My teacher is Bruce Lee, who dominated Hollywood.

Chapter 22 A Mighty Man Sheds Tears

The wind and snow intensified, and the hippies and thugs who surrounded them carried chains and baseball bats, their eyes gleaming with menace.

Stallone slowly stood up and placed the Brooks in his arms at the store entrance—Old Jack had already locked the door from the inside.

"How did you get involved with these drug addicts? Nobody on this street wants to mess with mad dogs," he asked Qin Han.

Qin Han stood up and patted the snow stains off his coat: "It's probably because of my face."

"In this godforsaken place, Asian faces are just too attractive to hatred."

Stallone was taken aback, clearly not expecting that this Chinese man would still be in the mood to tell a lame joke at such a critical moment.

By this time, the crowd had already approached the bottom of the steps.

The tall, thin man whose wrist had been broken earlier, his injured hand slinged in a tattered rag around his neck, roared at Qin Han:

"Boss! It's this yellow-skinned pig! He broke my hand!"

Standing next to the tall, thin man was a burly Italian man with a thick beard.

Wearing an oil-stained leather jacket and a skull necklace, he looked like a brown bear walking upright.

"Look who this is!" The burly man grinned, revealing a set of yellowed teeth. "Isn't this our 'Italian Stallion,' Sylvester?"

"Polly, this Chinese man is my friend." Stallone took a step forward, blocking Qin Han like a wall.

They actually called Stallone an "Italian stallion"? It seems this gang leader and Stallone have a pretty good relationship.

In 1970, Sylvester Stallone, who had just become an actor, starred in a softcore pornographic film with this title.

Later, anyone who dared to bring up this matter in front of him was either his closest friend or his mortal enemy.

Polly spat dismissively, "Sly, did you lose your mind making those third-rate movies?"

"This kid crippled one of my men's hands. Now get out of my way, and I can pretend I didn't see you."

"He's my friend," Stallone replied, unchanged. "For the sake of what I did for you before, Polly, let him off this time."

Polly's face darkened.

In this dog-eat-dog world, protecting your subordinates is more important than anything else.

If he were to release the man today just because of a single word from Stallone, he wouldn't be able to stay on Ninth Avenue anymore.

"Fuck your friend!" Polly roared. "If you want to be a hero, then go to hell with this yellow-skinned monkey! Get him!"

Upon hearing this, his bald second-in-command next to him brandished a solid iron rod and roared as he swung it at Stallone.

The wind howled, but Stallone did not back down; his seemingly melancholy eyes suddenly blazed with a beastly light.

Using the skills he had honed in street fights, he dodged the iron bar by tilting his head and delivered a powerful left hook to the bald man's ribs.

The bald man cried out, but the iron rod in his hand still grazed Stallone's shoulder, spraying blood everywhere.

Stallone doesn't understand any sophisticated fighting techniques; he only has a ruthless, reckless spirit.

He endured the blows raining down on him, clinging tightly to his deputy, each punch delivered with all his might, as if trying to shatter this decadent lifestyle.

After an unknown amount of time, he finally knocked his deputy to the ground in the snow with an uppercut.

"Come on! Who else is going to challenge us!"

Struggling to open his swollen eyelids, Stallone staggered around, preparing to face an even fiercer onslaught.

However, the moment he turned around, he wondered if he was hallucinating.

A dozen or so hippies who had been so aggressive just moments before were now lying sprawled on the ground.

The Chinese man, with his left hand gripping the tall, thin man's neck, said, "I warned you..."

Stallone swallowed a mouthful of bloody saliva.

What is this?

Magic?

What exactly did this Chinese man do?

"Let him go!" Polly was clearly unable to accept that all his men had been taken down by a Chinese man.

He pulled a pistol from his pocket, the dark muzzle pointed directly at Qin Han's head: "Damn devil! Let him go! Or I'll shoot you!"

However, at almost the same time, Qin Han reached behind his waist with his right hand, drew his gun, loaded it, and aimed.

All in one go.

Before Polly could react, the revolver was already firmly pointed at his forehead.

Polly's hands were shaking violently, while Qin Han's hands were as steady as a rock.

The two faced off amidst the swirling snow.

Just then, a large hand covered in scars and calluses pressed down on Qin Han's wrist as he held the gun.

"Don't shoot, you'll go to jail. It's not worth it for scum like him."

Qin Han turned his head and met Stallone's swollen but determined eyes.

After saying that, he turned around and walked step by step toward Polly, his broad chest directly pressing against the other's trembling gun barrel.

"I told you, this man is my friend. If you're really going to use a gun, kill me first."

Polly looked at the man in front of him, his face covered in blood, his hands gripping the pistol tightly, but his hands trembled even more violently.

"Madmen...you're all madmen!"

He cursed as he put away his gun and fled in disarray with a group of defeated soldiers.

The street corner returned to silence, with only the wind and snow continuing.

With a "plop," the two of them sat back down on the steps, panting heavily.

"Woo..." Books ran over, circled around its master, and stuck out its tongue to lick the bloodstains on Stallone's face.

"I saved Polly once before. He was dead drunk in the dead of winter and almost froze to death on the street," Stallone said, somewhat ashamed, as he recovered.

"I didn't expect him to be so ungrateful. Those... flashy techniques just now, were they the legendary Chinese Kung Fu?"

"That's incredible. I didn't even see how you made your move."

Qin Han smiled as he looked at the future Hollywood superstar. He was in a sorry state, but the light in his eyes was undeniable.

"This is called Jeet Kune Do, an art of fighting using the 'Way'."

Stallone's eyes lit up for a moment, then dimmed again: "Learning this... must be very expensive, right?"

"Chinese people believe in fate when doing things. I can teach you for free. However..."

Qin Han shrugged: "I'm going back to the West Coast soon, so I'm afraid I won't have time."

Stallone smiled bitterly. Yes, how could a decent person stay for a piece of trash like himself?

Qin Han patted the large dog that was lying on Stallone's lap: "Your dog is very good, I'll buy it."

After saying that, he took out one hundred dollars from his pocket, a gift from Andrew.

The big dog seemed to sense something, stopped wagging its tail, and rubbed its head against its owner's chest.

"You must treat him well." Stallone's voice was choked with emotion, like an old father who was about to give his child away.

He steeled himself, took the hundred dollars, and handed the dog leash to Qin Han: "I don't have any change to give you. Let's go outside and find a convenience store to break the money up."

"No need for that." Qin Han stood up, stretched, and chuckled as he handed the dog leash to Stallone.

"Of this 100 yuan, 50 yuan is for buying the dog, and the other 50 yuan is a prepayment for boarding and dog food. I can't bring such a big dog on the plane."

He reached out and patted Stallone on the shoulder: "Buy some good food. If my dog ​​is skinny when we meet next time, I'll have to ask you for a refund."

Sylvester Stallone, clutching the banknotes and the dog leash, trembled slightly with excitement, as if struck by lightning.

The wind and snow seemed to stand still at that moment.

Even if he were slow to understand, he would have grasped the intention of the Chinese man in front of him.

In indifferent New York, in this cannibalistic hell kitchen, angels actually descend?

The tough man's eyes welled up with tears.

Qin Han took out his notebook from his pocket and wrote down a series of numbers and addresses.

"I heard from old Jack that you can write screenplays?"

"If you write any good stories next time, be sure to contact me. I'd love to hear them."

He turned and walked out of Hell's Kitchen, his figure gradually blurring in the wind and snow.

"If you actually come to Los Angeles, I can even teach you a few moves of Jeet Kune Do..."