Joking, right? What exactly counts as “proper negotiation”?

An Ruyi never believed that pack of bastards could learn proper talks; whenever they said “proper,” it meant razed homes and spilled blood, like a storm about to break.

Disgust rose first, sharp as vinegar; she wanted to slap Young Master Li’s smug face like swatting a fly. But even if she did, even if she spat fire, it would change nothing. In the end it was just “business competition,” a tide where the soft-hearted got devoured.

So no matter how urgent the panic churned, her face stayed smooth as still water. No tremor in her hands. No crack in her voice. Their filthy tactics had seized the initiative like thieves in fog; she had to steal it back.

More crucial was this: the holder of that one percent stake was…

“Is that so? Then please enlighten me, Young Master Li.”

Her tone was level, cool as jade; her eyes brushed him as if he were dust on a sleeve.

“I’ll watch this side. Miss Eileen, check on Master, something’s off.”

The two stood as spectral silhouettes, thin as smoke; unheard by the crowd, Lilith murmured to Eileen.

“Eh? Why—”

“Call it my gut, and move!”

Lilith cut her off. Her Arcane Power surged like a current and shoved Eileen out, a silent tide through shadow. Only later did she realize her Arcane Power was swelling, like a river after rain.

The strength’s rise left a thorn of dread in her heart. Growth had patterns—Adrian’s memories returning, the world’s clock ticking faster—but now it felt like a net of schemes lowering over them, dimming the sun.

On Changqing’s ride to the hospital, a van swaggered across the road and stopped like a wall. His gut went cold, like a drop of winter on the spine. He angled his bicycle toward the sidewalk, ready to slip past, when the door snapped open.

“Mr. Chang, Mr. Chang, wait a moment!”

A kindly looking, slightly fat uncle climbed down, smile soft as painted clay. He called out quick. Changqing’s brow tightened, a shadow between his eyes. He halted, but kept a cautious distance, like a cat just outside reach.

“What do you want? I don’t know you.”

Wariness first, then words; his fingers dipped into his pocket, feeling for familiar numbers, like anchors in a rough sea.

He always rode to the hospital with care, hugging backstreets like ivy to brick, afraid a tail would scrape harm onto his benefactors and the only family he had. He did dirty work that lived in the dark; being chopped and dumped wouldn’t surprise him one day. But today wasn’t that day.

The middle-aged man kept that harmless smile, humility folded like paper. He offered a business card with both hands, polite as a temple usher. The smaller he acted, the bigger the alarm bell rang. In Changqing’s memory, he knew no one like this.

He glanced around. He favored little lanes and corners, places where weeds cracked old cement; there were no cameras here. If something happened, the sky wouldn’t answer, the ground wouldn’t help; only silence would.

“You’re funny, sir. I’m a supervisor from XX Building Materials. We’re here to confirm that batch’s quality. The van’s to haul samples. We’ve got other clients next, so just a minute of your time…”

The man waddled closer, hand broad as a shovel, aiming for Changqing’s shoulder like a casual pat.

That tiny motion made Changqing spring back, quick as a startled cat. He ditched the bike without a second thought, eyes locked on the man’s approach like a hawk holds a snake.

In that swing of the arm, something rang wrong. A regular pat would extend the hand, straight and easy. This fat man’s weight tilted forward, a predator’s lean.

Changqing had trained for years; small motions talk loud to the trained eye. The man might not know formal grappling, but this wasn’t a friendly touch. If he had to name it…

“So cautious, kid. So young, yet you act like an old man.”

The smile stayed Buddha-soft, but a knife glinted in his palm, cold as a fish’s eye. Short blade, long intent; the tip was honed cruelly, the kind that slides in and stirs guts like soup.

Behind him the van’s door ripped open. Men burst out in “construction site” clothes, faces hard as quarry stone. No knives in their fists; they held steel pipes, thicker than wrists, wound with wire and nasty scrap, ugly tools that promised broken bone.

Eight, maybe nine poured out of the van, a dark spill. The shadows inside hid more. Facing steel-pipe brutes with the alley at his side, Changqing turned and ran, slipping into the narrow slit of the lane like a fish darting for reeds.

No way he’d clash on open street with a gang swinging pipes. That’s suicide under neon.

“Chase! Don’t let him run. Boss said don’t kill; show restraint. An arm or a leg will do.”

The fat man’s smile grew a thorn of cruelty. He wrapped cloth around his hand and tied the knife tight, like binding a serpent to his wrist. The others followed, fastening pipes with strips, then surged into the alley like a pack.

Changqing didn’t bolt out the far end. He found a roof, toes on rough wall, body folding like a spring as he climbed. These old flats stood shoulder to shoulder, built with last century’s bones. With no window grilles between some roofs, hopping to a bare rooftop was easy, like stepping stones across a stream.

He yanked out his phone, hands trembling like leaves before rain. WeChat blinked open. He transferred the last money in his card to the doctor, asked her to pay the fees, said he’d reach the hospital soon. Hope felt thin as paper; escape felt doubtful.

This block was slated for demolition, a dead city in planning. Only stubborn nail-households clung on. He worried less about harming innocent neighbors here and more about getting out alive.

He thought of the cruel fat man and the “construction crew” spilling from the van, and his jaw tightened like a vise.

These weren’t common street punks.

The canceled cameras had invited them like moths to a dark lamp, yet they still dressed for concealment. Their beefy frames stretched workwear, hiding tattoos and marks; necks and wrists were covered, details buried like footprints in rain.

He hadn’t seen it all, but those bulging sleeves promised hidden “goodies,” the kind that bite.

They were professional hitters. Steel pipes were blunt thunder; flesh is clay before iron. That’s why he drew them into the demolition alleys, where numbers jam like sheep in a pen.

He could handle them if forced. But on paper he ran a “legal business,” clean as boiled water, with no record. If he swung now, who would wipe the blood after? Who would fix the tale that followed?

He thought to message the doctor again, then killed the screen in a heartbeat and stowed the phone, burying its glow like a coal under ash. The block’s power was out; any flicker was a lighthouse in a black sea. That flash would already have caught the fat man’s eye.

He lowered himself, body flat as a lizard to stone, afraid the men below would spot a silhouette against the sky. In the alley, the fat man smiled wider, made a gesture, and pressed himself to a door like a barnacle to hull.

Too quiet. Quiet in a way that bends the air.

The rooftop wasn’t far from the ground—four, five meters. If people moved below, he should hear feet like rain. But two minutes had passed with nothing, silence coiled like a rope.

He crouched deeper, a beast coiled to spring. He measured the neighboring roof with a glance, ready to bolt when needed. The rooftop door behind him exploded with a clang; rust screamed as the iron door blew inward under a kick.

“Bastard!”

He had planned to dash away. His eyes went cold as night ink; he pivoted without hesitation and rushed the doorway. His flying knees cracked the lead thug’s cheek with an intimate, brutal kiss.

At the threshold, Changqing braced both palms on the frame, one foot stamping the man’s chest like a drumbeat, then flung himself backward—an athlete’s flip under streetlight. After that Thunder strike, he broke away clean, widening the gap like a river after a dam bursts.

That hit crippled one for sure.

He trusted his flying knee. On a face, it writes a rude message; add a little weight, and you ink fractures. But this wasn’t the time for a death match. If they had him marked, they might have his sister marked too.

Mark him if they want. Touch family and teeth will break.

He clenched his jaw, hauled the iron door shut, jammed it with a stray steel pipe like a spear wedged in a gate, then spun and leaped for the opposite rooftop. He had to vanish fast; the fat man lurked in the alley below like a crocodile in a dark canal. No other path looked clean.

He took a few quick steps and jumped. The gap wasn’t far, but the black slot of the alley felt like a throat. Fall wrong, and the rebar waiting between the walls would skewer a body, cold and final.

A leap like that draws eyes like sparks draw moths.

Across the way, another rusted door slammed open. More hitters charged out, swinging iron like hail. Seeing Changqing sail across, their hearts jolted, then they roared like dogs on a scent. Below, the fat man twitched in surprise, then herded his pack with clipped gestures.

Watching Changqing’s arc against the night, Eileen smiled, small and bright. As expected of Adrian—memories lost or not, that die-hard streak was carved in bone. With him like this, she likely wouldn’t need to step in.

Changqing ran hard along the rooftop, feet drumming like rain. In the alley’s shadow, the pack chased like hyenas, eyes red in the dark. Roof clutter slowed him, but the alley let them flow faster, a dark stream under his path. If not for his agility, they’d have him already.

These roofs offered too many footholds. Even the fat man could likely clamber up, puffing like a bellows. Changqing had no wish to trade life and limb here under rusted tin.

He had heavier tasks waiting. He refused to let cronies and hired fists tangle his feet.

“Young Master Li, even if you grab that one percent, it won’t sway the casino’s business much. I trust my partner. You can cash out that tiny stake if you like. I’m sure the Li family isn’t here for crumbs, right?”

Her poise stayed like a tea surface, unruffled. Knowing they had gone for Changqing—the relatively soft link—she moved to grasp the reins again, fingers light but firm.

She trusted he wouldn’t let that stake go easy. She trusted his strength, a calm faith like a lantern in wind.

Back then, she brought Changqing in and even handed him ten percent, a sharp blade wrapped in silk, funding him because his force was unmatched. Now the Li family had started with little tricks, ants gnawing at her walls, and she could only hope Changqing stayed whole before she pulled back.

“Of course not. One percent is only the beginning; a first blossom to show our sincerity. Look, your people do hold plenty of shares, but some are lodged in the hands of useless trash… ah, sorry, outdated partners—rotting fruit that only drains resources.”

Young Master Li was unhurried, a lake without ripples. He signaled his bodyguard, who brought the briefcase like a lacquered box to an altar. He cracked it open to show no hidden sting, then drew out several documents and laid them before An Ruyi, cool tiles on a quiet board.

As the Li family’s negotiator, he wasn’t a pampered mouth eating for free; there was a knife behind that smile.

People kept weighing him against his elder brother. The elder had a gift for business, and the company rose like a sun under his hand. This younger one looked like a brash storm-bringer, a troublemaker kicking dust. Pity for them; that feral mask was a deliberate offering to his future.

Under that cover, he snatched the first move, a hawk dropping before An Ruyi could blink. Habitual disdain let him tug her into his rhythm, and now he was pouring oil on timber already catching flame.

He slid the papers forward, fingers entwined, chin propped like a cat watching a bird. His words fell slow, like rain.

“Miss An, these are the shares we’ve been commissioned to acquire in recent days. As I said, your earlier partners are past their season. Perhaps back then, their methods and resources held this casino up—seed and soil that mattered in the spring. You ceded shares and fed them well. But seasons change.”

An Ruyi’s face darkened, clouds gathering over a ridge. These weren’t scraps from scattered employees; these were transfer letters signed by veterans who fought beside her when the casino was born—anchor stones loosening in the tide.

If it were only loose shares, even if they scooped them up, it wouldn’t cut deep. There were clauses in place—the poison pill and other thorns. Take them, and the Lis might choke on the bite. She never thought partners that tight would flip their cloaks in a night wind.

She did doubt forgery, but after her people checked the ink and stamps, the papers on the table rang true, cold metal under the lamp.

Her faith in them wasn’t groundless. Business is a scale of interests. Short term or long, she promised and paid them richly. For the Lis to buy, they’d need at least five times the forecast—an elephant step too costly. Even if this casino laid golden eggs, you don’t burn barns to chase a hen, especially for a minority slice. Corner her, and she’d torch the field; ashes wouldn’t suit anyone.

“Oh? If the Lis are so sure, already at twelve percent, why bother talking to me?” Her smile iced over, frost on a blade. “If you can climb to thirty, you don’t need such formal notice. So what’s this meeting for?”

Her laugh turned thin and sharp, a flute cutting through court drums. The two families had long cooperated; even if they wanted to cripple her outside venture, they shouldn’t batter the pillars like this. She had mountains behind her too, silhouettes with weight.

When one giant house moves against another’s elders, it’s taboo, a cracked bell. If they were this brazen, there were only two winds. First: Young Master Li didn’t know the rules, stepped over the line; maybe he’d pay later, but swallowing the casino would still be a fat profit. Second: the Li family was ready to break with her backer—worst case, thunder on the ridge—and she would need shelter.

She was still teasing the threads, trying to read which storm cloud this was.

If it was the first, she didn’t mind ripping the net and bleeding the fish, washing clean to stand on the bright stage as a proper magnate. If it was the second, then the mountain storm was about to break, and the wind was already rattling the eaves.

“Miss An, look, I only cleared out partners the era has left behind. People must keep pace with the times—choose stronger, finer allies. Please forgive the earlier pruning. If I’m to sit at this table, I need chips in hand, don’t I?”

He smiled, a lantern glow that hid a hook. By now his meaning was clear as water.

If he could swallow those veterans’ shares, he had the jaw and coin to gulp down the small ones too. The machine behind him was already humming; even if the final tally didn’t match An Ruyi’s, he could pry out her pillars one by one, termites under the beams.

In every field, people are the true ore. Even An Ruyi needed hands to lift her house. If those pillars were yanked in a blink, no matter her authority, her orders would scatter like leaves.

This world no longer settles with fists. Capital is the biggest fist, a river of iron washing stone.

“My partners aren’t yours to pick. Even if I choose to work with great houses, I don’t have to pick the Lis. The Lus, the Huos—they’ve got eyes on casino shares too. Their coffers are deep. Even the Lis can’t pretend not to see that, can you?”

Her brows knit, a crease like a mountain pass. Her fingertip tapped the table, a woodpecker at a trunk. She had to summon other families as shade. She didn’t want to call on her own backer unless the path truly narrowed; independence was the root that would let her grow alone. Once you reach back for the first hand, the second comes easier, thirst after the first sip.

“Exactly,” Young Master Li said, the topic finally stepping into his chosen frame. A smile blossomed, spring after frost.

In the dark alley, Changqing was bent and breathless, back to a chipped wall, lungs burning like a forge. He’d been sprinting across rooftops, a shadow skimming tiles, and had slipped back down into the alley’s throat. He hadn’t expected those men to swing vans around and block the other mouth; the bodies piling in the seats were surely more than before.

Cars lurked like plain-clothed wolves, pretending to be ordinary sedans. Parked that dense, their net was obvious, threads shining in the rain.

The hired fists rushed past, boots thudding, a herd charging blind. Where Changqing crouched was a hidden nook, a half-demolished stairwell, veiled by shabby homes and rubble—hard to spot unless you knew the cracks. When he slid off the roof, he used that angle to make them think he’d fled the street; he shaved off a few breaths of safety, a flicker behind a lantern.

This couldn’t go on. Fear tightened like a cold fist, then his mind clicked sharp, iron on stone.

He didn’t know which god he’d angered, which immortal had cast a net, but today wasn’t about wriggling free. The watchers outside were too many, a flock of crows on a dead tree. They had cars; even if he grabbed that broken bicycle, he’d be a rabbit against a train.

That damned fat man…

Thinking of the paunchy middle-aged pig, bile rose, and Changqing made his choice, a blade settling in the hand.