Chapter 53: The Troublemakers Have Arrived

Jiang Zhengmin got up and, seeing Zhao Yulan still sitting on the sofa, said with displeasure: “It’s already this late and you haven’t made breakfast yet?”

Zhao Yulan snorted: “Skip a meal, you won’t die.” Even so, she rose and went into the kitchen.

Jiang Zhengmin sat down: “Hmm, that… my youngest daughter…”

Jiang Yuyue tilted her head at her father, her eyes curled into crescents: “What is it?”

Jiang Zhengmin rubbed his nose, glanced toward the kitchen, and lowered his voice: “Where are those two bottles of wine you brought me last time?”

Jiang Yuyue blinked: “What wine?”

“Hey!” Jiang Zhengmin glared, his voice rising—then immediately dropped: “You little brat, are you pretending not to know?”

Jiang Yuyue chuckled: “I sold them.”

“Sold them?” Jiang Zhengmin grew anxious. “How could you sell them? Don’t you know that wine is nearly impossible to get now?”

“I know now,” Jiang Yuyue said. “But I didn’t know then. You didn’t want it, and I don’t drink it—what was I supposed to keep it for?”

Jiang Zhengmin regretted it down to his gut: “My daughter, do you still know anyone at the distillery?”

Jiang Yuyue shook her head vigorously: “Besides my brother-in-law, I don’t know anyone.”

Jiang Zhengmin slapped his thigh hard, then rose and began pacing back and forth.

Jiang Yuyue suppressed her laughter: “I’m going to the restroom.”

When she came out of the restroom, she saw her father still pacing. She sighed helplessly: “Dad, just say what you want. You’re embarrassed to talk to your own daughter?”

Jiang Zhengmin glanced again at the kitchen, pulled Jiang Yuyue close, and whispered: “Can you go to Zhou Andong and buy a few cases of wine—the sealed *** type?”

Jiang Yuyue shook her head firmly: “No way. Last time I helped my brother-in-law out, you all looked at me like I’d committed ten unforgivable sins.”

Jiang Zhengmin opened his mouth, then closed it without speaking. He sighed and waved his hand weakly: “It’s not that I personally need it—it’s because of that calendar ad you did. Old friends keep coming to me, asking if they can buy a few cases through you. Jiangzhou Yugong is just too hard to get. Forget the sealed *** type—even the regular version is impossible to find now.”

Seeing her father’s disappointment, Jiang Yuyue softened: “Fine. How many do you need?”

“Huh?” Jiang Zhengmin let out a startled sound, then quickly replied: “Sixty-two cases.”

Jiang Yuyue said: “I’ll get you seventy. 156 yuan per bottle, six bottles per case. Get the money ready. I’ll deliver them to your office this afternoon.”

“Alright!” Jiang Zhengmin replied happily.

Jiang Yuyue added: “Ask your bank staff if anyone wants to buy wine. Regular Yugong at retail 58 yuan. If anyone wants some, tally it up—I can give you factory price.”

Around nine in the morning, Zhou Andong saw a crowd loitering outside the distillery gate—each man glowering, glaring sideways, whistling at the female workers, who hurried past them, fleeing into the factory. The men erupted in raucous laughter.

Zhou Andong frowned. He had a premonition: these men were here for him. He wasn’t sure who was behind them, but he’d made plenty of enemies lately.

On the roadside opposite the distillery gate, a van sat parked. Inside were two men: one bald, wearing a green double-breasted wool coat, his face bearing a terrifying scar running from behind his ear straight to his mouth. The other was the guard who had clashed with Gu Bing and Zhou Andong the day before.

“Scar Brother, he’s here,” the guard sneered. “Tell the boys—beat him to death. I’ll take responsibility.”

The scarred man patted the guard’s shoulder, opened the door, stepped out, then bent down and pulled from beneath the seat a steel pipe—one end ground to a sharp point, the other tightly wrapped in cloth to prevent slipping from sweaty hands.

This weapon had a name: the “tube fork.” Its lethality was terrifying—once driven into the abdomen, blood would spurt through the pipe. Survival was nearly impossible. During those unspeakable years, countless had died from such pipes. Hence its other name: the “Yanwang Fork.”

Years ago, during the crackdown, such pipes were classified as controlled weapons and nearly vanished. Yet here, today, this scarred man had brought one out again. The cloth wrapping was now dark brown—stained with dried blood, never cleaned, left to age.

Inside the guardhouse, four guards watched through the window. One said: “When do we go out?”

Another replied: “The chief said—wait until Zhou Andong is nearly dead.”

Less than thirty meters from the distillery gate, Zhou Andong spotted the scarred man stepping from the van. Instantly, the crowd at the gate turned to stare.

Zhou Andong stopped, pulled out a cigarette, lit it, then looked up at the scarred man charging toward him, pipe in hand.

The scarred man quickened his pace, then broke into a sprint. The men at the gate pulled steel pipes from behind their backs and charged as one toward Zhou Andong.

Zhou Andong smiled. He ignored the mob and strode straight toward the scarred man. The man froze—then grinned, lips splitting open in a silent laugh. The scar on his face twisted like a giant, color-shifting centipede, terrifying to behold.

Zhou Andong accelerated. The scarred man sprinted faster. Just before they collided, the scarred man raised the pipe and swung it hard at Zhou Andong’s head.

Zhou Andong ducked. The pipe whistled past his scalp. In one motion, he grabbed the man’s shoulder, used the momentum to launch himself upward, curled his right knee, and slammed it hard into the man’s chest.

“Thud!”

A heavy thump of flesh, then a sharp, cracking snap—the sound of bone breaking. The scarred man screamed in agony, his upper body jerking backward, the pipe flying from his grip.

“Thump!” He fell straight to the ground. Then came a metallic clang as the pipe clattered beside him.

The whole thing happened too fast. Bystanders and arriving workers hadn’t even reacted when the scarred man was already lying on the ground.

Especially the factory workers—mouths agape, eyes wide with disbelief. Was that really Zhou Andong?

Inside the guardhouse, the four guards stared, throats bobbing as they swallowed saliva again and again. Their batons trembled in their hands.

Zhou Andong didn’t look at the scarred man. He turned slowly, gestured with a finger to the men standing nearby. The cigarette between his lips flickered, smoke curling slowly from his lips.