120: Chapter 120 Three Carts Not Enough

Scarface Man took a step back.

The rubber baton slipped from his hand, clattered against the hood, and fell to the ground.

Lu Zheng did not continue to press forward.

He stopped two paces away from Scarface Man, turned sideways, and shifted his gaze toward Jiang Chen.

"Mr. Jiang, how should we handle this person?"

His tone was steady, as if he were asking about something perfectly ordinary.

Jiang Chen's gaze fell upon Scarface Man.

Scarface Man's back was pressed tight against the SUV's hood; he was almost lying flat on it, his hands bracing against the body of the car with knuckles white from the strain.

His lips moved, wanting to say something, but only a few muffled syllables escaped his throat.

Jiang Chen looked at him, his eyes devoid of any superfluous emotion.

It wasn't anger, it wasn't contempt, it wasn't even indifference.

It was the calm of looking at an object that had nothing to do with him.

He walked forward two steps.

His soles stepped on a fallen sycamore leaf, making a faint crunching sound.

He stopped in front of Scarface Man and looked down at him.

"You said just now."

His voice wasn't loud and his pace wasn't fast; every word was crystal clear.

"If I don't sign, you'll make me suffer a bit—until I feel that holding out against Zhou Wanquan for a few shops isn't worth it."

Scarface Man's Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

Jiang Chen tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over the men lying on the ground before returning to Scarface Man's face.

"Do you still feel that way now?"

Scarface Man did not speak.

He couldn't speak.

Jiang Chen watched him for two seconds, then turned around.

He didn't say anything further, nor did he give any instructions.

But as he walked back to Lu Zheng's side, his footsteps paused for a fleeting moment.

That pause was very slight, so slight that only Lu Zheng could perceive it.

But Lu Zheng understood.

He turned around to face Scarface Man and took two steps forward.

Scarface Man's face went completely pale.

He instinctively tried to retreat, but his back was already against the hood; there was nowhere left to go.

His hands braced against the car, knuckles white; his lips parted several times as if to say something, but Lu Zheng gave him no chance to speak.

Lu Zheng leaned down and gripped his left forearm.

Then he yanked it upward.

The movement wasn't large, nor was the angle particularly awkward.

But Scarface Man's body was forced to flip over following the direction of his arm.

He went from lying on his back to his side, and then his entire upper body was pinned against the hood, his cheek pressed against the cold metallic paint.

He did not struggle.

It wasn't that he didn't want to; he simply couldn't.

The hand Lu Zheng used to clamp his wrist was like a vise; the force wasn't massive, but the thumb pressing down on the radial styloid process was as precise as if it were measuring the bone's dimensions.

The strength in Scarface Man's entire left arm was cut off starting from the wrist; from fingertips to shoulder, he couldn't muster any power at all.

Lu Zheng's other hand pressed down on his elbow joint.

Then he applied force.

An outward twist.

A soft crack came from the wrist joint.

It wasn't the sound of bone breaking.

It was the sound of ligaments being twisted to their absolute limit.

Scarface Man's pupils suddenly constricted.

A muffled groan, suppressed to the extreme, escaped his throat.

It wasn't a scream, but the kind of sound made when a scream is bitten into pieces between one's teeth.

A layer of fine sweat broke out on his forehead, sliding down his brow bone and dripping onto the hood.

His left arm went limp, hanging at an unnatural angle from wrist to elbow by his side.

Lu Zheng let go and stood up straight.

From leaning down to standing up, no more than four seconds had passed.

Scarface Man lay sprawled on the hood, gasping for air.

His right hand clutched his left wrist as he curled into a ball, the color completely drained from his face, the old scar at the corner of his mouth twitching violently.

Lu Zheng looked down at him, his gaze calm.

"Go back and tell Zhou Wanquan."

His voice wasn't loud, and there was no rising inflection at the end.

"The next time he sends people, remember to bring a few more carloads."

He paused.

"Three vehicles are not enough."

Scarface Man's Adam's apple bobbed, and he nodded.

His nodding was hurried, as if the muscles in his neck were out of control.

Lu Zheng turned around and walked back to Jiang Chen.

"Mr. Jiang, it's handled."

Jiang Chen withdrew his gaze from Scarface Man and let it fall on Lu Zheng's face.

A second of silence passed.

Then he spoke.

"Good job."

A pause.

"Excellent skills."

Four words.

The tone wasn't heavy, but every word carried weight.

Lu Zheng's Adam's apple moved.

He nodded and said nothing.

Jiang Chen turned around, weaving through the men lying haphazardly on the ground, and headed toward the parking lot.

The setting sun had already sunk below the tops of the sycamore trees; light leaked through the gaps in the branches, turning into pillars of golden-red light that cast a patchwork of light and shadow on the ground.

Jiang Chen walked through these patches of light, his pace neither fast nor slow, just as it had been when he arrived.

His soles stepped over fallen leaves and gravel, making subtle sounds.

Lu Zheng followed half a step behind, his back straight and his stride steady.

Exactly the same as when they came.

...

Wantai Real Estate, Chairman's Office.

The sound of a phone being slammed onto the marble desktop echoed in the empty office for a full five seconds before fading.

Zhou Wanquan sat in his wide leather chair, his right hand still in the position of having thrown the phone, his knuckles pale from the force.

The purple clay teacup on the desk shook twice from the impact; tea spilled out, spreading into a dark brown stain on the tabletop.

No one dared to come in and wipe it up.

The person on the other end of the line was still saying something; the voice coming from the phone on the desk was tiny and hurried, like a mouse squeaking after its tail had been stepped on.

Zhou Wanquan didn't reach for the phone.

He leaned back in his chair, his chest heaving violently three times, then he suddenly grabbed the phone and roared into the receiver.

His voice was raspy, forced out from the depths of his throat.

"Twelve men!"

He paused, the veins on his neck bulging out from his shirt collar.

"Twelve! Against one!"

"And you didn't even manage to harm a single hair on his head?!"

The voice on the other end grew quieter, as if shrinking into a ball from the force of that roar.

Several seconds passed before someone spoke up tremulously.

"Chair... Chairman Zhou, it's not that we didn't try our best..."

"It's not?"

Zhou Wanquan interrupted him, his voice dropping instead, becoming chillingly low. "Then tell me, what is it?"

There was a moment of silence on the other end.

"That person... that person was simply too strong."

The voice was trembling; it wasn't faked.

"Strong?"

Zhou Wanquan bit out the word, as if chewing on a piece of tough meat.

He suddenly stood up from his seat; the chair was pushed back, sliding across the floor and hitting the rosewood bookshelf behind him with a dull thud.

The glass cabinet doors vibrated; inside, several hardcover books and a crystal trophy wobbled. The trophy tipped over, hitting the shelf with a sharp clink.

"Twelve men! Beaten like this! By one person!"

His voice rose with every sentence, the last one nearly a shriek; his voice cracked, the end of it raspy and out of tune.

"And you still have the face to call back?!"

The person on the other end held their breath.

Zhou Wanquan braced one hand on the desk while the other held the phone to his mouth, his lips trembling.

It wasn't fear.

It was rage.

It was the burning frustration of spending money to raise a bunch of people, only for them to fail to take down a single opponent at the critical moment.

"A bunch of useless trash."