Chapter 20: Start Living Flat

Imagine the shock of being drenched in water when it's more than 70 degrees below zero. Phoenix, armed with a large water pipe, unleashed a frigid assault on the unfortunate gang outside his door. The stark contrast between the indoor warmth and the outdoor arctic air transformed the hot stream into an icy sheath upon contact with their bodies.

Clad in down jackets and sweaters, the gang was instantly enveloped in an icy embrace as the water soaked through their layers, turning them into living ice sculptures.

"Crap, it's freezing! Stop pouring that!" they screamed. The cold was so biting, they'd have preferred a beating to this relentless, icy torture. Their lips turned a ghastly shade of purple, and some succumbed to the shock of the extreme cold right there on the spot.

Fueled by survival instincts, they scrambled away from Phoenix's door. But even the brief exposure was enough; their clothes were already stiffening with ice. Phoenix watched with detached amusement, then turned off the faucet, his point made without a single arrow fired.

The soaked gang rushed back to Alexander's apartment. They arrived in a pathetic state, their down jackets crusted with ice. Alexander, seething with rage, demanded, "Where is he? Did you get him?"

All they could do was scramble for warmth, the reality of their frozen clothes setting in. The scene was almost comical—a dozen tough guys frantically grabbing for quilts and sheets, some even resorting to huddling together for warmth.

"What the hell happened out there?" Alexander barked as he slapped the table.

Shivering, they recounted their icy defeat at the hands of Phoenix's cunning water trap. "His door... it's like a fortress," they admitted.

Alexander's face darkened. "So what if his door is made of iron? He can't stay in there forever," he growled. "Keep a watch. The moment he steps out, finish him."

Though chilled to the bone, his minions nodded, their loyalty to Alexander overriding their discomfort.

But Phoenix had no intention of stepping outside his sanctuary. Why leave heaven for hell? His home was his bastion, and he was content to stay put.

...

Back to his game, Phoenix brushed off the minor disturbance. The gang lacked the means to breach his defenses, and he certainly wasn't about to venture into their chaos.

Lunchtime approached, and Phoenix prepared a feast from his stash: Australian lobster, Wellington steak, a couple of Huangshan burritos, and a cola—a simple yet luxurious meal.

As he lounged in his warm fall coat, the temperature indoors was a cozy 27 degrees. He flicked through the TV channels, where only a few stations were still broadcasting. The news was filled with propaganda—officials promising control over the snowstorm and comparisons to the dire situation abroad.

Phoenix could only shake his head. The power of nature was beyond human control, and though the officials might rally, the snowstorm was a reminder of humanity's true place in the world.