Leaving Baolin Martial Hall, Xiangzi froze.

A group of tall, sturdy men stood by his rickshaw.

Seeing him emerge, they closed in.

“You’re Xiangzi from Harmony Rickshaw Yard, little brother?” The leader flashed a warm smile, cupping his hands.

Noticing the others subtly encircling him, Xiangzi’s eyes narrowed. “That’s me. What’s your business, gentlemen?”

As he spoke, he shifted slightly, pressing his back against a stone lion.

His gaze fell on their cotton vests, embroidered with four bold characters: Ma Liu Rickshaw Yard.

Ma Liu Rickshaw Yard, located on Baiyun Street in South City, was a neighbor to Harmony.

But in the rickshaw trade, there was no such thing as friendly neighbors.

Competing for the same livelihood, the two yards were always at odds, wary of each other encroaching on their turf.

Baolin Martial Hall, one of Forty-Nine City’s three great martial halls, handled hefty supply contracts—business that Ma Liu Yard had long controlled.

Xiangzi knew this, so he’d been cautious, even removing his Harmony vest before coming.

Yet here he was, cornered by Ma Liu’s men.

“No misunderstanding, Brother Xiangzi. Fat Master has invited you for a chat,” the leader, a flat-nosed man, said with a beaming smile, waving the others back.

Fat Master?

Xiangzi blinked.

He’d thought he’d been caught crossing boundaries, but it seemed Fat Master was seeking him out.

In all of South City, there was only one Fat Master—Fatty Fan, the “Smiling Buddha” of Ma Liu Rickshaw Yard, their right-hand man.

Why would a figure like that summon a lowly third-class puller like him?

Surrounded, Xiangzi was led into a narrow alley beside the martial hall.

Along the gray-white brick walls stood an unremarkable teahouse.

Its name, Bihai Studio, was grand, but the decor was plain, filled with laborers and pullers in short tunics sipping tea.

They entered a room.

A mountain of a man sat inside, his bulk overwhelming the space.

In the early spring air, he wore only an open vest, layers of fat spilling out.

Seeing Xiangzi, he didn’t rise, his fleshy face quivering with a grin. “Brother Xiangzi, I presume? Sit, have some tea.”

The word please dripped with barely veiled menace.

Xiangzi sat, sipped the tea—tasteless—and stayed silent.

Five or six burly men loomed around them.

Xiangzi and Fat Master faced each other.

Fatty Fan’s massive, fan-like hand slammed the eight-immortals table, his flabby arm rippling like water.

A wiry man stepped forward, placing a heavy bundle on the table.

The metallic clink was unmistakable.

Xiangzi’s eyes flicked to the blue cloth bundle. He smiled. “I’ve long heard of Fat Master’s reputation! What brings you to call me here today?”

Fatty Fan didn’t answer, just stared with a smirking gaze, his fat forefinger tapping the table.

The bundle was opened, revealing a pile of silver dollars glinting coldly under the oil lamp.

Each bore four characters on one side: Great Shun Treasure.

The other side featured a vivid coiled dragon.

These were genuine coins from the official mint, far superior to the shoddy private casts of warlords.

And far more valuable.

“Brother Xiangzi, fifty silver dollars—just to make a friend. Generous enough, right?” Fatty Fan said, his oily face flickering in the lamplight.

Xiangzi drew a sharp breath, his heart sinking.

Fifty silver dollars was an astronomical sum for a third-class puller.

Such a fortune, offered for nothing, could only mean a job worth his life.

“Fat Master, I’m a simple man. Please speak plainly,” Xiangzi said. “I dare not accept rewards without merit.”

Fatty Fan’s brow twitched, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

Word had spread through Qingfeng and Baiyun Streets that Harmony’s rising star was a third-class puller.

South City folks said Old Tiger Liu’s claws had dulled and his tiger eyes had grown dim.

Fatty Fan, long a rival of Liu, didn’t buy into such gossip but couldn’t help feeling a touch of disdain.

Now, meeting Xiangzi, he found the puller intriguing.

How many third-class pullers in South City could face fifty dragon dollars without flinching?

“Straightforward!” Fatty Fan’s thick palm slapped his thigh, making the silver dollars jump. “I like a candid man! No beating around the bush—I want Harmony’s books.”

Rubbing the jade ring on his finger, he added slowly, “The ore-hauling books.”

Xiangzi’s eyes narrowed sharply.

Just this noon, he’d mentioned the ore accounts, and within half a day, Ma Liu’s Fat Master had come for him.

Harmony’s got a leak.

Xiangzi knew nothing of the ore accounts, let alone had access to the books.

But with Ma Liu’s men eyeing him like tigers, saying so wouldn’t convince them.

If he couldn’t produce the books, Ma Liu wouldn’t let him off.

Yet if he agreed and somehow stole the books, Fourth Master Liu would never forgive him either.

Wolves ahead, tigers behind.

In this dilemma, Xiangzi lifted his eyes, spine straightening, and said with a smile, “I’m just a third-class puller—how could I get my hands on those?”

Fatty Fan’s smile froze, his triangular eyes narrowing to slits. “What, Brother Xiangzi, looking down on me?”

“I suggest you think again.”

Before the words settled, four or five wiry men closed in, knuckles cracking.

Fatty Fan’s smile turned playful.

A mere third-class puller wasn’t worth his mental effort.

If silver couldn’t sway him, there were quicker ways.

Seeing Xiangzi’s wavering expression, Fatty Fan leaned in, his oily face close. “Get me the books, and Ma Liu guarantees you a first-class puller’s spot. Hauling for the embassy district, fifteen silver dollars a month—better than slaving under that old fossil, right?”

Jumping from third-class to first-class puller was a decade’s grind for most.

Fatty Fan’s offer was no small bait.

Xiangzi’s smile held. “Fat Master, this is no small matter. Let me think it over and give you an answer—sound fair?”

Fatty Fan’s eyes narrowed, a cold chuckle escaping his fleshy cheeks. “Xiangzi, don’t test my patience.”

A lanky man sneered, stepping forward, his iron-grip hand clamping Xiangzi’s shoulder.

Xiangzi didn’t flinch. His leg rooted to the ground, shoulders shrugging—a trick of leverage from starting a rickshaw.

The simple move sent a surge of force through the man’s hand, making his legs buckle as he stumbled back several steps.

Regaining his footing, the man’s eyes flashed with deep shock.

This third-class puller… such a steady stance!