Flames leaped, engulfing the entire restaurant.
The man's grating laughter sounded especially harsh beneath the setting sun.
"Hahahahahaha! You old bastard, you're still going to report me to the fucking Martial Arts Department?"
"What use is that? What fucking use is it!"
"Do you know what the words 'privilege' mean? I'm a martial artist, a member of the privileged class. Do you understand the words 'political immunity'?"
"Forget about not paying for one meal. Even if I burned down your shop right now, the Martial Arts Department wouldn't care."
The man's voice was shrill and piercing. The force beneath his foot grew greater and greater, crushing Uncle Gong—who had been struggling to rise—back onto the ground.
Mud and filthy water smeared across Uncle Gong's wrinkled face.
Quite a few people were watching from inside their homes, yet not a single one dared to step forward.
Some secretly recorded videos on their phones. Not only did the man not avoid the cameras, he even seemed to grow more arrogant, like an actor putting on an all-out performance.
The times had changed. No one truly knew what a martial artist's privileges meant.
But there was a saying circulating through society: if a martial artist killed an ordinary person, they did not need to pay with their life!
Of course, this privileged rule had never been officially acknowledged anywhere, yet it had spread in an eerie fashion.
And now, as a martial artist with strength enough to inspire despair vented his rage under the banner of privilege...
The word "privilege" pressed down like a mountain.
A Public Security Bureau vehicle was parked not far away, but the officers inside merely watched it all unfold, not daring to make a move.
Only at this moment did the changes martial artist privileges would bring to