Chapter 984: Bubu Wang

The two bald men walked slowly toward the jewelry store, their waists bulging—likely carrying weapons on their persons.

Just as the two bald men reached the entrance of the jewelry store, a middle-aged fat man stepped out of the neighboring funeral wreath and mourning clothes shop; he wore a brilliant yellow Taoist robe, his belly swelling like a woman ten months pregnant, paired with a dung-yellow satchel slung over his shoulder, creating an overwhelming sense of dissonance.

The middle-aged fat man was Fengshui Master Ma, one of Su Xiao’s few friends, heading out to consult on fengshui for someone.

Ma had only a superficial understanding of fengshui, but he possessed a tongue that could make the dead speak, which is why he thrived.

One must admit that although Ma was a fraud, he had some conscience; once, at the invitation of an old woman, he went to diagnose her grandson’s strange illness.

Ma had no idea how to treat illness, but business had come to his door—if he refused, his reputation would be ruined. When he arrived at the client’s home, he saw the situation was dire: the boy’s face was ashen, listless and drained.

Seeing this, Ma had a sudden idea—he swiftly began divination, and the result was: rush the child to the city hospital immediately, as instructed by some “immortal.”

Though the old woman was utterly bewildered, Ma’s firm tone left no room for argument; he didn’t prepare talisman water or perform rituals, and within five minutes of arriving, he dialed 120.

After a series of emergency procedures, the child ultimately recovered safely, and by sheer coincidence, Ma met a doctor from the city hospital; without a word, both understood each other’s true nature, and they reached an agreement: from now on, whenever such cases arose, they would send patients directly to this hospital.

The process was absurd, yet one must admit: Ma had some professional ethics.

As Ma, dressed in his yellow Taoist robe, stepped outside, he faced the two bald men head-on; seeing these foreigners, Ma immediately sensed something was wrong—more importantly, they were heading straight for Su Xiao’s jewelry store, which was open, meaning Su Xiao was inside.

Ma knew Su Xiao’s former profession, so he instantly feared these men were here for revenge; his heart clenched with dread.

The main reason Ma could befriend Su Xiao was his willingness to risk everything for his friends; after standing silent for two seconds, he devised a plan.

Ma placed one hand behind his back and extended the other flat in front of him, assuming the demeanor of an enlightened master—though in truth, his hidden hand had already pulled out his phone.

But it was already too late to send a message via phone; the two bald men might have entered the store before the message could even be sent.

“Gentlemen, please stop.”

Ma’s heart was racing, yet his movements remained calm, a faint smile playing on his lips.

The two bald men were Mexicans, known in the underworld as “Lao Mo”; 96.5% of them were religious, feared in the dark world for their ruthless and decisive actions, yet they cherished family and faith above all else.

The two Lao Mo were blocked by Ma; they exchanged glances, one’s diamond earring glinting brilliantly in the sunlight.

Ma squinted from the glare of the diamond; seeing this, the two Lao Mo relaxed slightly.

“I see your foreheads are dark with ill fortune—great calamity looms. Our meeting is fate; this Taoist… ahem, I offer to shield you from this disaster.”

Ma still smiled, and the two Lao Mo exchanged glances again; they understood Chinese, but how could they comprehend Ma’s half-classical, half-colloquial speech?

Yet both grasped one thing: Ma seemed to hold some faith, and now, he was conveying their own two faiths.

Realizing this, the two Lao Mo grew furious; their eyes turned icy, and one placed his hand on his waist.

Ma instantly sensed the shift in atmosphere—his foolproof con trick had met its Waterloo.

Just as one Lao Mo prepared to act, the other gripped his arm and shook his head; the one ready to strike relaxed, seemingly unwilling to draw blood here.

Sweat trickled down Ma’s temple; just as he was at a loss, the sound of padded paws hitting the ground reached him.

It was Bubu Wang—he had arrived. His eyes swept over the two Lao Mo, then landed on Ma; having fought alongside Su Xiao for years, he instantly understood the situation.

Bubu Wang stepped in front of Ma; Ma’s mouth opened and closed—he recognized this clever “Erha,” who had once ordered takeout for him.

Ma was about to warn Bubu Wang to go notify Su Xiao, but Bubu Wang didn’t move—he simply stood in front of Ma.

Bubu Wang stared at the two bald Lao Mo; this time, it wasn’t Ma who broke into cold sweat—it was the two Lao Mo. They both felt it: this wasn’t being watched by a mere “Erha,” but by a wolf king of the snow plains—such a gaze could never belong to a domestic dog.

Bubu Wang studied the two Lao Mo for a moment; in his judgment, eliminating them would take no more than twenty seconds—if he went for the kill, six seconds would suffice.

Su Xiao stood inside the jewelry store; due to the sweltering heat and the fact that no customers ever came, he was shirtless.

Su Xiao raised a hand toward Ma, signaling everything was fine; Ma exhaled in relief and turned toward his newly acquired vehicle.

The two bald Lao Mo entered the jewelry store; they didn’t bother with courtesy, sitting directly on the sofa, backs rigid.

“Did Old De Silva send you?”

Su Xiao sat across from the two bald men; he’d never met them before, but he recognized the necklace around one man’s neck—it was a family heirloom, passed only to the eldest son or heir.

As Su Xiao spoke, he lit a cigarette and tossed the pack toward the two Lao Mo; one pulled out two, placing each on his thigh—signifying acceptance of the gesture, but no habit of smoking.

“The De Silva family truly are all ‘mute.’”

Su Xiao exhaled a plume of smoke; he had encountered these men before, during his time as a killer.

“Gift.”

One of the bald Lao Mo spoke, his Chinese halting; he rose and approached Su Xiao, withdrawing from his suit jacket a sleek wooden box—flat, ten centimeters wide, fifty centimeters long.

The bald Lao Mo handed the box to Su Xiao, then turned and sat back down on the sofa.

Su Xiao opened the box: inside lay a Damascus blade, its surface etched with deliberate metal patterns forged into its steel, the hilt pale yellow—likely ivory—with a ring of sapphires embedded at its base.

Externally, the blade was exquisite, yet far from mere ornamentation; its edge was razor-sharp, and the blade bore signs of considerable age.

Undoubtedly, this was a priceless object—no one gives such a gift without motive; why had these two Lao Mo traveled thousands of miles, only to deliver Su Xiao a priceless Damascus sword?