Fairness

"Fairness, fairness, damn it, fairness!"

This was the most frequently seen phrase in flyers distributed and slogans hung throughout the city streets by the Martial Artist groups and the Party members after they joined forces. Young people selected from all walks of life to become Martial Artists, after receiving the bombardment of modern education, would often do the first thing they could to lead more Martial Artists to strike hard against the old order of their respective industries!

What kind of bullshit nepotism, what kind of bullshit bribery and gift-giving, what kind of bullshit clan rituals.

These webs made it impossible to breathe, difficult to resist.

The scraps they could get were leftovers from others, thrown down like alms for stray dogs. Not only that, but they expected you to be grateful for it.

And then, in the blink of an eye.

Before you could even gnaw on the few scraps of bone you received, they would use fancy excuses to seize them back, even demanding double tribute from you.

After becoming a Martial Artist, your fists were harder than steel, harder than iron.

Now...

As long as you have talent, or catch the eye of an Immortal Master, you can become a Martial Artist.

What you couldn't get before, you can take for yourselves now!

The Immortal Masters have arrived, and fairness will prevail! The Martial Artists have arrived, and justice will be served!

In this era, too many people struggled on the brink of survival, or even life and death.

The young master in the luxury car chewed on Western fast food, while the farmer outside wore a sorrowful expression, selling his children to survive. No one didn't want to eat Western fast food, no one wanted to sell their children to support their families. In the past, facing a gun, resistance was mostly a final cry of desperation.

That cry would soon be drowned out by the rapid gunfire.

Now it's different.

To drown out the cries of the Martial Artists, guns alone won't suffice; you'll need explosives, cannons, the roar of ironclad ships! Coincidentally, the Martial Artists also have guns, cannons, and ironclad ships. It's quite fair!

"Rebellion, rebellion, you mob! You ruffians! You've destroyed my family's business for three generations, may you die a terrible death! My Great Qing's heavenly soldiers will surely exterminate your nine generations!"

"Spare us, spare us! Esteemed Martial Artists, we truly didn't sell our children abroad! We were just making a living off women!"

"Release, release me! I am a high official of the Imperial Court! How dare you rebels judge me? A mere few ruffians dare to accuse me, what's wrong with feeding me to the dogs?"

"Heretics will be struck down by heaven! To harm the people like this, to amass wealth so wantonly, what legitimacy do you have? What future do you have?!"

Dean, the president of the Indian Shipping Company, who was driving himself, was getting increasingly agitated by the terrible traffic conditions. The roads in the city, especially near the streetlights, were a chaotic mess.

The occasional gunshots, the loud pronouncements of the Martial Artists, and the clamor of citizens eagerly revealing information all told Dean that the city was bleeding. The mob, instigated by that evil sorcerer, was committing heinous atrocities against respectable gentlemen, and even those like them, who were not governed by the laws of Star Han, were affected.

And from the back seat, his wife Philia's occasional words of praise and commentary made Dean so irritated he wanted to kill someone.

All of this was because of Lan Yi, that evil sorcerer!

As long as he disappeared.

This peaceful, prosperous, and docile land would return to its original state, and the women bewitched by his magic would return to normal.

That damned sorcerer was arrogant and careless.

He hadn't even bothered to hide his movements.

Lan Yi, who still needed to eat and breathe, would never imagine that there were still women around him who hadn't been bewitched. Today, he had already been given a slow-acting poison. He also wouldn't imagine that while he was enjoying himself with other people's wives and daughters, assassins were already preparing to send him to hell, either by planting explosives or carrying them themselves, after convincing Albert and others.

In addition to this, Dean had also successfully contacted the fleet commander who was heading south to punish the Martial Artist groups.

As soon as the commander heard Lan Yi's coordinates and timing.

He immediately patted his chest and guaranteed that he would deliver naval artillery at the appointed time to send that debauched sorcerer to hell.

Besides that.

Dean had also obtained a cross personally blessed by a Vatican bishop from the most devout priest. He had sharpened the cross considerably and handed it to his wife, Philia, who had regained her senses thanks to the cross and agreed to his request.

Now all that was left was to wait...

The thought of his cold and abstinent beautiful wife being sent to Lan Yi's bed by his own hands made Dean's eyes redden, and he honked the horn with several times the force.

Endure!

"Philia, I'm sorry you have to endure the insult of the evil sorcerer again. Your beauty will surely captivate him and make him lower his guard."

"Oh." The president's wife's voice grew a few degrees colder.

"Don't worry, I swear that as soon as our plan succeeds, we can return home immediately. Not only will the Prime Minister favor me, but even Her Majesty the Empress will bestow a title upon me."

Dean babbled on, describing the beautiful future.

He didn't notice his beautiful wife's cold and beautiful face becoming even colder.

Sometimes, for a woman, beauty is not the most praiseworthy and dazzling aspect; instead, it can be a profound insult and blow.

The sensitive Philia, when rational, could discern.

The man who made her fall, who gave her the sweet longing and remembrance of being eighteen again, valued her abilities more than just her looks.

This was truly... captivating her.

The International Journalists' Club.

This Western-style villa had now become Lan Yi's daily residence and workplace.

Along with him, a group of Martial Artists and Party members also moved in. The logic behind this was simple: whoever is closer to power, has more power.

It was easy to imagine the place was teeming with people, a constant flow of traffic, with visitors including not only Martial Artists, merchants, technicians, and officials, but also citizens coming to pay homage, curious foreign reporters, spies from the north, Martial Masters seeking to join and serve, and insightful individuals hoping to showcase their talents.

If they could just meet Immortal Master Lan Yi.

That would be equivalent to reaching the heavens in a single step!

If Immortal Master Lan Yi were to favor them, entrusting them with important responsibilities, bestowing Martial Arts or weapons, they would become part of the elite, their ancestors' spirits soaring to the heavens!

By all rights, it should have been impossible for Dean to meet Lan Yi.

Even if he carried some weight among foreigners.

What were foreigners, anyway?

In the eyes of the Party members and Martial Artists, foreigners were still people, and people with plenty of flaws at that.

But if Dean was there to escort Madam Philia for an interview, the Martial Artists responsible for inspection and security would have no reason to stop him. Not only would they not stop him, but they would let this "foreign lord" who was enduring humiliation pass with peculiar smiles on their faces, even waiving the inspection because of Philia.

Dean felt as if a ball of fire was burning on his face.

His gums were almost bleeding from how hard he was biting them, and in his peripheral vision, he noticed several Indians, who looked no different from the people of Star Han, had already blended into the bustling crowd.