Chapter 56: I Don’t Want to Show Off, But You’re Forcing Me

As the saying goes: even a clay figurine has a temper.

Xing Xiaolong had thought that, although this group of renowned PMC operatives were certainly arrogant, their skills were real. Ultimately, even if they were simply working for money, their goal was to help him save someone. Therefore, despite being targeted from the very beginning, Xing Xiaolong maintained his forbearance, believing that a step back would win him broad respect.

He gave these PMC mercenaries all the respect and courtesy he could.

But now, his repeated tolerance had not earned him respect—instead, it had been seen as weakness, a sign that he was easy to bully.

Whether gods or ghosts, everyone seemed to take the chance to step on him.

Could this be tolerated?

Of course not. He had to show them his true colors.

This was not simply a matter of pride, but of ensuring that, after joining the rescue team, he would be able to participate smoothly in their actions and gain the basic respect of these PMC members—so he would be treated as a reliable teammate, not as a lamb for the slaughter.

Xing Xiaolong could no longer contain himself; he was ready to make an example out of someone, to establish his own standing.

Meanwhile, the bald black PMC seemed completely unaware of the seriousness of the situation. Instead, he mistook the anger in Xing Xiaolong's eyes for the feeble struggle of a docile lamb.

This only intensified his desire to show off.

“No! No! No!” The bald black man gripped Xing Xiaolong’s wrist with his right hand, wagging the index finger of his left, speaking with a swagger, “We’re more than enough for this operation. You just stay behind and watch quietly—think of yourself as our mascot. You don’t need to use any weapons, understand?”

There were plenty of spare weapons on the table. Xing Xiaolong just wanted to take one—what would it have cost to let him? But this bald black man insisted on making trouble, clearly looking for an excuse to show off at Xing Xiaolong’s expense.

Evidently, the desire to show off knows no borders, nor any distinction of race—it's rooted deep in human DNA. As long as someone is human, they’re bound to enjoy showing off.

The other PMC members, attracted by the commotion, knew full well that the bald black man was being provocative, but none of them intervened. It seemed that mocking and flexing in front of those weaker than themselves was simply business as usual.

Even Black Fox, who had once stepped in to stop the team leader Tiger, and whom Xing Xiaolong had regarded as reasonable—though in reality, he was a master of the artful smile—did not step forward this time.

Arms crossed beneath her prominent chest, her full, sensual lips curled in a mysterious, unreadable smile.

She seemed to be waiting for the show to begin.

Just as everyone expected Xing Xiaolong to suffer humiliation at the bald black man’s hands, to be pushed to the point of abject surrender—

Suddenly, everything changed.

With a swift motion, a large-caliber revolver appeared out of nowhere. Its gaping barrel, thick as a thumb, pressed coldly against the bald black man's forehead.

The hand holding the revolver was Xing Xiaolong’s left—his free hand.

“What? What’s happening?”

The entire room fell instantly silent. Apart from Xing Xiaolong, every face looked as though they’d seen a ghost—their eyes were wide with shock.

No one had seen how the gun appeared, nor how Xing Xiaolong drew it. The bald black man, caught unaware, was utterly dumbfounded, unable to comprehend how a gun had materialized at his head.

The weapon’s sudden appearance was almost supernatural.

Click! Click!

After a moment’s stunned silence, the group of well-trained PMC operatives snapped into action, a cacophony of weapons being cocked and loaded filling the air.

Six professional PMC members—three pistols, two assault rifles, one submachine gun—all aimed directly at Xing Xiaolong.

Xing Xiaolong stood firm, his revolver still pressed to the bald black man’s forehead, his eyes locked with his target. His gaze sent an unmistakable message:

Don’t push me, or I really will pull the trigger.

Seven guns, eight men—the atmosphere in the room became suffocatingly tense, as if even the air had stopped moving.

“Hey! Hey! Hey! Guys, guys, lower your weapons, don’t make things more tense than they already are. I have no doubt that the thing pressed to my head could turn my skull into a smashed watermelon in an instant,” the bald black PMC said, raising his hands high to signal he meant no harm. He tried to diffuse the situation with a lighthearted tone, urging his teammates not to escalate things further.

Then, with a forced, ingratiating smile, he turned to Xing Xiaolong and explained, “Friend, it was just a joke. We black folks love our humor. If I’ve given you the wrong impression, please accept my apology.”

There was no way to keep showing off now—not with a gun to his forehead. No matter how tough he wanted to act, he had to bow his head.

The bald black man could clearly sense that the person they had taken for a helpless lamb was clearly not as incompetent as he appeared.

There was something “unusual” about him.

To save his own skin, he wisely chose to calm his PMC teammates first, then apologize to Xing Xiaolong in hopes of gaining forgiveness.

It was a professional way to prevent the situation from spiraling out of control.

Though the bald black man still didn’t understand how Xing Xiaolong had produced the revolver so suddenly, his professional knowledge told him that a revolver of such caliber could easily blow his head to pieces.

When the R8 goes off, your parents might as well have raised you for nothing.

That’s not just an empty saying from the gaming world—in reality, it’s just that lethal.

If he had known that this revolver had a range of 8,000 meters and could punch through the armor of most main battle tanks—

He would have been in even worse shape—he might have wet himself with fear.

“Let’s see if you dare show off again. Push me any further, and I’ll blow your rotten black melon of a head clean off. You really think I’m so easy to bully? Huh?” Xing Xiaolong didn’t care if the man understood; he jabbed the gun at the man’s head a few times, making sweat break out on the man’s brow.

He was terrified Xing Xiaolong might slip and accidentally fire.

Seeing the man’s frightened state, Xing Xiaolong was satisfied with the effect of his display—he didn’t press the matter further.

Wisely, he chose to stop while he was ahead.

With one hand still holding the gun to the man’s head, he pulled out his phone with the other, opened his translation app, and smiled as he asked, “Now, may I use these things?”

“Of course, of course, help yourself,” the bald black man replied, squeezing out a smile and nodding eagerly.

But then Xing Xiaolong’s wrist flicked, and the revolver disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving the bald black man—who had just begun to regain his composure—staring in shocked disbelief once again.