Chapter Seventy-Six: The Barrel

Du Ruo listened to Fang Nian’s words and nodded sadly. It was just as he said: if these people remained here, when the cold came at seven o’clock, they would die all the same. But if they fought, perhaps there was still hope. Her own thoughts, she realized, were indeed somewhat naive.

“So, what should we do to stir up conflict among them?”

Fang Nian pondered for a moment, about to say something, when suddenly a barrage of angry curses rang out. When the two of them moved closer, they discovered the source: the middle-aged man who had just received fruit cake from Fang Nian and Du Ruo. Now, he was slumped on the ground, his body marred with bloody welts from a whip.

Beside him lay a cloth bundle, inside which were several pieces of cold fruit cake. Standing before him was a soldier in a foreign uniform, holding a barbed whip, his face cold and contorted with rage.

“You old bastard, where did you get fruit cake? With the paltry work you do, you can barely feed yourself—how could you possibly have extra food for your son? Did you steal this fruit cake?”

The man was so badly beaten that his words were slurred and indistinct, a testament to the officer’s brutality. When the man failed to utter a complete sentence, the officer raised the whip and lashed him again. Each stroke drew blood and tore flesh, the scene so gruesome that many turned away, certain the man would not survive.

In the midst of this chaos, Fang Nian’s gaze swept the crowd and found Luo Li. His fists were clenched, his body trembling—clearly, he was struggling to restrain himself.

A hint of a smile appeared on Fang Nian’s lips. He knew the opportunity had arrived. Pulling Du Ruo close, he whispered, “This is it. Stay with me, I’ll do my best to protect you.”

Du Ruo’s cheeks flushed at his words, but she nodded obediently; it was the first time in her life someone had protected her.

Just then, Fang Nian suddenly darted out from the crowd, addressing the furious officer, “Sir, actually, those two pieces of fruit cake were given to the man by me.”

Hearing this voice, the officer instantly stopped, turning to look at Fang Nian. He had been domineering on this doomsday train for years—many had tried to play the hero, and every one of them had ended in a miserable death. After he killed twelve so-called good Samaritans, no one had dared to speak up before him. Yet now another fearless soul appeared. Instead of anger, the officer licked his chapped lips with excitement, eyeing Fang Nian with amusement.

“You’re standing up for him?”

The people on the train, accustomed to the officer’s violence, could guess what would happen next, but none stepped forward to warn Fang Nian.

Unexpectedly, facing the officer’s ferocity, Fang Nian’s eyes showed not a trace of fear. He answered calmly:

“I’m not standing up for him; I’m simply stating a fact—I really did give him two pieces of fruit cake.”

The officer’s amusement gradually turned to fury. He said, “I’ll give you one more chance—were those fruit cakes yours?”

Fang Nian spread his hands indifferently. “Of course. No matter how many times you ask, the answer will always be the same—I gave him the fruit cake.”

The officer, enraged, whipped out his barbed lash and swung it at Fang Nian. “You’re asking for death.”

The whip flashed quickly—clearly, the officer had some martial skill—but if he thought that would suffice to strike Fang Nian, he was sorely mistaken. Fang Nian simply shifted his body, dodging the whip, which struck a nearby wooden chair, shattering it and sending splinters flying. One shard landed squarely on the officer’s cheek, breaking the skin.

Missing his mark and getting wounded himself, the officer’s anger surged. He realized Fang Nian was agile—using the whip might not be enough. So he tossed it aside and drew a massive Desert Eagle, cocked it, and pressed its barrel against Fang Nian’s forehead.

“Go on—run! Why aren’t you running now? I’d like to see whether you’re faster, or my bullet is.”

Everyone watching knew Fang Nian was finished. No matter how quick he was, he couldn’t dodge a bullet, and many felt sorry for him.

Yet Fang Nian, staring into the black muzzle, showed no fear. His calm wasn’t because he believed he could dodge the bullet, but because he had noticed something.

Fang Nian’s hearing was exceptional. When the officer cocked the gun, he distinctly heard the sound of an empty chamber. The Desert Eagle held no bullets.

So, being threatened with an empty gun, what was there to fear?

Thinking this, Fang Nian grabbed the gun, pressed it harder against his own forehead, and said flatly, “Shoot.”

At those words, the workers nearby were stunned. The officer’s armed squad was stunned. The officer himself was stunned. Even Du Ruo was dumbfounded. Was this man suicidal? Could it be that his plan to incite conflict was simply to kill himself?

The officer was thoroughly intimidated. Normally, anyone who misbehaved would immediately beg for mercy or surrender when faced with his gun. But this time, he was confronted by someone who knew no fear. Moreover, he knew his own gun was empty—no matter how he pulled the trigger, he couldn’t kill Fang Nian. Sweat began to bead on his forehead.

Fang Nian, seeing this, knew his guess was correct and grew bolder. He addressed the officer, “We want meat.”

The officer froze, incredulous. “What? Meat?”

Fang Nian repeated, “Yes, meat.”

The officer burst out laughing. “Are you serious? You want meat? Do you deserve it?”

Suddenly, Fang Nian’s gaze sharpened. “Why not? What makes you more deserving than us?”

The officer was furious. “What? You dare compare your lowly lives to mine? You’re not afraid I’ll blow your brains out?”

Fang Nian brushed the gun aside with disdain. “Enough. Stop pretending. I know your gun has no bullets, and even your soldiers behind you are empty-handed. Your weapons are just for show, aren’t they?”

At that, the officer’s face turned utterly grim.