Chapter 20
Before reaching the dock, from afar, he could already see Lao Wu standing there.
"Fang boy." Lao Wu looked at him as if he were seeing his own son: "You finally came."
"Uncle, sorry," Fang Zichen quickened his pace, offering no excuses and telling the truth: "I woke up late today."
"It's fine," Lao Wu led him toward the cabin: "Just make sure you finish checking the accounts today."
The foreman didn’t say anything about his lateness, simply handed him the ledger, and went to oversee the workers.
The two ledgers looked thick, but in reality, calculating them wouldn’t take much time. It only involved the financial records of the past two months, and the income and expenses weren’t as complicated as those of modern corporations.
As he worked on the accounts, Lao Wu stayed nearby, like a prison warden supervising a convict undergoing labor reform.
Fang Zichen worked quickly, mentally calculating smaller sums and using paper for larger ones. Lao Wu couldn’t understand what he was writing—the characters were strange, crooked, like wriggling earthworms, twisting back and forth.
But the characters actually written in the ledger were quite neat. The day before, Fang Zichen had claimed he started studying at three, which Lao Wu hadn’t believed. Now, seeing his solid foundational strokes and standardized, elegant handwriting, Lao Wu was mostly convinced.
To write like this required at least eight or nine years of practice.
But...
"Fang boy," Lao Wu hesitated, speaking cautiously since he was asking for a favor: "Are you calculating a bit too fast?"
Fang Zichen didn’t even look up, flipping through the ledger with one hand while swiftly calculating with the other: "Not fast."
He wasn’t stupid, he knew what Lao Wu was worried about: "Uncle, don’t worry. I took your money, so I’ll make sure to do this properly."
Lao Wu felt much more at ease: "Alright. Whether I can keep this job depends entirely on you now."
By evening, the foreman held the two freshly completed ledgers, thoroughly satisfied.
Never mind whether the calculations were correct—just the handwriting alone was excellent. The pages were clean and neatly organized, a pleasure to look at, unlike Lao Wu’s messy scribbles with blots and cross-outs everywhere.
The payer was happy, and the payee was happy too.
Before leaving work, Fang Zichen deliberately took a detour to the dock warehouse before heading home.
That night, the Ma family was having dinner.
Adults sat at one table, children at another.
The dishes were simple: a bowl of cornbread buns, a bowl of boiled greens, and a bowl of stir-fried cabbage.
It might seem meager, but there were a few slices of fatty meat mixed in, and the dish was oily enough—by village standards, it was decent fare.
Old Master Ma was getting on in years, his teeth worn down and his front ones missing entirely. When he bit into the hard cornbread bun, it barely gave way, and his gums nearly bled.
If he couldn’t eat the bun, he’d have some vegetables instead. But the moment he put a bite in his mouth, he nearly spat it out.
The cabbage was burnt, reeking of smoke.
He slammed his chopsticks down, and everyone else immediately stopped eating. The children at the other table looked over.
Ma Dazhuang swallowed his food and asked: "Dad, what’s wrong?"
Old Master Ma snapped: "What’s wrong? Can’t you see for yourself?"
Ma Dazhuang looked embarrassed. The old lady stepped in to smooth things over, glancing at Li-shi: "Go cook some porridge for your father."
[李氏 (Lǐ shì) refers to a married woman from the Li family]
In this family, she loved to bully Li-shi. Madam Ma's natal family was related to her, so she couldn’t go too far. The third son was protective of his wife - Sun-shi, and since the old lady doted on this youngest son, she gave him face and usually treated Sun-shi better.
Li-shi wasn’t happy about it, but she didn’t dare disobey.
Only after she left did Old Master Ma turn to his three sons and ask: "When are you planning to bring Zhao Ger back?"
Not just the daughters-in-law, but even he himself felt that life was better with Zhao Ger around.
Zhao Ger was a good cook—at least the food he made was edible. With the daughters-in-law taking over, Old Master Ma hadn’t had a decent meal since.
In the decade-plus that Zhao Ger had been here, the daughters-in-law had grown lazy, their hands and feet useless.
They had to get Zhao Ger back, or else there’d be no one to do the household chores.
Ma Laosan said: "We’ve already spoken to the village chief and asked him to mediate. It should be settled tomor—"
The courtyard gate slammed open with a bang.
The Ma family’s main hall faced the courtyard entrance.
The man stood in the doorway, chewing on a stalk of grass with a wooden pole resting on his shoulder, his entire demeanor reeking of troublemaking swagger.
"Well, well, eating dinner, I see!"
"You—what are you doing here?" Old Master Ma pointed at Fang Zichen, his face dark with anger.
"What do you think?" Fang Zichen strode straight into the house and pulled out a stool to sit down.
From the children’s table, a young man stepped forward.
"You’re Fang Zichen?"
"Yeah, what of it? You know me?" Fang Zichen looked at him.
The young man glared: "You beat up my dad. Of course I know you."
Fang Zichen let out an "oh," his face full of feigned confusion as he tapped the wooden stick against his left palm: "I beat up your dad? That can’t be right. I never hit people, I only beat animals."
"..."
"You damn little bastard!" Ma Dazhuang cursed, lifting a stool and hurling it at Fang Zichen.
Fang Zichen blocked it with the stick and kicked Ma Dazhuang in the kneecap.
Back in school, he had always been the model student—neatly dressed, studious, the very image of a bookworm.
But beneath that well-behaved exterior was the fiery temper of youth.
He’d fought alongside his second brother, watched gangster movies, practiced boxing—he knew exactly how to throw a punch.
The Ma family clearly hadn’t learned their lesson. After getting beaten up last time, they still dared to provoke him.
Ma Dazhuang was knocked to the ground again. The young man froze for a second before lunging forward, but Fang Zichen was faster—he swung the stick straight at the dining table.
The table split in two, dishes scattering everywhere, cornbread buns rolling to the doorstep.
The sudden violence made the women scream, their shrill voices piercing the air. Seeing Fang Zichen’s cold glare, they scrambled back in fear, terrified that the stick might come down on them next. Even the young man stood rigid, froze in place.
This guy...is brutal.
No wonder his eldest uncle, father, and third uncle had come home bruised and battered last time, warning them not to mess with Fang Zichen.
He was terrifying.
"Still wanna try?" Fang Zichen asked.
No one answered.
The family stood dumbstruck, still reeling from his violent display.
Fang Zichen settled back into his chair with deliberate calm, propping one ankle across his knee. His eyes traveled slowly across their faces, revealing nothing.
"I heard you want Zhao Ger back?"
The Ma family stayed silent. Even the children hid behind the adults, not daring to make a sound.
Fang Zichen rested the stick across his lap, tapping it idly: "First, you forced me to marry Zhao Ger. Now, you want him back? You think you can just give him away and take him back whenever you please? You really don’t take me seriously, do you?"
Ma Laosan, remembering the last beating, didn’t dare act tough.
Truth was, the villagers feared them not because they were strong, but because they were ruthless—their reputation alone made people back down. But in reality, they were just country bumpkins who’d never stepped beyond their little patch of land. Faced with someone even more ruthless, they cowered instantly.
"We were wrong back then," he said weakly.
Fang Zichen smirked: "And?"
Ma Laosan hesitated, unsure of his intentions: "We—we won’t ask for those three taels of silver anymore. Just—just give Zhao Ger back, alright?"
"Our household has a lot of work, we need someone to—"
Before he could finish, Fang Zichen kicked over the stool beside him. His cold, imposing demeanor was a stark contrast to the timid, simple villagers of Xiaohe Village—more like a reckless gangster from town, ready to chop heads off at the slightest provocation.
The Ma family shuddered, not daring to say another word.
"What do you take Zhao Ger for? A slave? A workhorse?"
The way Ma Laosan spoke, it was as if Zhao Ger wasn’t even human. Fang Zichen’s blood boiled. His tone was light, but the threat beneath was unmistakable.
"I’m not wasting my breath. I brought the money. Hand over Zhao Ger’s deed of sale and the divorce papers."
The old lady glanced at her husband. Seeing his nod, she reluctantly went to fetch them.
Fang Zichen examined the documents carefully, folded them, and tucked them away before tossing three taels of silver onto the small table.
Before leaving, his eyes swept over everyone in the shattered room, then strode out without another word.
Madam Ma stared at the wreckage—the shattered table, the broken bowls. She burst into tears: "That damned little bastard! May his sons be born without assh*les!"
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