The roar of the motorcycles was deafening, as if someone were deliberately turning the throttle.
"Who's still riding motorcycles at this hour?" Tie Shan said, puzzled, but then his expression froze.
Because he saw a dozen or more vehicles approaching from afar, each motorcycle carrying two to three people, making it a total of about forty individuals.
And all of them clutched steel rods and baseball bats, with faces full of horizontal scars, and an unyielding demeanor that clearly indicated they were up to no good.
A look of resignation flashed across Hao Jian's face – indeed, Zhuang Yibin had called for backup.
"Come on, you want to hit me, don't you? If you have the guts, do it!" Zhuang Yibin laughed triumphantly, and deliberately crooked his finger at Tie Shan and the others, his face full of provocation.
