In the end, Wen Jie still did not step in personally.
Perhaps Ji Jue had surrendered and begged for mercy too quickly. After she bonked him on the head twice, he was already lying on the floor, crying and refusing to get up. There was no sense of accomplishment in beating him at all.
In the end, they switched to Lao Zhang.
Lao Zhang was ninety-seven this year. He had a very ordinary, very common name: Zhang Daqiang.
According to the photos on his phone, fifty years ago, that name had truly lived up to its meaning—big and strong!
Back then, in his forties and in the prime of life, Lao Zhang had been covered in solid, bulging muscle. Coated in olive oil and standing beneath the stage spotlights, he only needed to tense his arms slightly for muscles like twisted steel cables to nearly burst forth!
He had practically been the Devil Muscle Man himself!
But now, he claimed that his glory days were gone and age had drained his strength. He looked like the dried-up old men found everywhere in Yacheng: tank top, baggy shorts, slippers dangling from his feet, walnuts never leaving his hands.
Every day, he grew flowers and tended plants, focusing entirely on healthy living.
So there was no need to be afraid. They were just friends exchanging pointers, so they could address each other as equals...
Ji Jue would be a fool to believe even one word of that.
If he were really just some ordinary health-conscious old man, how could he even turn that pair of iron walnuts, each heavier than Ji Jue himself? They even bore the emblem of the Waste Ruins. Set them on the floor, and they would crack the tiles under their weight!
Besides, Zhang and Lawrence were both