These days, Mrs. Harris and her two children survived on the meager stores of pickled wild vegetables and wild yams they had saved up, but it wouldn’t last for many days. Without food, they would starve to death.

Henry Clark was no saint; in this chaotic world, there were countless miserable people, and he couldn’t help them all.

But when tragedy happened right before his eyes, within his ability to intervene, he couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.

Besides, after breaking through his limits once, food would no longer be a problem for them in the future.

“Uncle George Harris, rest in peace. Those scum—I’ll send them to join you.”

Swish!

Henry Clark charged toward Charles Foster’s house.

As he neared Charles Foster’s house, he caught the strong aroma of meat.

Charles Foster, Michael Thompson, and Robert Thompson were still awake, sitting around an iron pot, devouring meat.

“So fragrant, so delicious! I could eat this for seven days straight and never get tired of it.”

Michael Thompson stuffed a large chunk of meat into his mouth, looking utterly satisfied.

“Brother Feng, we’re almost out of meat. What do we do after this?” Robert Thompson asked.

“Of course, we’ll keep getting it from William Clark.”

Charles Foster gnawed on a pig’s trotter as he spoke.

“Brother Feng, I’m just worried that if we push him too far, William Clark might snap. I’ve heard his archery is really something. It’s easy to dodge an open attack, but hard to guard against a hidden arrow.”

Robert Thompson sounded a bit anxious.

“Relax, William Clark wouldn’t dare make a move against us.”

Charles Foster wiped the grease from his mouth and said, “This whole thing made me realize something. There are three of us. Unless William Clark can kill all three of us at once, if even one of us escapes, his wife and son will become our targets for revenge. That’s his weakness—he won’t risk it.”

“Besides, in Kaoshan Village, only William Clark knows archery. If we die by arrows, everyone will know it was him. The Liu clan won’t let him off.”

“Brilliant insight, Brother Feng.”

Michael Thompson and Robert Thompson showered him with flattery.

“William Clark, I’ve got you right where I want you for life.”

Charles Foster said viciously.

Bang!

The door suddenly shattered, and a huge black shadow lunged at Charles Foster like a wild beast.

Chapter 8: Killing

To catch the bandits, first seize their leader. If you’re going to kill, start with the strongest.

As long as Charles Foster was killed first, the other two would be easy.

Henry Clark summoned all his strength, blood and energy surging, black lines covering his fists as he punched at Charles Foster.

Charles Foster was fairly alert; as soon as the door broke, he reacted, instinctively throwing a punch to block Henry Clark’s attack.

Fist met fist.

But the difference in their strength was overwhelming.

Charles Foster also practiced a third-rate martial art, but his talent was mediocre. After more than ten years of training, he’d barely achieved minor success, while Henry Clark had reached the pinnacle—the gap was enormous.

What’s more, Henry Clark had already broken through his limits; his blood and energy reserves were twice that of Charles Foster.

Bang!

Their fists collided. Charles Foster’s arm twisted, the bones snapping. The excruciating pain made Charles Foster instinctively want to scream, but Henry Clark’s next punch came immediately, slamming into Charles Foster’s chest.

Crack!

Charles Foster’s chest caved in, his body flying backward and crashing into the wall, leaving a deep dent.

“It’s... it’s you...”

Charles Foster’s eyes bulged wide as he finally saw his attacker’s face, disbelief written all over him. Then his head lolled to the side, and he died on the spot.

Without even glancing at Charles Foster, after sending him flying with a punch, Henry Clark immediately swung at Michael Thompson on his left.

Michael Thompson followed in Charles Foster’s footsteps, taking a blow to the chest and flying sideways, smashing a wooden stool to pieces.

Robert Thompson was terrified and bolted for the door.

But Henry Clark’s blood and energy were abundant, his muscles powerful. With just a few strides, he caught up to Robert Thompson and punched him in the back.

Robert Thompson fell to the ground, coughing up blood, but he wasn’t dead yet. He desperately crawled forward, trying to call for help, but could only make hoarse, choking sounds.

Henry Clark finished him off with another punch, sending Robert Thompson on his way.

After checking to make sure all three were dead, Henry Clark quickly left, taking nothing with him.

He didn’t want to become a suspect just for taking a few things.

Back home, he washed the blood from his hands, lay on his bed, and replayed the events in his mind. Once he was sure he’d left no clues, he finally relaxed and drifted off to sleep.

Although it was his first time killing, he didn’t feel any discomfort. Perhaps, after so much time on the run, he’d grown used to life and death.

The next day, the village was calm. The deaths of Charles Foster and the other two hadn’t been discovered.

This showed just how unpopular the three were—no one had any dealings with them.

It wasn’t until the third day, when another village rascal who’d wanted to join Charles Foster went looking for him, that the bodies were found.

The news caused a huge stir, and soon the whole village knew.

Everyone’s faces showed barely concealed... joy.

Three deaths were no small matter. The village chief immediately reported it to the Liu clan.

That afternoon, two men in scarlet robes, long knives at their waists, arrived at Kaoshan Village.

In the heyday of the Great Chu Dynasty, Changfeng City was a county seat, with a magistrate, a yamen, and constables.

But now, all that was just a name.

The Red-Clad Guards were the Liu clan’s enforcers, maintaining order and apprehending criminals.

Their duties were similar to the old constables.