gesture.
The other four instantly froze, fanning out into a defensive formation.
The leader drew several shuriken from his vest and threw them—not directly at the Shadow Soldier, but scattered across several directions.
A probing attack.
The Shadow Soldier leaped rapidly between shadows to evade the shuriken.
Yet one sliced through the edge of its shadowed zone, the blade gleaming with an uncanny blue light—poisoned, and perhaps enchanted.
The lead ninja growled a low, sharp command.
All five formed hand seals simultaneously, expanding an energy field that covered a fifty-meter radius.
A simple barrier designed for containment and detection.
The Shadow Soldier was trapped.
Mack frowned inside the secret room.
The Foot Clan was stronger than expected—not ordinary ninjas, but supernatural warriors harnessing *qi* or a similar energy.
Their sensory perception, combat discipline, and equipment were far beyond anything street thugs like the Wah Ching gang could muster.
Forcing a way out would expose him.
Mack came to a decision.
He commanded the Shadow Soldier to dash toward the edge of the barrier—not to break through, but to self-destruct.
The instant it came into contact with the barrier’s energy, the puppet voluntarily disintegrated.
The soybean turned to powder, the shadows vanished, and the mana flux was deliberately disrupted into chaos, mimicking a burst of dissipating natural energy.
Inside the barrier, the five ninjas exchanged glances.
“It disappeared?” one asked in Japanese.
“It wasn’t a physical body,” the leader said, releasing his hand seal.
“Likely a shikigami or a scouting spell.
Someone is watching us.” “Should we report to the master?” “Keep loading.
Increase security.” Mack severed the connection.
Back in the secret room, he opened his eyes, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.
Not from exhaustion, but from tension.
This was his first clash with an extraordinary faction in this world.
Though it was only an indirect confrontation, their reaction speed and discipline put him on high alert.
He stood up and walked over to his workbench.
Two items rested upon it: a jade vial storing a sliver of residual barrier energy captured when the Shadow Soldier dissipated, and a white business card printed with the letter “R” and a phone number.
Mack picked up the business card and twirled it between his fingers.
The Wah Ching gang was merely an appetizer; the Foot Clan was the real challenge.
And to take on an organized supernatural force, fighting solo wouldn’t cut it.
He needed allies, a team, and power of his own.
Gambit—Remy LeBeau.
A mutant, a mercenary, deeply familiar with the underworld, powerful, and currently unattached.
Most importantly, he needed money and a solution to his chaotic energy issues—both of which Mack could provide.
“Well then,” Mack spoke to the business card, “let’s start by hiring an Ace.”