Arrogance and Disregard on the Green
East of Seattle, in the rain shadow of the Cascade Range, the sunshine is much more generous than in the city. On a meticulously tamed, undulating hillside like green silk, there are sand pits, ponds, and greens trimmed as if measured by a ruler.
This is the "Pine Eagle Canyon Club," a top-tier private golf course with a six-figure membership fee and an annual fee enough to fund a middle-class family's university education for a year. It is not just a sports venue, but also a heavily fortified social stronghold, an invisible gate that filters out certain social circles.
Several black SUVs wound their way up a private driveway reserved for members only, eventually stopping in front of a low-key but exquisitely furnished North America- style clubhouse. A doorman, dressed in a crisply pressed uniform with the club crest embroidered on the collar, was already waiting, his sharp yet polite gaze sweeping over the vehicles. He lingered a moment longer on the Maybach carrying Lin Feng —an unfamiliar license plate, but its ability to pass through the access control system meant it belonged to a member or their VIP.
The car door opened, and Mike Anderson stepped out first. He was fully equipped today: a light beige designer golf shirt that perfectly hugged his well-toned physique, matching trousers pressed without a single wrinkle, and brand-new, gleaming professional golf shoes. His hair was styled with gel, a pair of high-end sports sunglasses perched on his nose, and a matching golf watch on his wrist that monitored his swing data. Standing there, bathed in the 10 a. m. sunlight, he looked like a model who had just stepped out of a luxury goods advertisement, exuding an aura of "professionalism," "success," and "belonging to this place." With a warm and confident smile, he turned to greet Lin Feng, who was getting out of the car behind him.
Lin Feng also got out of the car. He was wearing a plain dark blue cotton polo shirt, simple in style, looking comfortable but clearly not expensive professional golf attire. He wore gray sweatpants and a pair of athletic shoes that looked more suitable for the gym, with clean soles, but definitely not golf shoes. He didn't even wear a hat, just grabbed a pair of ordinary sunglasses from the car and put them on. His whole person formed a stark, even somewhat jarring, contrast with the meticulously maintained environment around him and the radiant Mike next to him.
K followed behind Lin Feng, dressed simply and with a calm expression, his gaze habitually scanning the surroundings, the security guards, and the club entrance. Lü Yi stayed in the car, scoffing at this kind of "slow walking and playing ball with a stick" exercise, preferring to find a sofa in the club's rest area to curl up and play games.
"Lin! Welcome to Pine Eagle Canyon!" Mike strode forward, extended his hand, and shook hands firmly with Lin Feng, his voice booming as if announcing the arrival of a distinguished guest to the entire tranquil valley. "This is one of the best courses in Seattle, with stunning scenery and a very challenging design. The weather is perfect today, ideal for getting out and about, getting some fresh air, and... doing some business and making friends."
Lin Feng shook hands with him, his grip steady, his face expressionless, simply nodding. "Hmm, nice place." His gaze swept over Mike's gear, then looked at the lush green fairways and azure sky in the distance, his tone flat, making it impossible to tell whether it was praise or just a statement of fact.
Mike didn't take it to heart. In his view, Lin Feng's "simple" and even somewhat "rustic" attire, as well as his indifferent reaction, precisely confirmed his previous judgment—a wealthy but uncultured nouveau riche who lacked understanding of truly top-tier lifestyles. This further amplified his sense of superiority and desire for control.
"Come on, let's go to the practice range to warm up first, and you can familiarize yourself with the clubs." Mike enthusiastically led the way, expertly navigating through the clubhouse lobby (where a few equally well-dressed men and women nodded to Mike, their eyes curiously observing Lin Feng), and arriving at the private practice range at the back. Two sets of clubs were already prepared there; Mike's set was a top-of-the-line custom model, while Lin Feng's set was a standard rental set provided by the club, of good quality, but clearly not comparable to Mike's.
Mike picked up a driver, weighed it in his hand, and made a few practice swings. His movements were fluid, graceful, and rhythmic, drawing an approving glance from an elderly man who looked like a coach. He looked at Lin Feng and asked, "Lin, do you play often? What club do you use for your tee shot?"
Lin Feng glanced at the row of metal clubs of varying lengths and thicknesses in his golf bag, picked up one that looked relatively comfortable (actually an iron), weighed it in his hand like a stick, and shook his head. "Never played this before. First time."
A knowing glint flashed in Mike's eyes, but his smile became even more "friendly": "It's okay! It's normal for your first time! Golf is a sport that requires a lot of skill and mindset. The most important thing is to enjoy the process and feel natural. Come on, I'll teach you the basic grip and stance..."
He stepped forward, ready to "instruct" Lin Feng, but Lin Feng had already picked up the iron rod, walked to a tee box, and looked at the practice flags planted dozens of yards away.
"Is it okay to just hit it like that?" Lin Feng asked, his tone as if asking, "Would it work to smash that bottle with this rock?"
"Uh... theoretically yes, but posture is very important, otherwise you're prone to injury and won't be able to hit far..." Mike hadn't finished speaking.
Lin Feng had already positioned himself sideways, feet shoulder-width apart, but his posture was very casual, completely lacking the spinal angle and weight distribution required for golf. He gripped the club with both hands, his grip... almost like holding a shovel. Then, he aimed at the white ball on the ground, without much hesitation, and without the ritualistic approach, backswing, and power build-up that Mike had...
He swung the club as if it were a heavy tool, using his waist to generate power and his arm to drive the club upwards in a nearly vertical, brute-force arc, slashing it down hard at the small white ball!
"Call--!"
The sound of the club cutting through the air was accompanied by a gust of wind.
"Bang!"
A dull thud, not the crisp sound of a ball hitting the ground, but more like the sound of a heavy object hitting the soil.
The turf and soil flew everywhere! A large patch of lush green turf, along with the soil underneath, was firmly scooped up by the bottom (clubhead) of the club and flew several meters away like a small cannonball, scattering in the air before pattering onto the ground.
The small white ball, upon being hit, flew out at a bizarre angle, wobbling and weakly, tracing an extremely ugly parabola in the air, flying... about thirty yards? Then, with a "plop," it softly fell into the nearby practice sandpit, stirring up a small cloud of dust.
The entire movement was filled with a raw, unrefined sense of power, which ran counter to the elegance, precision, and control that golf strives for. It was more like digging the ground than playing golf.
The practice area fell silent for a moment. Several members practicing nearby stopped and looked over in astonishment. The elderly coach opened his mouth, his expression as if he had swallowed a fly. Even K's lips twitched almost imperceptibly.