Killing Intent

Chen Mo had already retreated behind the threshold, keeping the door open only a sliver while he stood within the shadows.

The thin man with rat-like whiskers flipped through his ledger, wearing an exaggerated expression. "Oh my, is this little Shopkeeper Chen of Deliverance Studio? Let me see... tsk tsk, this is more than just a sanitation fee. There's also the overdue interest..." He counted on his fingers, his eyes darting toward Chen Mo.

Scarface stepped forward then, taking the place of the rat-whiskered man.

"Kid, you've recovered well. So, have you thought it over? Are you ready with the silver dollars, or... that manual?"

Chen Mo raised his head, his complexion appearing even paler in the shadows of the doorway.

"Brother Scar, I truly cannot scrape together six silver dollars. As for the ancestral craft, I dare not leak it lightly."

"Dare not?" Scarface sneered. He didn't fly into a rage, but instead acted as if he had expected this all along, his tone even carrying a hint of concern.

"Kid, it's not that I'm forcing you. Look at this street—who has it easy? But rules are rules."

"Master Chen has gone missing, you're young, and your health is poor. Keeping this shop, how much money can you possibly make? Is it enough for your medicine? Enough for your meals?"

He lowered his voice, making his tone sound more earnest. "The gang leader appreciates talent and values your Chen family's craft. Hand it over and trade it for peace of mind—what's wrong with that?"

"Do you really have to wait until the shop is smashed and your limbs are broken... hmm?" He deliberately left the sentence unfinished, leaving behind a chilling void.

"That's right, little Shopkeeper Chen," the rat-whiskered man chimed in, his eyes rolling around. "Don't be so stubborn. The craft is dead, but people are living. Listen to Brother Scar's advice; it's for your own good."

One sang the good cop, the other the bad cop; they used both soft and hard tactics, blocking all of Chen Mo's exits while cloaking their threats in the guise of concern.

This was their brand of wisdom—more suffocating and harder to resist directly than simple violence.

Chen Mo remained silent, his right hand gently stroking a cold carving knife inside his sleeve. After thinking for a few seconds, he reached into his robe and pulled out a shriveled money pouch, pouring out the few dozen copper coins and a single dull-colored silver dollar inside.

This was just about the limit of what he could produce right now.

"Brother Scar, Mr. Xu," he held the money in his palm, his voice devoid of emotion. "This is all I have. I'll pay this month's sanitation fee first. As for the rest... please give me a few more days."

Scarface looked at the pathetic sum in his palm, his expression darkening completely, his eyes turning dangerous.

He seemed to be weighing whether it was worth acting out now.

In the end, he snorted coldly, snatched the copper coins and the silver dollar, weighed them in his hand, and tossed them to the rat-whiskered man behind him.

"I'll give you three days."

Scarface held up three fingers and waved them in front of Chen Mo. "Just three days. By then, either I see five full-weight silver dollars, or I see the thing I want. Otherwise..."

His cold gaze swept over the sign and door panels of Deliverance Studio. "You'd better start crafting yourself a nice house in advance!"

With that, he spat fiercely on the ground, turned around with his men, and walked toward the next shop while cursing.

Chen Mo stood in the shadows behind the door, watching them walk away with a blank expression.

Across the street, Boss Liu of Fortune Longevity Coffin Shop put down his long-stemmed pipe and stepped out, his face wearing the usual mix of sympathy and detachment he reserved for the bereaved. "Little Chen, look at the mess this has become... Scarface's words were not pleasant. How is your health? Can you still hold on?"

The words were caring, but his feet stayed on his own steps, not moving an inch closer.

Chen Mo looked at the hypocritical expressions of the neighbors and couldn't help but feel a sense of revulsion. "Uncle Liu, could you perhaps lend me a little to help me through this emergency? I'll write an IOU, and as soon as I have business, I will pay you back."

The air seemed to freeze for a moment.

The sympathy on Boss Liu's face stiffened instantly, then dissolved into awkwardness and wariness.

"This... it's not that Uncle Liu won't help you, but you know, my coffin shop looks like it has a big storefront, but in reality, all my capital is tied up in wood, and cash is very tight... sigh, I really am powerless to help."

He retreated two steps as he spoke, as if afraid Chen Mo might get any closer.

At this moment, Old Li from Li's Incense and Paper Money also drifted over, seemingly finding an outlet for the frustration of having just been extorted.

"Borrowing money? Little Chen, it's not that I want to lecture you, but you can't start this precedent! If I lend to you today, others will come to borrow tomorrow—how are we supposed to live?"

"Besides, if you borrow it, what will you use to pay it back? By folding paper figures? With the Black Tiger Gang's attitude... tsk, it's not that I'm being cold-hearted, but it's questionable whether your shop can even stay open!"

He waved his hands repeatedly and turned to walk back into his shop, terrified of catching any bad luck.

Further away, Zheng the Third of Zheng's Paper Craft Shop had already turned his back to the street the moment Chen Mo spoke, focusing intently on an unfinished paper sedan chair as if he had gone deaf.

Chen Mo watched them coldly. If the original owner's memories were correct, these people had often asked Chen Dachuan for help, and had borrowed money more than once.

Truly, when the person is gone, the tea goes cold.

He curled his lip and turned back into the sliver of open space in Deliverance Studio.

Just as his figure was about to be swallowed by the shadows of the shop, the door of the neighboring Li's Burial Clothes Shop, which had always been left ajar, opened a little wider without a sound.

Widow Li slipped out sideways, moving almost like a ghost to Chen Mo's side, and quickly shoved a cloth bundle that still held a trace of warmth into his hand.

"Just two... keep them safe." Before the words had faded, she had shrunk back like a startled bird, the door closing gently until only a hairline crack remained, as if everything had been a hallucination.

Chen Mo gripped the small cloth bundle, feeling the cold, sharp edges of a hard object through the fabric.

He did not look back, nor did he pause, walking straight into the depths of the shop and gently pulling the door shut behind him.

The murmurs of the neighbors outside rose briefly, then quickly fell silent.

Inside the shop, Chen Mo's gaze fell upon the plain white paper bird on his desk.

He placed the cloth bundle on the table, where it landed with a soft thud. His fingers slowly stroked the cold wings of the paper bird.

Two silver dollars—a drop in the bucket.

Deep within his eyes, a cold glint grew increasingly clear and sharp.

"The Black Tiger Gang must die."

This thought was not born of a momentary fit of rage.

From the near-fatal beating in the original owner's memories to the blatant threats from Scarface today.

The very existence of the Black Tiger Gang was a guillotine hanging over his head, ready to drop at any moment.

If he didn't deal with them, never mind finding a way to neutralize the Sha to extend his life, he wouldn't even make it past the crisis three days from now.

But how to kill them?

That required careful deliberation; after all, this world still had the United Government pressing down from above.

Chen Mo's fingers tapped the tabletop unconsciously, his gaze fixed on the two silver dollars while his thoughts spun at high speed.