Chapter 1733 - 892: Ten-Thousandfold Emergency (Part 3)

But if he gives away such a huge chunk of利益, how is Han Hui supposed to smooth over the discontent inside?

And with this kind of "冤枉钱" being thrown out so easily, do you really think the local branch will be satisfied?

One side unwilling to give, the other side never satisfied—this alliance was doomed from the start to never last long…

And as long as Ji Jue keeps stirring the pot in the middle, this matter will never be over; if East City really wants to win this crowd over, it'll have to keep sweetening the pot.

So a management game like this goes from Easy to Normal to Hard, and might even flip into Hell mode.

And as the player, that Mr. Han's gameplay experience will only get worse and worse, until everything's 赤石 everywhere… either he quits the game and walks away, or he has to go all-in and play it ruthless.

All the probing and arrangements now are just the foreshadowing; when the real Thunderbolt strike is launched, it'll probably crash down like Mount Tai, finishing the job in one blow—pinning the Seven Cities down for good and wiping out Ji Jue!

Only then can he show off his methods and能力, only then can he kill the chicken to scare the monkeys and shock the West Sea.

Ling Shuo understood all of this.

And precisely because he understood, he was anxious.

He could see the storm brewing on the horizon, but had no idea where the enemy would actually make their move… even if the real threat was still a long way off, the heavy pressure was already rising up from his chest.

For a moment, he felt restless, unable to sit or stand; in his head he carefully combed through every line, every joint in the network, always feeling nothing was truly secure, never sure which gap would become the fatal strike in the future.

Until he heard Ji Jue's question:

"What are you afraid of?"

"Huh?"

Ling Shuo looked up in a daze, realizing Ji Jue's gaze was on him. He subconsciously opened his mouth, ready to profess loyalty and make guarantees, but Ji Jue cut him off.

Behind the desk, that pair of calm, indifferent eyes watched him. They didn't need extra flattery or auspicious words, just a blunt question:

"I'm asking you: what are you 'afraid' of?"

Ling Shuo froze, wanting to speak but unable to get a word out.

There were too many threads tangled together; he didn't even know where to start.

"So why is it that you're fixated on following your opponent's tempo and plan? Why chain yourself down and sit here waiting to die?"

Ji Jue smiled: "You have guns, you have ships, you have men. You have the Seven Cities' material supply, you have the entire Coast's resources at your disposal.

You're the biggest arms dealer in the whole West Sea, you're the shot-caller for the Seven Cities Wasteland Collection, you're a subordinate I personally chose…

Ling Shuo, why are you afraid?"

"The one who should be truly on edge, like facing a mortal enemy—shouldn't that be your opponent? Shouldn't that be that old bastard Ling Liu?!"

In the dead silence, Ling Shuo stood there blankly, as if struck by lightning.

He stared, dazed, into those pitch-black eyes, as if falling into a bottomless darkness.

Yet he didn't feel afraid.

For one instant, all that hesitation, anxiety, and panic seemed to vanish. What was left was a jolt of clarity and joy, like Empowerment poured straight into his skull.

"You mean… fight them?"

He murmured softly, his gaze gradually turning feverish: "Become enemies with this pack on the West Sea?"

"So what? A bunch of nobodies, you really think they can amount to anything?"

Ji Jue said decisively: "No need to overthink it, no need to care who's putting on a show or who's coveting the Seven Cities. Anyone who doesn't bow their head—just treat them all the same!"

"Where do you plan to start?"

Holding back his excitement, Ling Shuo asked for instructions: "Do you need me to pick out a few blind idiots as offerings to the banner?"

If Mr. Ji said fight, then they'd fight.

He hesitated no longer.

Once he shattered that deep-seated fear and shadow in his heart toward Ling Liu, he felt lighter than ever. He even got so worked up he could barely contain himself at the thought that he might get to personally chop off that old bastard's head!

Just as Ji Jue was about to speak, his movements paused slightly.

As if he had sensed something.

He let out a soft laugh.

A perfect opportunity—wasn't it already being delivered to their doorstep?

.

.

At the same time, on Luo Island, in the top-floor suite of Wanfang Hall, the guesthouse next to City Hall reserved for VIPs.

After another day of lavish hospitality and sightseeing, the half-drunk, drowsy Meng Sang had just returned to his bedroom when he suddenly felt the ring on his hand grow burning hot.

And then came a sudden dull thud.

Bang!

With a shattering sound, a figure soaked in Blood, on his last breath, appeared out of thin air and crashed to the floor. Blood splashed everywhere.

Meng Sang stared down, stupefied; shock almost sent him sprawling to the ground. He instinctively wanted to scream.

But the moment he saw that Blood-streaked face clearly, he clamped his own mouth shut on reflex, bit through his tongue, and used the sharp pain to burn away the alcohol and haze.

He forced himself to sober up.

"Uncle Ao Gao?!"

The young man hurried closer, staring at that deathly pale face. He reached out, wanting to press down on the wound, but his hand was suddenly gripped tight by Ao Gao, like it was caught in an iron vice.

"Contact… Ling Shuo… no, contact Mr. Ji! Hurry!"

Ao Gao's breath was hanging by a thread; his eyes were wide, his voice choked, Blood constantly seeping from his mouth: "William… William, he… he's in serious trouble…"