After a long while.
Under Golden Crocodile's "friendly negotiations," the heads of the Eight Great Families had no choice but to agree to hand over a slice of their own businesses to Zhao Linchuan.
They called it "friendly negotiations," but Golden Crocodile had only said one thing from beginning to end.
He sat in the seat of honor, holding a teacup. He took an unhurried sip, then lifted his eyelids and swept his gaze across the faces of the eight clan heads one by one. His voice was calm as he said:
"My student won money from you. You can either pay up, hand over something else, or I can go and take it myself."
"Pick one."
He made no threats, issued no rebukes, and didn't even raise his voice by the slightest bit.
Yet the eight clan heads felt as if a mountain were pressing down on their shoulders. Cold sweat kept beading on their foreheads, layer after layer.
They looked at one another, lips trembling, but not one of them dared to speak first.
In the end, the oldest clan head was the one who spoke, his voice quavering.
"W-We'll hand over something else."
And so, the Eight Great Families' core businesses, built up over countless years on the continent—the Soul Fighting Arenas, auction houses, mines, and trade routes—were carved up, bundled together, signed over, and stamped, all falling into Zhao Linchuan's hands in a single night.
After losing their core businesses, the Eight Great Families were given another round of "coercion and inducement" by Zhao Linchuan once Golden Crocodile had left.
"Clan heads, now that you've lost your businesses, how will you explain things to your clans when you go back?"
"What will those branches of your families think? What about the little clans that depend on