Chapter 217: A Cold Reunion in Prison

Deep in the City Hall dungeon, the damp, cold air was filled with a stubborn moldy smell.

Lu Xuan followed the jailer down the narrow corridor, his footsteps echoing between the stone walls. The wounds on his body, after "addition" and treatment, indeed looked like he had undergone severe torture—his clothes were ragged, his face bruised, his left hand wrapped in bloody strips of cloth, and he limped slightly as he walked.

The dim yellow oil lamp cast flickering shadows on the wall, as if countless twisted faces.

Finally, they stopped in front of a cell. The jailer raised the oil lamp, and its light shone into the iron bars.

A figure huddled in the corner. He wore a suit stained with filth, the once-crisp fabric now wrinkled beyond recognition. Hearing the movement, he lifted his head in terror.

That face was hardly recognizable as the once vigorous second young master of the Lu family—gaunt, sunken eyes, stubble, his gaze filled with panic and fear.

When he saw clearly that the visitor was Lu Xuan, his dim eyes suddenly burst with joyous light.

Lu Xiao, as if grasping at the last straw, stumbled forward and clutched the iron bars with both hands.

"Hurry! Let me out!" he shouted hoarsely, his voice terrifyingly raspy, thick with sobs, "Is it you? Hurry and get me out!"

Lu Xuan stood outside the cell, looking at his pampered younger brother in such a sorry state, his expression becoming unusually complex—there was pity, helplessness, and a hint of coldness barely perceptible.

"I've come to save you." he said softly.

Lu Xiao burst into tears at the words, tears and snot streaming down. But immediately, his tone shifted, adopting a commanding air utterly unfitting his situation: "Why did you take so long to come?!" he almost demanded, "Do you have any idea how much I've suffered here?! Hurry and get them to let me out!"

From start to finish, he didn't even glance at Lu Xuan's injuries. He uttered not a word of concern, nor did he call him "brother" or "elder brother."

Even at this life‑or‑death moment, his attitude toward Lu Xuan remained that of the aloof second young master of the Lu family toward an adopted son.

The oil lamp's light flickered over the brothers' faces. One was a sorry sight yet still arrogant; the other, covered in wounds, was calm as water.

At this moment, their deeply unequal relationship and Lu Xiao's selfish coldness were laid bare.

The iron door emitted a piercing "squeak" as it slowly opened.

Lu Xiao practically stumbled out of the cell, nearly falling. He steadied himself against the wall, then suddenly turned and glared venomously at the few guards. In the dim oil‑lamp light, his gaze was sinisterly terrifying.

"Lackeys who rely on power!" he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice brimming with bone‑deep hatred, "Wait! When I return, I'll repay tenfold, a hundredfold everything you've given me today!" His fingers trembled with rage as he added, "Tell Lin Yu that bastard—this isn't over!"

Seeing this, Lu Xuan hurried forward, frowning, and grabbed his excited brother. "This is still Lin Yu's turf," he warned in a low voice, "Say less, and leave this place first."

"Slap!"

Lu Xiao, however, shoved Lu Xuan's hand away with extreme impatience; the force was enough to make Lu Xuan's wound bleed again. "You're telling me how to do things?!" he sneered, glancing at Lu Xuan, then began repeatedly patting his wrinkled suit as if the creases were something disgusting.

"Why did it take you so long to come?" he complained while straightening his clothes, his tone full of blame, "Was it intentional?" Suddenly, as if recalling something, he waved his hand impatiently, "Quick, get me a cigarette!"

Just then, his gaze happened to sweep over Lu Xuan's left hand, wrapped in bloody strips of cloth, and he blinked in surprise. He blinked again, only then realizing his brother's condition.

"What happened to your hand?" he asked, his tone devoid of any concern.

Lu Xuan instinctively hid his hand behind his back and said lightly, "It's nothing, just a minor injury."

Lu Xiao merely gave him a sinister glance; a fleeting, inscrutable glint passed through his eyes before he looked away.

He went on muttering to himself, "This damned place is practically hell on earth—it reeks to high heaven! Those damn rats scurry along the walls all night......"

It was as if Lu Xuan's injuries had nothing to do with him, as if the person who had sacrificed his own fingers to save him were merely an insignificant passerby.

The oil lamp's light swayed in the dark dungeon, falling on the brothers' faces. Lu Xiao's visage was written with resentment and arrogance; his misery and fear changed him not at all. Meanwhile, Lu Xuan's gaze grew deeper, and in his look at his brother there lay a chilling calm.

French Concession, Xiafei Road.

The three‑story Western‑style building of Lando Trading House stood out sharply in the night. On its Baroque façade, exquisite carvings glowed softly under the streetlights. The two palace lamps before the door cast a warm yellow light, lending the edifice an air of mystery.

Feng An entered the main gate with several capable subordinates. Compared to the solemn dignity of other firms, the décor here was strikingly fashionable and luxurious. The marble floor shone like a mirror, crystal chandeliers sparkled, the walls displayed precious Oriental landscape paintings, yet were accented with European gilt frames. The air was perfumed with high‑end fragrance and Cuban cigar, tinged with a faint hint of sandalwood.

This place felt more like an upscale private club than an ordinary business house.

A sharply dressed middle‑aged manager hurried forward, politely escorting them to the reception room. Feng An produced Lu Xuan's check and that private seal; the manager took them for careful inspection, his eyes flashing with a strange hue.

"Please wait a moment," the manager said, bowing respectfully before stepping into the inner chamber to give notice.

The reception room was tastefully furnished; carved floral patterns adorned the redwood furniture, and the celadon tea set on the coffee table was clearly valuable. Feng An sat on the leather sofa, feeling that everything here was out of the ordinary.

Moments later, a light footfall came from the inner chamber, accompanied by a wisp of fragrance.

A figure emerged gracefully.

She was a woman about twenty‑seven or twenty‑eight, wearing a black lace cheongram that fit her to perfection. The slit was just right, revealing and concealing her curves with each step, outlining a breathtaking silhouette. Her makeup was exquisite, her lips fiery, her eyes shifting between languid allure and a subtle sharpness.

She toyed with a slender lady's cigarette; as smoke curled around her, her delicate face grew ever more mysterious.

"You official, I don't think we've met," she said in a soft, sweet voice with a typical Wu accent yet elegant grace, "May I ask which distinguished client you're serving?"

As she spoke, she tilted her head slightly, revealing a slender neck; the emerald earrings on her earlobes sparkled enchantingly in the light.

Feng An momentarily lost himself. Though he had seen much in Shen City, this woman gave him an indescribable feeling. She was beautiful, yes, but behind those seemingly affectionate eyes lay a startling intelligence and calculation.

This was the legendary Landuor, the true master of that mysterious trading house.