Chapter 55: Opportunity Comes Only Once

The wheels slowed to a stop, pressing back into the ground some dust just barely stirred up—before it could rise, it had already settled again.

The car, worth only two or three hundred bucks, had parked in an alley opposite the casino’s road. Lans placed his pistol on the seat—he wasn’t sure if they’d search him, and carrying it on his person would serve no purpose, possibly even arm the enemy.

He put the pistol inside the toolbox between the driver’s and passenger’s seats, and the dagger beneath the belt at the small of his back—a folding knife.

Most people searching for weapons focus only on the upper body, pant pockets, and legs; other areas are harder to check.

After securing everything, he told Mo Lisi to stay in the car: “If I don’t come out in thirty minutes, call this number and have them come find me.”

“But you probably won’t need this number at all.”

It was Alberto’s number.

He’d refused Fodisi’s help at first to avoid owing favors, but when his own life was at stake, he’d take the debt if he had to.

Besides, he didn’t think this trip carried any real danger—risking murder and a manhunt for a few clueless kids?

This wasn’t the Wild West, where you could vanish into the woods and be safe.

In a city, not only the police would hunt them, but gang members too—and even professional hunters!

The Federation had a special group who called themselves “bounty hunters,” whose livelihood was capturing fugitives listed on reward notices.

They first appeared in the western regions, then gradually spread across the entire Federation; wherever there was a bounty, you’d find them.

The Federation’s law enforcement often issued reward notices specifically for them, because sometimes offering a bounty saved more in operational costs than deploying police to track suspects.

Most importantly, he had money—no one would turn down money; money was Lans’s source of confidence.

Mo Lisi nodded and sat quietly in the car. Lans crossed the road directly and arrived at the wooden door at the back of the building, knocking.

Someone inside pulled back the peephole and stared at him, eyes sharp with suspicion: “You’re the one we’re waiting for?”

Lans stood calmly. “If I haven’t come to the wrong place, then yes—I’m the one you’re waiting for!”

The door opened. A burly man sized him up. Lans wore only a dark shirt, with no obvious place to hide weapons—but he still demanded a search.

After a cursory search, Lans was allowed in: “Go straight down this way. The room with the light on is the one—our boss is waiting for you!”

Lans gave a slight nod and descended the stairs calmly.

Inside the room, Enio and the other youths were forced to kneel, gripping their own ears. Enio’s radius bone was broken, his arm hanging limp.

Behind them, someone held a stick; anyone who let go of their ear got beaten.

At first, everyone thought… this wasn’t too harsh a punishment. But after a few minutes, then ten or fifteen, they began to break.

With their arms aching and ears pulled painfully, they had to choose—and most chose to keep holding their ears, because even if they resisted, their arms would eventually lose strength and drag their ears down anyway.

The young men all grimaced, clearly in agony. The atmosphere should have been serious, yet the scene was oddly comical.

When Lans walked in and saw this, he couldn’t help laughing. “Sorry.”

“Funny?” The casino boss sat backward on a chair, his arms draped over the backrest, chin resting on his hands.

Lans nodded. “First time seeing this method—it’s quite interesting.” He asked, “Mind if I smoke?”

The casino boss studied him for a moment. “Go ahead.” Then he turned to his enforcer: “Give our guest a chair.” He also stood, turned his own chair around, and sat facing Lans.

After saying “Thank you,” Lans sat down, lit his cigarette, and said, “So…”

?C〇

Seeing Lans’s calmness—genuine, not feigned—the casino boss suddenly didn’t know how to proceed.

His original plan was to gauge the financial company’s strength. If they were powerful, he’d offer a favor—and make it real.

Jincheng wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t small either; they might cross paths again someday.

If they were weak, he’d squeeze them—after all, they were in the wrong.

But now, from Lans’s demeanor, he couldn’t tell: was this financial company strong… or weak?

He’d have to feel them out first. “Every place has its rules. Your men came to my casino to lend money at exorbitant rates without even notifying me. That’s your fault.”

The usual procedure was for them to negotiate first, agree on profit splits—the casino typically took twenty to thirty percent—before any lenders could enter.

Enio and the others did nothing. They just walked in and started lending. They broke this unwritten rule.

That was indeed their mistake. Lans felt he bore some responsibility too—he hadn’t clearly told them what they could or couldn’t do.

So he simply nodded. “You’re right. It’s my fault. Call me Lans. What should I call you?”

The casino boss pursed his lips. “Kent.”

“Alright, Mr. Kent. How much will it take for me to take them away?”

Kent stared at Lans for nearly two minutes. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes shifted—cautious, careful, greedy, desire intertwined.

He was observing Lans. Honestly, this young man didn’t look like someone who walked the gray edges. He had none of the cruelty of financial company bosses, nor the venom of a schemer. He seemed harmless, like a college student.

Clean clothes and a clean smile might earn goodwill—but here, such things were seen as weakness, or lack of backing.

His gaze circled Lans’s outfit. He licked his lips. “Hmm… one… thousand five hundred. Take them and leave.”

He’d started with five hundred, but wanted to test whether Lans could pay that—or if he could push for more.

If he didn’t say it, there was no chance. But if he said it, maybe there was.

Lans raised an eyebrow, jokingly: “One thousand five hundred? That’s not cheap, Mr. Kent.”

“For illegal immigrants, that’s enough to buy several lives. All you’re asking is for me to take them away from here.”

“Maybe we could be friends?”

Kent looked at him and caught the faint threat beneath his words. His expression flickered. “Are you threatening me?”

“No. I’m just remarking that your price is hard to accept.”

Kent restated his position: “Your men broke the rules—in my casino!”

“If you want to be friends, fine—but only after I get paid!”

His voice rose. Two enforcers moved closer behind Lans. One command from Kent, and they’d pin him to the ground.

Sensing their approach, Lans showed no sign of panic.

When you encounter a rabid dog on the road, the best move is to walk away quietly—not run.

Running triggers the dog’s instinct to chase—and attack during the chase.

People are the same. If Lans showed fear or unease now, Kent would order him seized—and then “punished.”

But if he remained calm, Kent wouldn’t know if he had hidden cards.

Kent glanced around, then suddenly noticed something: “Where’s Mo Lisi?” He turned to the burly man standing by the stairs.

The man shook his head. “I didn’t see him. Only this gentleman came alone.”

Kent’s mind shifted. His tone softened slightly. “My father taught me since childhood: when you make a mistake, you must own it. That’s your responsibility, Mr. Lans.”

“One thousand five hundred… or…” He glanced at the youths kneeling in the corner. “I break their legs, then you take them away.”

“In Jincheng, no one can say I’m wrong.”

Lans turned to look at Enio and the others. Their eyes darted away—perhaps ashamed of being caught, beaten, and now forcing Lans to pay for their rescue.

“Lans, you don’t have to…” Enio tried to tell Lans to leave them, but was knocked flat by a blow.

Two burly men rushed in and beat him relentlessly. Soon he lay on the ground, only moaning—silent now.

Kent watched Lans. He saw no pity, no sorrow, no emotion. He raised his hand. The two enforcers exhaled heavily and stepped back.

Lans turned back, smiling—as if something wonderful had just happened. He nodded slowly, repeating the number: “One thousand five hundred.”

After a few seconds, he asked: “Check or cash?”

Kent laughed—loudly. He pulled out the last third of his cigar, lit it, and took a deep drag.

Whenever something upset him—or pleased him—he smoked.

“You’re a smart man, Lans!”

“Checks are troublesome for us.”

“Cash.”