Chapter 5: Do You Have Any Objections?

Realizing this, Zhang Yan instantly felt emboldened. He had a thorough understanding of Xiao Kaitian’s background—otherwise, he wouldn’t have dared to openly rebel at such a time. Just a worthless failure; what kind of storm could he possibly stir up? He had to admit the second-in-command was indeed skilled, but compared to himself, the gap was as vast as heaven and earth.

Though he was a discarded disciple of the Han-Tang Qinling Shaolin branch, he had at least stepped into the path of martial cultivation. He had quietly traveled to the island nation, enduring for years under the old fox Sun Zhongyi in Yimei Hall, all for an opportunity like today. Now, the chance had finally arrived.

The second-in-command’s performance today had completely exposed his incompetence. This was the perfect moment for Zhang Yan to seize power. The thought made his blood boil. Wealth, power, status, women—all these years of bitter cultivation, hadn’t it been for these things?

“I didn’t expect that tampering with your car wouldn’t be enough to kill you.” Facing Xiao Kaitian, who was slowly strolling closer, Zhang Yan laughed. “Should I say you’re lucky or just stupid? You had a chance for an easy death, yet you chose such a path.”

Ichiro Nakayama, satisfied, took another drag on his cigar. So what if they were martial artists? So what if they were strong? In the end, these powerful men still served him. In this world, no one could resist the lure of material desires. He was extremely pleased with Zhang Yan’s performance; it would be no problem to groom him as his right-hand man and hand Yimei Hall over to him in the future.

Hearing the conversation, Xiao Kaitian finally turned his gaze to Zhang Yan, a man of about fifty-six combat power. Where did his confidence come from? Yet, from his words, Xiao Kaitian caught a crucial detail—the sabotage of the car had been Zhang Yan’s doing. In other words, the death of “Xiao Kaitian” in this dimension was at the hands of the man before him. Realizing this, Xiao Kaitian already saw Zhang Yan as a dead man.

In the Central Axis Universe, he had long since grown accustomed to killing. Even though he had been ambushed and cast into this dimensional space, to him, everything here—apart from the woman with a lingering warmth in his arms—was nothing more than an ant.

The sound of leather shoes splashing through puddles echoed in the hall, each step a slap in the face. As Xiao Kaitian continued toward the main chamber, seemingly indifferent, Zhang Yan’s expression finally changed.

He might have been an outcast, but he had been initiated into the Han-Tang Qinling Shaolin school. His strongest skill, the Tiger-Dragon Fist, could defeat even top mercenaries in less than ten rounds.

With a shout, he threw himself into the attack, every muscle tensed and coiled with power.

Ichiro Nakayama couldn’t help but curl his lips into a smirk. He wrapped a large arm around the waist of the beauty beside him, delighted.

At last, Xiao Kaitian’s eyes flickered with a hint of change.

In that instant, he sensed a trace of high-dimensional power from Zhang Yan—infinitesimal, but present. Though it was nowhere near a divine source, it reassured him: this world had the potential for dimensional breakthrough.

He had to return to the Central Axis Universe.

“Die!” Zhang Yan, fully charged, eyes wide and bloodshot, unleashed the Tiger-Dragon Fist’s strongest blow—“Subduing Dragon, Taming Tiger”—with the intent to end the fight in one strike.

The Tiger-Dragon Fist was an external martial art, emphasizing absolute power. Outsiders might not grasp the technique, but they could sense the ferocity of Zhang Yan’s assault. The punch swept up the falling rainwater, the force enough to smash through a wall.

“It’s over!” Ichiro Nakayama’s voice rumbled from deep in his throat. Holding the beauty in his arms, he was already preparing to leave.

But—

His pupils contracted abruptly; he froze, half-risen from his seat. The woman in his arms went limp.

Xiao Kaitian casually tossed aside his tattered umbrella and, with the woman still in his embrace, set his right foot firmly on the tatami in the main hall.

As for Zhang Yan, he staggered forward a few steps, then collapsed flat on his back with a thud. His body was riddled with the metal ribs of the umbrella, three in particular skewering his brow, mouth, and throat.

Ichiro Nakayama swallowed hard. The air conditioning in the main hall had long since ceased to function, especially after the walls had collapsed. With Xiao Kaitian’s single step, the temperature seemed to drop by ten degrees, and cold sweat streamed down Nakayama’s smooth forehead.

Zhang Yan was dead—a martial cultivator, slain without even understanding how.

At last, a chill of fear crept through Ichiro Nakayama’s heart. He turned his gaze to the woman behind him, the one holding a sword of the island nation.

She, dressed in a light gray suit, shoulder-length hair framing her face, brows like swords, opened her eyes at that very moment.

Ichiro Nakayama didn’t know who she was, only that she’d been sent by the Hagiwara family. Judging by her bearing, she was likely formidable. With a forced laugh, he said, “Miss Rin Kaoru, perhaps now it’s your—”

A crisp slap cut him off. The woman in the gray suit, eyes fixed on Xiao Kaitian, raised her left hand and struck Nakayama across the face.

“You—!” Ichiro Nakayama was furious. Though he served the Hagiwara family, he was still a high-ranking figure. Could they really treat him so arbitrarily, just by sending anyone over? In terms of strength, he was no match for the second-in-command, but that didn’t mean he was weak.

He was a notable figure in Sagane; while his martial prowess was far inferior to Zhang Yan’s or the second-in-command’s, a syndicate needed more than just brute force—it needed management and strategy, and that was his specialty. No matter how strong the fist, could it match the power of cunning? That was why the Hagiwara family had appointed him to manage the Sagane Hagiwara Trading Company.

But that didn’t mean he was someone to be trifled with; he usually feared no one.

Yet another slap from the woman in gray left him no chance to dodge—he flew through the air, three teeth spinning free, crushing a low table as he landed.

A clean kill—he had no power to resist.

“Boss!”

“Lord Nakayama!”

The loyal men in black suits surged forward. They didn’t know the woman’s identity; all they saw was Nakayama being sent flying.

With a flick of her wrist, the woman in gray tossed a palm-sized round metal object onto the low table. It rattled as it rolled, and at the sight of it, every black-suited man, even the groaning Nakayama, froze in place.

On the surface of the metal token was an embossed four-petaled purple plum blossom—the Hagiwara family crest. Purple signified the family’s core, its highest authority.

“P-princess…?” Ichiro Nakayama stammered the words, unsure if his voice was clear, unsure if he had conveyed his meaning.

“Do you have any objections?” The woman in the gray suit slowly rose to her feet.