In the winter of 1937, there was snow in Beiping City.
Wang Yi was pinned in the corner of the ring, and the pain from his broken ribs was no match for the fire in his eyes. Three days ago, he watched with his own eyes as a Japanese soldier used a bayonet to open the intestines of an old man selling candied haws. The blood splashed on the neon signboard of "Kyudanban", like a red peony in defeat.
"China pig, can you still get up?" The Japanese officer's leather boots ran over the back of his hand, and the iron thorns pierced the flesh.
Consciousness was suddenly torn apart!
Memories of his previous life as a special soldier flooded back to him. He is not an underground boxer from the Black Dragon Society, he is an avenger from time-to-time!
What's even more terrible is that those dates that should have been cold in history books suddenly came alive in his mind: tomorrow the Japanese army will raid the grain depot in the south of the city, three days later Jiuduanban will receive a batch of encrypted telegrams, and half a month later. . . . . .
He suddenly grasped the knuckle where his opponent stabbed him and broke it with a snap.
Blood foam mixed with a sneer overflowed from the corner of his mouth: "I'm not here to be a dog, I'm here to tear down your doghouse!"
Until that snowy night, a wisp of agarwood came from the Japanese Consulate.
The woman in a dark green cheongsam leaned against the door frame and smiled, the red wine glass on her fingertips reflecting the ice in her eyes: "Master Wang's punches are so hard, he has to carry Jiudan Ban." She shook the perfume bottle in her hand, "You still have to lend me these hands."
