Gang members weren't sharpshooters, after all. Even if they hit someone, it didn't necessarily mean the person would die on the spot.
Some victims might suffer a little more before they died, but others could still struggle to stay alive.
The gang member An Jing had found was one of the latter. A Spirit Light Gun had shot through his shoulder blade, leaving the wound charred, and then a gunpowder bullet had struck his helmet, knocking him unconscious with the impact.
That was also why he hadn't lost much blood. By the time An Jing arrived, he still had a chance of surviving.
An Jing dragged him into some nearby bushes, treated his wound, and poured a little water and stimulant into him. Gradually, the man came around.
"Sir... sir, you...?"
He was an Internal Breath cultivator, after all. Though he had only just woken up, a turn of his Internal Breath was enough to clear his head completely.
Like the dead men An Jing had seen earlier, the gang member he'd rescued was very young, around sixteen or seventeen.
But unlike them, this one looked utterly wretched. His glabella was dark, and deep circles ringed his eyes. One glance told you he was down on his luck, with terrible fortune—and probably pulling all-nighters at work every day.
Even so, his physical foundation was quite solid. He was lean but sturdy, and clever enough to have survived a gunshot wound.
Seeing An Jing's clearly new Gas Mask, his bloodstained Rain Cloak, and the gun barrel pointed at his forehead, he quickly understood why he was still alive. He suppressed his pain and asked respectfully, "What would you have me do, sir?"
"From here on, I ask, you answer. Don't say anything else."
An Jing spoke calmly. The young gang member