At that moment, a faint moan came from deep within the alley. The sound was so low and weak that an ordinary person would not have heard it, but it did not escape William Carter's ears.

He turned around and walked straight toward the depths of the alley.

The narrow alley was dim and pitch-black, terrifyingly so. In the dead of night, there was an indescribable sense of horror. The deeper he went, the more it felt like he was walking into the gaping mouth of a giant monster.

After walking more than ten meters, he saw a group of people squatting in the corner of the alley. The four bald men had placed a semi-conscious woman on the ground. Her clothes had already been stripped off, and the four of them surrounded her, groping her as they laughed and whispered among themselves.

Suddenly, they heard footsteps behind them. The four men shuddered in fright, hurriedly lifted their heads, and turned to look.

At first, the distance was too great for them to see William Carter's face clearly. But as he drew closer, the four bald men finally got a good look and all let out a sigh of relief—it was just that weak pretty boy from the dance hall.

Their fun had just begun when someone interrupted. The leader of the bald men straightened up, his face twisted with ferocity, his eyes flashing with menace as he glared viciously at William Carter, like a wolf whose prey had been snatched away, ready to pounce and tear William Carter apart at any moment.

William Carter himself felt conflicted at this moment. With his head lowered, he walked past the four bald men and the woman without stopping, slowly continuing on his way.

"Ha!"

One of the bald men snickered. In their eyes, William Carter's indifference was nothing but cowardice, which only emboldened them further. Someone said coldly, "Smart move, kid. If you dare cause trouble, I'll stab you to death!"

"Haha! Third, don't scare him. Look at that baby face—he's probably still a student!"

"Student? Hell no, I think he's just a bastard..."

The bald men jeered and cursed, their voices growing louder and their words more and more vile.

When he heard the word "bastard," William Carter, who had already walked past, suddenly stopped. Bastard! He hadn't heard those words in years. He was an orphan, taken in and raised in a remote mountain village in the northeast. When he was young, many people had called him that, but now, those people were all gone.

He stood in the alley, his back to the bald men, half turning his head with a cheerful smile as he asked, "What did you just say?"

"What did I say?" One of the bald men laughed angrily and shouted, "I said you're a son of a bitch, a fucking bastard."

William Carter exhaled. He didn't look angry at all—if anything, he seemed relieved.

He slowly turned around and walked straight toward the four bald men.

The four of them were stunned at first, then squared off against William Carter, standing in a fan shape before him. The leader sneered, "What do you want, kid? Looking for trouble..."

Before he could finish, a blinding flash of light suddenly shot through the darkness of the alley. There was a sharp crack, and the next thing they saw was the bald leader's round, shiny head tumbling from his neck to the ground, rolling far away. Then, with a splatter, a torrent of hot blood sprayed from his severed neck like a crimson fountain—ghastly and demonic in the night.

"Ah—"

The other three bald men could hardly believe their eyes. They dumbly raised their hands to touch the blood spattered on their faces, then looked at the headless body still standing upright, and let out a blood-curdling scream in unison.

No one knew when William Carter had produced a crescent-shaped curved blade in his hand. The blade was narrow, arched like a half-moon, and at a glance, it looked like a sickle. But this was a death scythe that could reap souls.

How he drew the blade, from where on his body, and how he struck—none of the three bald men, nor even the dead one, had seen it clearly. All they saw was that sudden flash of lightning.

Thud!

One of the bald men’s legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees, his face ashen and bloodless, his body trembling uncontrollably. He looked up at William Carter with a quivering voice, "B-brother, w-we..."

William Carter gave him no chance to speak. The crescent blade in his hand flickered, and the razor-sharp tip plunged deep into the man's throat. Another fatal blow—he didn't even make a sound before collapsing dead.

"Oh my god..."

At most, these thugs had only ever been in street fights. They had never seen anything like this, nor encountered someone so ruthless and deadly. The remaining two bald men were scared out of their wits, shrieked, and turned to run.

They pumped their legs with all their might, running for their lives, but in William Carter's eyes, they moved no faster than crawling turtles. With a flicker, he darted behind them in a single bound. The blade flashed twice with muffled thuds, and both men were stabbed through the back. Their bodies staggered forward a few more steps before collapsing headlong, dead before they hit the ground.

Fast! Calling William Carter's blade "fast" was an understatement.