Chang Hancang pinched the club's quarterly report and frowned into a tight knot.
"Three months, a loss of two million?" He threw the report on the manager's face, "It's better to raise a dog than to raise you!"
The manager was trembling and did not dare to look up. This man is known as the Living King of Hell, with countless properties to his name, and a temper that is greater than his ability.
The old town in the evening looks like a dying gray snake. Chang Hancang loosened his tie and turned into a bluestone alley aimlessly - purely because he wanted to stay away from those troubles.
There is a shop deep in the alley.
The front is pitifully narrow, and the wooden signboard is so moth-eaten that only the words "" and "shop" are left, with the middle word rotten into a hole. Behind the glass display window are piles of dusty junk: chipped porcelain bowls, rusty copper coins, and a wooden Buddha statue with a broken leg.
By some strange coincidence, he pushed open the creaking wooden door.
The bell didn't ring, and dust hit his face first.
The store is smaller inside than it looks from the outside. Sitting behind the counter was a skinny old man, wearing reading glasses, glueing a broken clay pot to a dim light bulb. Hearing the movement, he didn't even raise his eyelids.
