Chapter 3: Trouble Has Come

Old Yang’s stern refusal immediately infuriated the red-haired man and his crew. With a loud bang, a table was flipped over onto the floor.

“So you won’t pay up, huh? Looks like you need to be taught a lesson!” the red-haired man shouted as he strode forward, ready to upend another table.

Watching this, Old Yang’s eyes blazed with fury. At some point, he had slipped into the kitchen and now burst out wielding a butcher’s knife—more precisely, a pig-sticker. Two younger men followed at his side, both dressed in white jackets that marked them as Hunanese cooks in his employ.

“Enough with the bullying! I’ll fight you to the end!” Old Yang shouted, his face flushed with anger, and charged straight at the red-haired leader, brandishing his knife.

The red-haired man was briefly stunned, likely not expecting that the man who had seemed so meek would suddenly turn so fierce, as if he no longer cared for his life. But in the world of thugs, ruthlessness is the rule—without it, one can forget about climbing the ranks, especially with so many people watching. So, the red-haired man drew a machete from his belt and met Old Yang’s charge without hesitation.

The other two thugs also brandished their blades, hacking menacingly at the two cooks. The surrounding crowd grew restless; frightened girls screamed, while a few brightly dyed and tattooed delinquent girls watched with rapt attention and admiration.

In no time, the food stall was a wreck, a heap of overturned tables and chairs. Old Yang and his two helpers, older and less ruthless than their opponents—and unarmed but for the one knife—were quickly overwhelmed, their bodies already bearing several gruesome wounds.

“Damn you, you ungrateful old fool. I’ll cripple you as a warning to the rest,” the red-haired man cursed. He kicked Old Yang to the ground, then raised his gleaming machete, aiming a vicious blow at the man’s arm. Inwardly, he was already savoring his own triumph: if he handled tonight well and made a name for himself, the boss might reward him with a few more territories—he could even be promoted to the rank of overseer.

As Old Yang watched the blade descend, regret consumed him. All this, just for a thousand yuan a month—was it worth losing a hand?

Most onlookers couldn’t bear the bloody scene; some closed their eyes, others turned away.

Yet, the expected screams never came. Nor was there the sound of blood spattering. At some point, a tall, imposing man had appeared among them—a man with wild, unkempt hair and a face shadowed by stubble. Like a god of war, he intercepted the falling machete with one hand, stopping its deadly arc as if it weighed nothing.

“Wow! He’s so cool!”

“His look is amazing—isn’t this the new style everyone’s talking about? So dashing!”

With his lightning-fast arrival, Chen Erpao instantly captivated the delinquent girls, as well as many young women whose hearts fluttered at the sight. His heroic figure was seared into their memories.

“Kid, I never would have guessed you were hiding such strength!” the red-haired man exclaimed in shock. He knew exactly how much force he’d put into his swing, yet this stranger had stopped it with a single hand.

“Get lost—now. Maybe you’ll walk away in one piece,” Chen Erpao said coldly, towering over the red-haired man. The aura of a former soldier radiated from him: a commanding presence, lethal as a blade, that once made enemies quake in fear.

The red-haired man gazed at the stranger—so plainly dressed, yet so terrifying—and for the first time, real fear crept into his heart. His usual bravado faded.

“Fine. You’re tough. But our boss won’t let this go—you’ll regret this!” he spat, before leading his two companions away in sullen defeat.

Watching their retreat, Old Yang gave a weary sigh, then turned to Chen Erpao with gratitude.

“Erpao, thank you—if not for you, I’d be crippled now. But you’ve really made enemies of them. Be careful; they’re all with the gangs, and there are a lot of them. They’ll definitely come after you for revenge. You’d better leave while you can!”

“If I go, what about you? They’ll take it out on you,” Chen Erpao replied, worried.

Old Yang forced a small smile. “At worst, they’ll rough me up a bit more. As long as I agree to pay the protection money, they won’t go too far. You should really go—now!”

“All right. I’ll come see you tomorrow. Take care,” Chen Erpao said, realizing there was nothing more he could do. Staying would only make things worse; perhaps it was better to disappear for now.

Under the gaze of the crowd, Chen Erpao quickly left the food stall. Who would have thought that a simple meal would lead to such trouble? Yet, despite the gangsters’ numbers and reputation, he felt not a trace of fear. He had once walked through hails of bullets, fought ruthless drug lords. These street thugs, waving their knives, barely stirred his fighting spirit. All he wanted now was a quiet life—he didn’t want to bring trouble to others because of himself.

As he walked farther from the main street, he was less than a hundred meters from his neighborhood when, suddenly, a group of men surged out from both ahead and behind, nearly ten in all. The oldest looked to be in his thirties, the youngest barely a teenager, their arms and bodies covered in dragon and tiger tattoos. At their head was a man in his twenties with several prominent knife scars on his arm and a savage, arrogant expression—the very image of a low-level gangster. In truth, even the infamous “Brother Sharp” had a more striking style; if only these men had hired him as their image consultant.

“Boss Bao, this is the guy who caused trouble earlier—he said you couldn’t control these streets!” the red-haired man said deferentially, standing beside the scarred leader. He looked at Chen Erpao with barely concealed glee, as if already envisioning the sight of him begging for mercy on the pavement.