Chapter Thirty-Three: Kill Them All

“Stay here? Are you trying to rob me right in the open?” Yang Fan looked at the hostile smirks on their faces, his own expression growing cold.

“How could that be? Didn’t we agree you’d rent it to us?” replied the man holding a staff, his tone equally icy. The rest glared at Yang Fan with menacing intent.

“So you really think I’m some sickly cat if I don’t make a move?” As Yang Fan spoke, his aura shifted dramatically. Faces darkened, and all eyes turned to the man with the staff.

“Thunderball.” The staff-wielding man conjured a sphere of crackling electricity, staring at Yang Fan as his staff gleamed with energy. It was obvious he was done pretending. His face clouded with malice as he snarled, “Look, I didn’t want to do this the hard way. For your own good, just be sensible.”

“Sensible? I fought for the loot myself. You say your friends helped, and I already gave you a piece of silver-grade gear. Wasn’t that enough? Back when I asked you for help, what did you do? You turned and left without a word. Now I’ve killed the boss, you come crawling back for a share. I really don’t get it—didn’t your teacher ever teach you any morals?”

Yang Fan pointed at the staff-wielder and unleashed a torrent of scorn. The man’s face twisted with rage.

“And who do you think you are? You’re nothing! If it weren’t for the apocalypse, I could bury you with money!” another man spat.

“Even if the gods themselves punish me, I’d still kill you. Hand over your stuff and get lost. We’ll forget what you said about Wu,” called another.

“That’s right, get on your knees!” they shouted, one after another, pointing at Yang Fan’s nose, their arrogance no longer hidden. Since it had come to this…

Yang Fan had no intention of holding back. In a flash, he appeared before the handsome man and delivered a stinging slap.

Smack.

The blow landed squarely on the man’s face, stunning everyone into silence. Yang Fan seized him by the throat, lifting him as easily as a chick, then turned to the girl in the white dress, his expression dark.

“Who is he to you?”

The girl in the white dress, still unsure what had happened, quickly answered, “A neighbor.”

Crack.

Just as the girl spoke, the handsome man tried to shout, but the sickening snap of bone echoed in everyone’s ears.

No one had expected Yang Fan to kill Wu so directly. His throat crushed, eyes bulging, face flushed, Wu was unceremoniously tossed to the ground as Yang Fan picked up his staff.

“You have killed a post-apocalyptic inheritor. You inherit all his possessions: 1,470 apocalypse coins. One item from his backpack has dropped at random,” came the system’s voice.

Panic spread. They stood frozen, unable to believe Yang Fan had just killed their companion.

“You… you actually killed him.”

“Demon. Demon. Demon,” they murmured in shock—even the girl in the white dress was visibly shaken.

They had killed zombies, sure, but never a person. Even in the apocalypse, especially after hearing the god’s voice in recent days, none dared cross the line for fear of retribution. Yet Yang Fan had killed without hesitation.

“In this world’s end, your greed is laid bare. If I weren’t strong, I’d be the one dead now. You all deserve to die.” Yang Fan had no intention of letting them live. Such people, insatiable and treacherous, would only grow worse. His justification was weak, but his resolve was absolute.

With a wet sound, he pierced one man’s chest. The man stared at him, agony twisting his features, then collapsed before he could utter a word.

Blood soaked his clothes. Yang Fan’s gaze, cold and merciless, fell on the next.

“Don’t kill me, don’t kill me! I was wrong, I’ll kneel, I’ll be your slave, your dog—just don’t kill me, please!”

“Please, I beg you, don’t kill me. I was blind, I didn’t recognize your power, I’m an animal.”

They fell to their knees, sobbing and pleading, except for the girl in the white dress and the woman beside her, though even they wore anxious expressions, fearing Yang Fan’s wrath might turn on them.

“Weren’t you the loudest, boasting if it weren’t for the apocalypse you’d bury me with money?” Yang Fan reminded the man of his own words.

“I was wrong, I’m sorry, please! I’m on my knees, spare me!” the man wailed, his dignity gone. Yang Fan’s ruthlessness made their situation clear: beg, or die.

“Human nature is hard to change.” Saying this, Yang Fan snapped his neck—a crisp, final sound.

At the sight, the next man turned and bolted, lacking even the courage to fight.

“Do you really think you can escape?”

A cold voice echoed in his ears, chilling him to the bone, his legs turning to jelly.

Crack.

Once again, Yang Fan broke his neck without a word.

Every single man—dead.

(Too few bookmarks… not enough recommendations… please, toss me a peanut~)