Chapter 83: I Love Listening to Stories

“Who is it?”

From the two-story self-built house, another man, around fifty years old, stepped out.

When he saw Yu Dazhang gripping the boy’s arm tightly, his eyes instantly turned fierce.

“Let go!”

Yu Dazhang remained unmoved, still holding the boy’s arm, pulling him slightly closer before saying:

“First, pay for my clothes.”

Both men turned their gazes to Yu Dazhang’s clothing.

After a moment, the middle-aged woman spoke.

“Your clothes are fine—no damage at all.”

“What kind of eyes do you have?!” Yu Dazhang shouted:

“Can’t you see it’s coming apart?!”

The woman leaned in closer to look:

“Still nothing.”

“Trying to cheat, are you?” Yu Dazhang glared at them.

“Enough, enough.” The man stepped forward, shoving the woman aside, then said to Yu Dazhang:

“Just say how much.”

Yu Dazhang opened his palm and extended it forward:

“Fifty thousand. Not a cent less.”

“What?!” Both screamed in unison, their cold expressions instantly replaced by fury.

“Is it really that much?” Yu Dazhang lifted his chin, looking down at them with contempt:

“If you can’t afford this, no wonder you live up on the mountain.”

The man and the woman fell silent, glaring at him with rage.

“How about this,” Yu Dazhang said, sounding surprisingly reasonable:

“No money’s fine—I’m hungry. Let the meal cover the debt.”

This place is definitely suspicious.

He deliberately acted like a reckless brute to provoke them, lowering their guard.

What’s Zhang Sen’s condition? Are the two missing officers in the cellar?

None of this is certain yet.

The only thing confirmed right now is… that smell is definitely human blood.

With Yu Dazhang’s current sense of smell, he couldn’t be wrong.

Animal blood and human blood have distinct odors.

Sheep blood smells hot and greasy, pig blood is foul, chicken blood reeks of musk—only human blood is salty and metallic, with a sharp iron-rust tang.

The first priority now is to keep them calm.

Even if curious, he couldn’t go near the cellar—exposing his back now was no different from suicide.

That’s why he kept holding onto the boy.

“If you want to eat, why didn’t you say so earlier?” The man stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter:

“Come in—my family’s just about to eat; an extra pair of chopsticks won’t hurt.”

Yu Dazhang smiled, pulling the boy along behind the man.

Inside, he was stunned by the interior.

Outside it looked old and worn, but inside it was dazzlingly opulent.

It was exactly the kind of place where gold leaf covered every surface, glowing bright.

If he had to describe the style in four characters, Yu Dazhang could only say: crude yet lavish.

He released the boy and sat on the living room sofa, chatting nonsense with the man.

Though he appeared fully focused on the man, he was constantly observing the other two people in the room with the corner of his eye.

In this village, he dared not relax for a second—anyone could be a threat.

The woman moved swiftly, and soon the dishes were set on the table.

Four dishes and one soup—fairly generous.

“Come on, eat while it’s hot,” the man said, sitting down at the table:

“Just simple farm food—I don’t know if it suits your taste.”

Yu Dazhang didn’t hesitate; he sat beside him, picked up the chopsticks, and rubbed them twice with his hand.

“Eat,” the man urged again.

Yu Dazhang rubbed the chopsticks two more times.

“Try this mushroom stir-fried with cured pork,” the man pointed to a dish:

“We picked these wild flat mushrooms ourselves—very fresh.” Yu Dazhang opened his mouth and blew two puffs of air onto the chopsticks.

“Go ahead, pick some up—don’t be shy,” the man pressed.

Yu Dazhang separated the two chopsticks, holding one in each hand, then rubbed them together vigorously.

The man stopped offering; he felt if he kept insisting, his own chopsticks would snap from the friction.

He picked up his chopsticks, grabbed a bite at random, and began eating quietly.

Yu Dazhang still didn’t move his chopsticks—he called out to the middle-aged woman:

“You should come eat too.”

The woman glanced back at him, face cold, saying nothing.

“Ignore him. Eat your meal,” the man gestured with his chopsticks:

“In our village, when guests come, wives and children don’t sit at the table.”

Please... collect... 6...9...books...!

He turned and snapped at the woman:

“Stop hovering around us—take the kid out for a visit.”

The woman nodded, then pulled the boy out the front door.

Yu Dazhang still didn’t touch his chopsticks. Watching the mother and son leave, he set the chopsticks down and turned to stare at the man:

“Is that child yours?”

The man froze mid-bite, slowly swallowed, then raised his head, expression blank:

“Why ask that all of a sudden?”

“He doesn’t look like you,” Yu Dazhang said, jokingly:

“But he does look a lot like that old woman—did you get cheated on?”

He was deliberately provoking the man.

Since entering the house, he’d noticed the man always stayed near the bedroom.

Even when seated in the living room—on the sofa or at the table—he deliberately kept himself close to the bedroom.

As if only then did he feel safe.

Most importantly, Yu Dazhang noticed the man was constantly on guard.

On the surface calm, his arm muscles were taut, his eyes half-lidded—ready to strike at any moment.

Even in this state, the man continued eating normally.

Anyone without suspicion would be fooled by his act.

This meant he’d done it before—habit had become second nature. He’d surely used this tactic on many others.

“Looks like you’re not hungry after all.”

The man put down his chopsticks, wiped his mouth with his palm, pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a deep drag before saying:

“Since you’re interested, I’ll tell you a story of my own.”

“Great,” Yu Dazhang smiled.

“I love hearing stories.”

The man took another drag, exhaled slowly, then spoke leisurely:

“In 1988, I was twenty-six.”

“Though young, I’d already spent five years at sea, visited at least twenty countries.”

“Back then, I was considered well-traveled.”

“That same year, my family arranged a marriage for me—the girl was beautiful; we married quickly.”

“Soon after, I went back to sea—this time, seven months.”

“When I returned, everyone in the village pointed and whispered.”

“From my family, I learned my wife, married less than a year, had cheated.”

“Do you know what I did then?”

The man flicked ash.

Then he brought the nearly burnt-out cigarette to his lips and took another drag.

After crushing the butt in the ashtray, he turned to look at the fat man—only to find a black barrel of a gun pointed directly at him.

“Keep going,” Yu Dazhang said, gun pressed to the man’s chest, face grim.

What did you do at the time?

The man opened his mouth:

I forgave her.

(End of chapter)