Chapter Twenty-Two: Rescue

“Huh, who is that?”
A group of people approached from the right side of Liu Qin’s vision. To say they were walking was inaccurate; they moved more like domineering turtles—swaggering, regardless of whether they were burly or thin. Each of them swung their arms wide, clearing a path ahead, and everyone nearby seemed fearful, hastily stepping aside when they came near. Occasionally, if someone accidentally brushed against them, there was no time for apologies before a slap struck their face, accompanied by a loud curse: “You little brat, are you courting death? Do you know who I am? I could crush you with a single finger! Get out of my sight!”

The person who was slapped looked unwilling to submit, seemingly wanting to argue back, but a kind soul beside him hurriedly pulled him away, whispered something in his ear, and finally, with reddened eyes and unwillingness, he left quickly.

Liu Qin’s attention, however, was drawn to someone behind the group—a youth of about fifteen or sixteen, dressed in flamboyant, luxurious clothes that shimmered brilliantly under the sun. His appearance, though not quite as dazzling as his attire, was passable. Yet the arrogance and unruliness displayed on his face marked him as the very stereotype of a spoiled heir. Whether he was the son of a wealthy merchant or a high-ranking official, Liu Qin couldn’t help but ask aloud out of curiosity.

Just then, Manager Liu brought the prepared cold dishes and snacks, accompanied by a server. Hearing the question, Manager Liu glanced out the window and smiled, “That’s Young Master Fang from the Fang family. Every day at this hour, he goes to Hongxing Restaurant.”

“Fang family’s young master?” Dongxiang walked to the window for a look. “It’s him alright—Fang Yiming. Don’t be fooled by his age; he’s the tyrant of Wu City. Everyone here avoids him.”

So that was the case. The Fang family’s influence in Wu City was second only to the Liu family. If Fang Yiming wished to rule the streets, no one dared interfere. Liu Qin was still pondering this when she saw the group stop below. Fang Yiming stood at an angle, holding a folded fan in one hand, lightly tapping it against his other palm, and called out, “Zhao Er.”

The men ahead turned to face him. Upon hearing Fang Yiming’s call, one burly fellow trotted over—it was the same man who’d been slapping others earlier. Now, all his previous bravado was gone. He bowed and scraped, smiling obsequiously, “Young master, what are your orders?”

Fang Yiming looked at him with a smil