The ball grip wasn't working. Pàng Hǔ's testicles were compressed in Tòumíng's grip, he could feel them, the spermatic cords, the epididymis, everything crushing between his fingers like overripe fruit. The pain had to be unimaginable. Medical-emergency level. The kind that caused shock and vomiting.
But the chokehold stayed locked.
Tòumíng had maybe three seconds of consciousness left. Two. His vision was almost completely black now, just a tiny pinhole of light remaining. His body was starting to go limp despite his efforts to resist.
FUCK THE BALL GRIP.
His hands released their crushing hold on Pàng Hǔ's testicles and shot upward, fingers extended rigid like spears. He aimed for where he knew Pàng Hǔ's face had to be, adjusted slightly based on the angle of the chokehold.
And drove both index fingers directly into Pàng Hǔ's eyes.
Not a poke. Not a jab. Full penetration. His fingers sank into the orbital sockets, feeling the give of the eyeballs, the wetness, the resistance of ocular tissue before it ruptured.
Pàng Hǔ's scream was inhuman. Primal. The sound of someone experiencing pain beyond the capacity of language to express.
The chokehold released instantly. His arms flew to his face, hands clawing at the damage, trying to protect what was already destroyed. His massive body thrashed and rolled, legs releasing Tòumíng as he curled into a fetal position.
Tòumíng gasped, air flooding back into his lungs in desperate, whooping breaths. His vision slowly expanded from that pinhole back to something resembling normal. He rolled away from Pàng Hǔ, coughing, his throat feeling crushed from the inside.
But he was free.
And Pàng Hǔ was vulnerable.
Now was the time.
Tòumíng forced himself to his feet, legs shaking, ribs screaming where they'd been squeezed. His throat felt like it had been run through a garbage disposal. But rage and the Suicidal Idiot title kept him moving, kept him functional beyond what should have been possible.
Pàng Hǔ was still on the ground, both hands pressed to his ruined eyes, blood seeping between his fingers, his screams becoming hoarse and broken.
Tòumíng looked down at the giant's exposed groin and felt no mercy. No hesitation. This man had threatened to rape Měi Nán. Had said it directly. Had brought condoms to his murder mission.
Fuck mercy.
He kicked.
The first kick landed on Pàng Hǔ's testicles with the full force of his leg, driving the already-crushed organs against the pelvic bone. The impact made a wet, sickening sound. Something between a thud and a squelch.
Pàng Hǔ's scream reached a new octave, his entire body convulsing.
Tòumíng kicked again. His shin connected with the scrotum, the testicles inside compressed and damaged, the delicate internal structures rupturing. Blood began seeping through Pàng Hǔ's pants, darkening the fabric.
Another kick. This one from a different angle, catching both testicles simultaneously, compressing them against each other and the surrounding tissue.
Pàng Hǔ's screams were becoming weaker now, his voice giving out, but the sounds continued—raw, gasping wails that communicated agony beyond endurance.
Tòumíng kept kicking. Each impact drove his foot or shin into the same vulnerable spot. The testicles, already damaged from the initial crushing grip, were being systematically destroyed. The epididymis ruptured. The vas deferens severed. The entire reproductive structure reduced to pulped tissue and internal bleeding.
Kick after kick after kick.
Five minutes. Ten minutes. The kicking went on with methodical, relentless precision. Tòumíng wasn't even particularly angry anymore. The Suicidal Idiot title's decreased empathy made it feel mechanical. Necessary. Like completing a task.
The blood pool spreading from Pàng Hǔ's groin grew larger, darker, soaking into the ground. The screaming had stopped several minutes ago, replaced by weak whimpering and then silence except for the wet impact sounds of each kick.
Finally, Tòumíng stopped. His leg burned from the exertion. His breathing was ragged. He looked down at what he'd done.
Pàng Hǔ lay twitching on the ground, his massive body reduced to spasming reflexes. Foam bubbled from his mouth, shock, his body's desperate attempt to cope with catastrophic trauma. Both eyes were destroyed, blood and ocular fluid running down his face. But worse was the groin area.
The blood pool was massive now, spreading in all directions. The testicles, what remained of them, were completely pulverized. Mush. Biological tissue that would never function again, assuming he survived at all. The trauma was so extensive that internal bleeding was probably filling his abdominal cavity. Shock was setting in hard, his body temperature dropping, skin going pale.
Tòumíng felt... relieved. Satisfied, even. He'd done it. Survived another fight. Defended Měi Nán from a genuine monster. This was a win.
He turned his back on Pàng Hǔ's twitching form and started walking toward his apartment door. The adrenaline was fading now, exhaustion creeping in. He needed to check on Měi Nán, needed to clean up, needed to—
BANG.
The gunshot was loud, immediate, terrifyingly close.
Pain exploded in Tòumíng's spine. His legs stopped working instantly, all sensation from the waist down vanishing like a switch had been flipped. He collapsed forward, his face hitting the ground, unable to catch himself because his lower body was completely unresponsive.
He turned his head with effort, looked back.
Pàng Hǔ lay on the ground where he'd been, one hand still pressed to his ruined eyes, the other holding a gun where had that come from, had he had it the whole time? smoke still rising from the barrel.
The giant's voice came out weak, gurgling, blood in his throat, but triumphant despite everything.
"Rule number one, jackass... Never turn your back... unless the enemy... is dead."