Du Qiyu wasn't stupid. In fact, whenever he wasn't facing Cheng Shi, he was exceptionally sharp.
It was just that encountering this "old friend" from childhood stirred up an irritability in him that he couldn't suppress, to the point that his usual decisiveness and cleverness were affected.
He had always believed that this orphan, whose only appealing feature was his face, was inferior to him in every way. But why did so many people care about him?
So when he saw Cheng Shi again this time, Du Qiyu still felt, as he had in childhood, that the other man was merely a good-for-nothing wrapped in a layer of gold. He wasn't worth Du Qiyu's full attention. In fact, the more casually he dealt with him, the more it proved how useless he was.
He was actually The Final Stroke?
He was actually a believer in Destiny?
Ha, what an absurd joke. I stole your destiny away from you, so what the hell kind of destiny do you have left?
But no matter how irritated or contemptuous he felt, Du Qiyu still didn't lower his guard. He had once heard Cheng Shi's foster father's name from the orphanage director, and as he recalled, the man's surname wasn't Sun.
So he asked again, "So your foster father's surname was Sun? I once heard them call him Old Jia."
The moment Old Jia's name came from Little Seven's mouth, the brilliant smile on Cheng Shi's face instantly turned strange. A trace of reminiscence flashed through his eyes, followed by a hint of Indifference, like the torrential rain pouring over a cemetery, washing away all his interest and the last trace of attachment to his childhood.
The killing intent was only a hair's breadth from overflowing from the scalpel in Cheng Shi's sleeve, but