Duan Qizhao slowly drew back the half of his head he had poked out, pressing his back against the earthen wall, his heart pounding.
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, he repeated frantically in his head.
Brother Yanchu has some serious guts. Does he know the guy in front of him once drove a whole gang of debt collectors out of the village with nothing but a hoe? Does he think he can take more of a beating than they could?
Duan Qizhao had only come out to use the toilet. He had just emerged from the outhouse, supporting his aching lower back, when he heard Jiang Yanchu say, "Let's talk," at the courtyard gate, his voice pitched a whole octave lower.
His feet had rooted themselves to the ground, and his ears had pricked up all on their own.
By the time he came to his senses, he was already crouched at the foot of the wall, his posture as textbook-perfect as a trained spy's.
But now he regretted it.
The atmosphere between those two was more turbulent than a mountain spillway after a torrential downpour. He was just an innocent Blue Hair crouching nearby. If he got swept into it, he might not even leave an intact corpse.
When the hell is Jiang Xun coming back?
Never had Duan Qizhao missed that walking king of hell, who would mouth off at anyone and anything, so desperately.
When Jiang Xun was around, all the firepower went his way. At most, Duan Qizhao took a couple of jabs like, "Is your brain not working?" They stung, sure, but at least they weren't fatal.
With Jiang Xun gone, the two in the courtyard-one cold-faced, the other dark-faced-had whipped up a storm of bloodshed, the pressure low enough to flatten a person.