“Holy hell!” The man’s fingers trembled, poised dangerously close to the trigger.

He was a tempest in human form.

Bouncing within a three-meter radius, he muttered darkly. “Ending this bastard now. Instantly! Instantly!”

A sly wink rallied his followers, who promptly sealed the goose shop’s fate.

With the door secured, the man’s gun zeroed in on Jagoan’s brow, chilling intent in his voice, “Chinese love tempting gun barrels. I’ve put down many like you. One more won’t change a thing. Any final words, speak them now.”

“Final words?” Jagoan jeered, disdain dripping from his words. “You’re a farce, not a threat.”

He rapped the table with a smirk. “Jordan, my meal. Chop chop!”

Jordan rushed from the kitchen, clutching a bowl of roast goose rice, his words a jumble. “Mr. Jagoan… Here’s your rice…”

In one Swift motion, the black man sent the entire meal scattering, “You’re thinking of a feast at death’s door?!” he thundered.

He swung his weapon towards the fallen bowl, squeezing the trigger. The gunshot rang out, shattering the plastic container and sending Jordan into a quaking fit.

Hogan, on the sidelines, remained unfazed. He was aware that these men were nothing more than insignificant specks compared to Jagoan.

The Burning Angel?

A sideshow compared to him.

The Joules family, a powerful dynasty in New York, had no influence as Jagoan mercilessly shot Patrick Joules right in front of them.

Who in the Joules clan would dare oppose him? When Jagoan asked Patrick’s father, grandfather, and great-grandfather Joules whether they were convinced that he killed Patrick, who would dare to say no?

jump in front of Jagoan with guns, and Jagoan would never let them have

“Bring me another bowl. This swill’s a

yet Jagoan remained unfazed. Fear tinged

gaped wide, lips flapping without sound. With a furious grit of his teeth, he

He hammered the trigger!

retreated a few steps. They saw their boss’s murderous intent. At this point, revulsion painted

about to be shot,

the trigger, he muttered, “What’s happening…

steady. He’d only exerted a minuscule amount of energy, enough to render his opponent utterly defenseless. The black man’s hand had lost all

still had power in his arm, yet his fingers were rebellious. In his panic, Jagoan reached

inspected the sleek Italian M9 pistol, “If God wants to see me, he’ll have to come to me,

four black-clad men behind him scrambled, drawing pistols in their panic,

seizing the black man’s wrist and swinging

could draw their weapons, a massive, dark force slammed into them from the side. Before they could react, they were sprawled

an instant, five bodies lay wailing in the

His right arm hung by threads, cheekbones,

four didn’t sustain as severe injuries, the sudden

battered, they

never imagined an ordinary person could wield such incredible power. They knew, deep down, that they’d encountered

approached the five, his

refuge in the corner now a

the tough guy had been beaten half to death already, and now all traces of his former fierceness had vanished. His face

him and delivered a resounding

sharp crack reverberated throughout

And the Burning Angels… Who came up with such a ridiculous name? Look at that grizzled mug of yours—does it have

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