The day Lu Ci sat in the labor market, chewing on a cold steamed bun, three men in black cornered him.
“Young Master! The Lu family has been searching for you for eleven years. Please come home!”
He counted on his fingers. If he went back to the Lu family, who would make up the eighty yuan he’d earned that day?
At the old mansion, the walls were crumbling, the door was locked, and a notice in the courtyard ordered them to “vacate within three days.” A spoiled young heir from the Zhao family showed up with his men, called him a beggar, and stepped on his only decent jacket.
Lu Ci was furious.
Not because he’d been insulted, but because his jacket had been dirtied.
He planted the Zhao heir underfoot, crouched down, and wrote out a bill: fifteen yuan for cleaning the jacket, thirty-six yuan for damage to the floor tile, five hundred yuan for emotional distress... When he was done, he patted the other man on the shoulder. “Sign it before you pass out.”
Su Qingyan, an inspector from the Martial Arts Bureau, happened upon the body-cam recorder. It had captured the whole thing, including the villain’s unforgettable self-own. Watching the young man in his patched shirt crouch on the ground and carefully calculate the bill, she suddenly thought: there was something interesting about him.
The social circles of Linjiang City told him that poor kids were meant to be stepped on as they clawed their way up.
Lu Ci smiled.
They could step on him, as long as they didn’t make him lose money. If they did, he’d come collect it himself, with interest. Fair and square.
He can endure hardship and poverty, but losing money is the one thing he won’t tolerate.
