Ma Yushu’s shock far outweighed his anger at Motobu Ryo’s unpaid debt. Hanging up, dazed, only then did fury surge within him.
But he couldn’t call back to curse Motobu Ryo out. Swallowing his rage, he contacted Kenan.
Kenan, hearing this, was equally surprised.
…How interesting.
A washed-up gambler, kicked off the table after losing everything, had the gall to scam him—and succeeded. Now, having flipped his fortunes with Kenan’s own backing, he had the audacity to invite him to dinner, acting all high and mighty.
But Kenan saw through it.
Half a year wasn’t enough for Motobu Ryo to recover and repay the 20 million high-interest loan, let alone the astronomical interest.
A quick analysis clarified the situation.
Motobu Ryo was under “Haina’s” protection, which had clashed with “Rousseau.” Such prolonged conflict inevitably wore both sides down.
Kenan’s intel was sharp.
Rumor had it that ten days ago, “Rousseau” and “Haina” had a brutal close-quarters battle on a street flimsier than tofu, gunfire echoing until midnight.
Who won or lost? Both sides kept tight-lipped, leaving outsiders in the dark.
But the outcome wasn’t hard to guess.
“Haina” and “Panqiao” were ragtag crews, no match for “Rousseau’s” deep-pocketed backing.
At this tense moment, Motobu Ryo’s call carried intriguing implications:
The first to offer peace was the first to falter.
If “Haina” couldn’t hold out, Motobu Ryo, at the storm’s center, would be in a precarious spot.
Still, Kenan wouldn’t rush in blindly, strutting to the meeting as a victor.
Motobu Ryo named him specifically, suggesting a truce and gradual repayment, but who knew what venomous schemes he harbored?
Kenan needed to meet him—Motobu Ryo would only show if he attended—but he couldn’t go recklessly.
He tried contacting Jiang Jiuzhao directly.
The call connected, but he got a rushed “I’ve got no hands for other jobs” before the line cut off.
Even Kenan’s vivid imagination couldn’t picture Jiang Jiuzhao literally “handless,” lying bored in bed, waiting for prosthetic replacements.
From his brief words, Kenan assumed he was busy handling Ning Zhuo, too tied up for bodyguard work, so he dropped the idea.
Instead, he called “Glove’s” communicator, probing cautiously about Jiang Jiuzhao’s mission progress.
The call went through.
But it wasn’t “Glove.”
A voice, utterly unfamiliar to Kenan, answered: “Mr. Kenan?”
Kenan paused: “…Who are you?”
The other yawned lazily, slurring sleepily: “I’m filling in for ‘Glove.’ He’s… pretty busy lately.”
…Busy reincarnating.
Kenan grew wary: “How do you know who I am?”
The guy was chatty: “‘Glove’ left me his whole contact network. Caller ID told me it’s you.”
Kenan cut the small talk: “I’m meeting a dangerous person. I know Little Jiang’s unavailable. Give me ‘Spider.’ He’s good at stealth attacks.”
Unexpectedly, the voice declined: “Sorry, he’s unavailable too.”
Kenan frowned, finding this “Glove” replacement utterly incompetent.
Why had “Glove” chosen this guy?
Patiently, he asked: “Who’s free, then?”
“Not many,” Fu Wenqu said, squinting as he got up, grabbing a watermelon slice from the fridge, biting its tip, liking the taste, and thinking to send one to Ning Zhuo. “How about this: tell me where, and I’ll go with you. Sound good?”
Kenan hung up.
He wouldn’t trust this glib stranger.
Without reliable intel or trusted muscle, Kenan’s urge to attend the meeting solo waned.
Let “Rousseau” and that Ning guy keep fighting. As a backer, he had no need to show his face, staying safely behind the curtain.
But open war carried risks.
If “Rousseau” stormed “Haina” and accidentally killed Motobu Ryo, that’d be a massive loss for Kenan.
Kenan wasn’t a tycoon himself—just a master of connections.
He couldn’t afford to play generous.
Peaceful resolution in a secure setting was indeed the best option.
A new idea struck him.
He dialed a number he hadn’t called in a while.
…
Recently, Lin Qin had seen Kenan’s true colors and grown defiant.
Kenan disliked his disrespect, so he struck first, using friendly low-tier reporters to launch a smear campaign, fabricating rumors about Lin Qin.
“White Shield” cops had plenty of real sins, so Kenan picked versatile templates to pin on Lin Qin: excessive force, bribery, extorting suspects.
Rumors were cheap—any “insider” could spin a convincing story.
Before, Kenan had crafted Lin Qin’s image as a near-perfect hero.
He knew Silver Hammer City’s psyche: it craved heroes, demanded perfection, yet instinctively doubted, envied, and scrutinized everything.
Once Lin Qin’s scandals broke, the adoring tide receded, and countless online voices crawled out, hissing:
“I always knew Silver Hammer’s cops were rotten.”
“Anyone else hate ‘perfect’ Officer Lin?”
“His face is half-ruined—bet he’s been a psycho for ages. Lin’s fanboys still dare to curse me out?”
The noise swelled.
This was Kenan’s power.
Spreading rumors was the easiest, most practiced thing for Kenan.
If Lin Qin fought back seriously, he’d only crash harder.
Who, having tasted fame’s sweetness, could bear to let their name rot?
After ensuring Lin Qin was trapped in a PR nightmare, Kenan feigned concern, calling to invite him for an interview to “clear up” the rumors—really just milking more traffic, eager to see Lin Qin squirm like an ant on a hot pan.
Sadly, Lin Qin didn’t bite, rejecting the offer with his usual calm, neither servile nor arrogant, leaving Kenan feeling flat.
Kenan considered teaching him another lesson but held back.
Recently, to squeeze the last drops of value from Charlemagne, he’d leaked the secret of a corpse hidden in Charlemagne’s trunk, detonating Silver Hammer City’s online buzz while dragging “White Shield’s” reputation through the mud.
Some “White Shield” higher-ups, seeing Lin Qin’s “scandals,” had already reached out through intermediaries, urging Kenan to “keep things in check.”
A subtle warning: don’t overdo it.
As Kenan mulled this, Lin Qin’s gentle, refined voice came through: “Mr. Kenan, hello.”
“Busy lately?” Kenan’s tone was warm as a spring breeze, as if no bad blood existed. “There’s a banquet I’d like you to attend. Care to join?”
Lin Qin knew every word from Kenan had an agenda. His “banquet” was never just a banquet.
Politely, he asked: “What kind of banquet?”
From their past dealings, Kenan knew Lin Qin well.
Kind yet savvy, worldly but not cynical, even his rejections left people feeling at ease.
But Kenan would make refusal impossible.
“Someone might try to kill me at this banquet,” Kenan said softly. “So, I’d like Officer Lin to protect me. Can you?”
Since Lin Qin already saw his true face, Kenan didn’t mind showing more.
Then, he’d make Lin Qin see that the so-called path of justice was long and treacherous, littered with corpses—including his late father, Lin Qingzhuo.
Kenan’s path of corruption, though, was smooth sailing, with deals starting in the millions.
The more Lin Qin knew, the more tempted he’d be.
The old Charlemagne had lost his use; Kenan now aimed to groom a new one.
Plus, Lin Qin’s “White Shield” status would shield him.
In front of an officer, mercenaries wouldn’t dare act rashly—that’d be openly defying “White Shield.”
With this three-birds-one-stone plan, Kenan, in high spirits, contacted Ma Yushu again:
“Tell them we set the time and place. We’ll have three people. No weapons, recorders, or communicators allowed. If he agrees, we’ll meet.”
Motobu Ryo accepted all terms, replying: “Perfect, I’ll bring three people too.”
The agreement was reached so smoothly it felt unreal.
Perhaps too smoothly—half an hour later, Kenan got an unexpected call.
Seeing the caller’s name, he froze, thinking he’d misread.
But he answered quickly, softening his voice: “Hello, Little Boss Huo.”
At this late hour, Huo Qiya’s voice was clear, alert, even laced with cold anger: “Heard you’re meeting ‘Haina’ people?”
Kenan frowned: Little Boss Huo’s intel was too fast.
Smiling, he played coy: “How did you—”
Huo Qiya pinched his nose bridge, irritated: “You call A-Wen in the middle of the night, not about money, but demanding to borrow ‘Rousseau’ people. If it’s not for ‘Haina,’ what, is ‘Rousseau’ your personal army, ready to march at your whim?”
Kenan, red-faced from the scolding, couldn’t hide his surprise, raising an eyebrow.
This info likely came from that “A-Wen” who took his call.
Daring to disturb Little Boss Huo so late and instantly deducing his “dangerous person” was “Haina” from vague words—“Glove’s” successor was no lightweight.
Huo Qiya pressed: “Time and place set?”
Kenan frowned: Little Boss Huo was meddling in this?
Still, he dutifully shared the upscale restaurant’s name and location agreed with Ma Yushu.
“Got it,” Huo Qiya said icily. “I’ll send Jiang Jiuzhao to keep an eye on Ning Zhuo. He’s caused me enough trouble lately. Kenan, have some sense of time—don’t bother A-Wen casually.”
After the frosty rebuke, Huo Qiya cut the call.
Kenan held the communicator, stunned for a long moment.
But he was a seasoned player. A thought later, it clicked.
—Little Boss Huo calling “A-Wen” so familiarly? This “Glove” successor might have serious clout elsewhere.
…
Kenan wasn’t entirely wrong.
Hanging up, Fu Wenqu grinned, retracting his hand, playfully tapping Huo Qiya’s cheek with the flat of a gleaming blade: “Good work, Little Boss Huo. Back to sleep.”
He rolled back into his still-warm floor bedding, sent Ning Zhuo the meeting address Kenan had set, and slipped easily into another round of dreams.
He slept soundly, leaving Huo Qiya—roused by Fu Wenqu’s kick in the dead of night—shivering, sleepless, wondering when this plague would finally leave.
