A sharp crack shattered the restaurant's calm, followed by a pained yelp. A waitress, a plain-looking student, had dropped a dish, splattering it onto a diner's feet. Stunned, she froze as the man leaped up, delivering a vicious slap across her face. Five purple-red finger marks bloomed on her pale cheek, stark and brutal.
"You blind bitch!" he roared. "Look at my feet—my shoes! Italian imports! You could sell yourself a hundred times and not afford these!" The man, a gaunt middle-aged figure, oozed sophistication in his sleek suit and meticulously combed hair, his dark glasses suggesting success. But his vile words betrayed his true nature—a crude thug in gentleman's clothing.
The waitress, clutching her face, snapped out of her daze. Recognition flashed in her eyes, and she gasped, "It's you—"
"So what?" he sneered. "I told you, disobey me, and you'll pay. Working to pay tuition? Go sell your body—I'll be your first customer." His brazen words echoed, but the crowd stayed silent, cowed by his menacing aura. No one dared speak up.
"Manager! Where's the damn manager?" he barked, smirking coldly at the waitress's ashen face. "I want compensation—thirty thousand yuan!" Humiliating her fed his ego. This poor girl was just another morsel he'd devour, and he had endless ways to break her kind.
The manager hurried over, noting the gawking crowd. "Sir, we're deeply sorry for our staff's mistake. We'll cover any damages, but thirty thousand—isn't that a bit steep?"
The waitress, still cradling her cheek, whispered, "Manager, he tripped me on purpose. I didn't mess up."
"Pay up, or I'll trash this place!" the man spat, his polished facade crumbling to reveal a street-level hoodlum. Whipping out his phone, he dialed. "Gouzi, get to Taoyuan Restaurant by Tsinghua's gate. Collect a debt for me."
For a business, punks like this were a nightmare. The manager's face darkened. "Thirty thousand, plus this waitress kneels and apologizes, or your restaurant's done," the man growled. His threat silenced a bystander who'd considered speaking up. This guy was trouble—why play hero and end up a martyr?
Lei Zhengyang, busy shoveling food, barely noticed the commotion. Ye Qingcheng, however, seethed. "Hey, you call yourself a man? No shred of compassion? That waitress is clearly the victim, and you're just sitting there? Won't you help her?"
Zhengyang snorted. "People get screwed over every day. If I meddled in all of it, I'd have no life. Got a hero complex, Miss Ye? With your family's clout, smacking down this creep should be a breeze."
"You're no man!" Qingcheng shot back, glaring. She stood, ready to act. These waitresses were Tsinghua's struggling students, scraping by on part-time gigs—worthy of support. Plus, that jerk's smug face begged for a punch. Fake alligator shoes worth thirty grand? What, were they gold-plated?
But Zhengyang moved faster. Once a spoiled playboy, he'd bullied for sport, but this was different. As the waitress turned, tears streaking her swollen face, a jolt hit him. That face—etched in his memory—was her. The woman destined to be his wife in another life.
"Found your conscience? Not a lost cause after all," Qingcheng said, smirking as Zhengyang surged forward. "Give that bastard hell—I'm rooting for you." Oddly, he didn't snap back with his usual infuriating retorts. The carefree rogue now radiated a chilling menace. What's with him? she thought. Does he want to kill someone?
He did. In his past life, Zhengyang had failed many, and this woman was one. Someone had touched his untouchable—his dragon's scale—and they'd pay dearly.
"Pay up, or my boys arrive, and it's not thirty grand—it's a hundred!" the man crowed, lighting a cigarette, legs crossed, shaking with smug arrogance. He thought he'd cowed the room.
A slap rang out. Qingcheng was right—this guy's face screamed for it. Zhengyang's palm connected, followed by a brutal kick. The man screamed, crashing through six tables, blood streaming down his unrecognizable face.
The crowd gasped, stunned. Qingcheng, too, froze, eyeing Zhengyang warily. His cultured demeanor hid a savage streak. Lucky she hadn't provoked him, she thought, half-relieved. Ignoring the shocked stares, Zhengyang approached the trembling waitress, gently pulling her hand from her face. "Xueling," he said softly, his voice tender, "I'm sorry you suffered."
Qingcheng's jaw dropped. This flirtatious wastrel, capable of such depth? No way, she thought, rubbing her eyes. She stared, transfixed. The girl, Sun Xueling, flinched, yanking her hand back, avoiding his gaze, her face flushing. "Sir, you've got the wrong person. I don't know you. I'm Sun Xueling, but not who you think."
Bang bang bang! The restaurant's door splintered as a gang of thugs stormed in. Their leader, a hulking brute with dragon and snake tattoos snaking up his bare arms, scanned the room with a feral glare, striding forward like he owned the place. "Gouzi, save me!" the bloodied man croaked, revived by his backup. Two goons hoisted him up, his eyes glinting with venom as he glared at Zhengyang. "Gouzi, a hundred grand—cripple him!"
"Two hundred," Gouzi countered, unfazed. Extortion was his game—why not milk a rich fool?
"Fine, two hundred! Do it!" the man snarled.
Xueling shoved Zhengyang back, frantic. "Sir, thank you for stepping in, but these are thugs—unreasonable. Go, please. I don't want you hurt."
Her kindness pierced him. In his darkest days, when despair had nearly broken him, Xueling's warmth—her resilience against fate's cruelty—had saved him, fueling his rise to rebuild the Lei family. More figures entered, their presence quieter but heavier. Unlike the thugs' crude bravado, these men carried an innate authority, undimmed by their low profile. The crowd sensed it—they weren't ordinary.
Leading them were Xiao Dasheng and Li Yuanfeng. Zhengyang didn't know why they were here, but they'd clearly been tracking him. "Boss, sorry we're late," Xiao Dasheng said, bowing respectfully. Then, with a devilish grin, he added, "Let me handle this show. Don't steal my fun."
Gouzi, no fool, read the room. Zhengyang alone was one thing, but these newcomers, flanked by ironclad bodyguards, screamed untouchable. "Just passing through, none of our business!" he blurted, ready to bolt. His earlier swagger shriveled—he was "Gouzi" (Puppy) for a reason.
Xiao Dasheng's smile turned icy. "Leaving? Not that easy."
His palm cracked across Gouzi's face, the slap echoing with ruthless intent.