This Samuel Reed is called George Reed, but unfortunately, he never learned a bit of the virtue implied by his name. He started running with the underworld in the early eighties, just one of the most inconspicuous types around Dongmen—sticky fingers, a gambling problem. Back then, the people on the street looked down most on these petty crooks and cardsharps. George Reed fit both categories perfectly, so naturally, nobody liked him. Once, he got caught cheating at cards, and the other side gave him a week to come up with fifty thousand yuan to settle the score. He spent that week begging everyone he knew on the street for help, but no one would stick their neck out for him.

When the deadline came, of course he couldn’t come up with the money, so they chopped off his right thumb and index finger, leaving him with just three useless fingers.

From that day on, George Reed was called Samuel Reed. With the name change, it was as if he became a different person—ruthless and bold, willing to do anything, no matter how vicious or immoral, and always striking hard. Taking advantage of the lull after the first major crackdown, he seized some turf around Dongmen, gathered a bunch of lackeys, and became a boss. Over the years, he lived the high life, scamming, cheating, robbing—he did it all, and finally became the big boss of Dongmen, strutting around the county like he owned the place. It wasn’t until the old patriarch of the underworld, Old Master Gu, returned from the provincial capital to retire in the county that Samuel Reed finally toned down his arrogance a bit.

The middle-aged man walked up to David Foster, tapped his cheek with the flat of his steel knife—smack, smack—then leaned in and threatened menacingly, “Third Master says, since you hurt his brother, you have to kneel and apologize to his brother, and pay with a hand.”

He fully expected this student to tremble in fear, but when he glanced sideways, he saw a face completely unconcerned.

David Foster looked up at the sky, broken into patches by the tree branches, squinted, shrugged, and said, “I’m not like your Third Master. My hand isn’t a pig’s trotter—I can’t just hand it over like that, can I?”

The middle-aged man was stunned for a moment before realizing the kid was mocking him. Furious, he raised his machete and swung it sideways.

David Foster watched the incoming blade with a calm expression. He didn’t want to take the blow head-on—even though he could—because he didn’t want word of his monstrous abilities to spread so quickly in this small county. So, with a light pivot of his heel, he let the blade narrowly slide past his nose, then stepped sideways, bringing himself close to the man, and struck him in the nose with a backward elbow.

The move looked effortless, executed swiftly without any sign of force, just a casual lift of the elbow, yet it sent the man flying several meters, his face smeared with blood.

Seeing their boss sent flying, the gangsters who had been clutching their fists and groaning in pain finally rushed forward. David Foster frowned, used his speed to close in, and with a push of his palm, sent one of the thugs flying several meters. He repeated this “push” move in a flash, sending all the thugs sprawling. He didn’t want to actually fight, because he wasn’t sure if he’d end up hurting them too badly.

But of course, these punks didn’t know that. Except for a few quick-witted cowards who shrank back behind the group, several desperate ones drew knives and charged, shouting wildly.

David Foster looked coldly at the thugs closing in, feeling extremely annoyed. He wondered if Emily Sullivan would get bored waiting for him at the Jiao Dian Building, and since this was right at the school gate in broad daylight, he didn’t want to attract too much attention, so he decided to end this pointless fight quickly.

As he watched the ferocious faces of the attackers, his mind was perfectly clear. He carefully observed their hand movements, then countered with faster, more precise moves. His toes tapped the asphalt, darting among the crowd, his fists slipping under their arms and behind their backs, landing solid blows.

He was so fast, like a gust of wind. To these street thugs, who only knew how to hack at each other like chopping vegetables, David Foster was like one of those martial arts masters on TV. In just a few minutes, all the knife-wielding thugs were knocked down by his iron fists. Of course, he didn’t dare use his full strength. The few thugs who had been on the outskirts of the fight quickly realized what was happening and bolted down the street.

David Foster stood at the street corner, looking at the thugs collapsed and wailing around him. For some reason, a sense of disgust welled up in his heart, as if he were a lofty monarch looking down on his pitiful subjects.

He suddenly snapped out of it, realizing how strange that thought was. With his intelligence, he could sense the danger of becoming detached from humanity, so he quickly shook his head, grabbed his bicycle from under the plane tree, and called out loudly to the middle-aged man still clutching his bleeding nose, “Since you guys could find out I go to the county high school, you must know where I live. If you want to settle things, come to my house. Not here at school.”

He pointed his right index finger in the air at the man’s brow and said quietly, “Remember, come to my house if you want me.” Then he smiled and added, “Actually, I’m a pretty easygoing guy.”