The room’s underfloor heating was set to a comfortable winter temperature of 20 degrees Celsius—not too cold, not oppressively warm.

But this temperature brought Cheng Ji pain. The sudden shift from freezing to warmth caused the blood vessels and nerve endings in his previously frozen body to start expanding. As they relaxed, his blood began to flow freely, leading to an uncomfortable itchiness and a sensation of weakness.

He felt so drained that he wanted to lie down and take a nap right then and there. But he couldn’t. He heard shouting from the living room.

It was Shen Zimo’s voice, trembling with fear and breaking into fragments.

Cheng Ji bent over, closed his eyes, and placed his hands on his knees to steady his breathing. His thick, lush eyelashes trembled like insect legs as he decided to give himself a quick 30 seconds to recover.

‘Thirty seconds. Nothing drastic should happen in that time’, he thought.

Silently counting down the seconds in his mind, the moment his time was up, he opened his eyes abruptly and strode toward the living room. His dark, glittering pupils burned with menace.

In the living room, an uneven struggle was unfolding, and no one noticed his arrival.

The slippery, drawling man from earlier was gone. Only Qi Beisong and Shen Zimo remained in the room.

Qi Beisong looked composed, though a few strands of hair had come loose from his otherwise neat appearance. Shen Zimo cowered in a corner, tears streaking down his face.

Qi Beisong stood over Shen Zimo, straddling him with his legs. His chest heaved as he stared down with a blank, stormy expression.

His anger was palpable—the fury of a man used to absolute power, provoked and defied. That anger had consumed his rationality, causing him to lose control, turning him into something monstrous.

He looked like a bloodthirsty beast, his chest heaving with a violent desire to dominate as he glared at Shen Zimo beneath him.

“What did you call me?” he asked slowly.

“I insulted you,” Shen Zimo said, his voice trembling. “Yes, I insulted you. A gentleman doesn’t resort to violence—why are you treating me like this? I was just here to deliver wine.”

“Too late,” Qi Beisong replied. “Next time, think before you speak. Once the words are out, there’s no taking them back.”

He reached out and gripped Shen Zimo’s chin, his force strong enough to crush bone.

Suddenly, Cheng Ji darted out from behind him, swung a decorative vase, and smashed it against the back of Qi Beisong’s head. Without missing a beat, he grabbed the sandal in his hand and whacked Qi Beisong’s head a few more times.

“Why don’t you think before you act?” Cheng Ji muttered. “Who’s even the target audience for this story, huh?”

The European-style vase had been sitting on the side table by the sofa, purely decorative. As Cheng Ji passed it, he couldn’t help but think that what he really wanted was a toilet plunger. That way, he could’ve shoved it into Qi Beisong’s face and let him savor the sewage stench that matched him so well.

Qi Beisong collapsed with a heavy thud, half of his body falling onto Shen Zimo, who screamed in panic.

Cheng Ji quickly stepped forward, raised his right hand in a standard “stop” gesture, and motioned for Shen Zimo to keep quiet.

‘Stay silent,‘ he mouthed.

Shen Zimo, still in shock, stared blankly. Cheng Ji lightly patted his tear-streaked face twice and silently asked, ‘Do you understand me?‘

It took several seconds, but Shen Zimo finally nodded.

Satisfied, Cheng Ji pushed Qi Beisong’s heavy body off to the side and helped Shen Zimo to his feet.

‘From now on, follow my instructions,‘ Cheng Ji signaled.

Shen Zimo stood shakily and nodded again.

‘Report any issues,‘ Cheng Ji added.

“Okay,” Shen Zimo replied.

“First, put your clothes back on,” Cheng Ji said.

Shen Zimo started buttoning his shirt, but his hands were trembling so much that they wouldn’t obey him.

Cheng Ji motioned for him to come closer and then bent his head to button up the few remaining buttons on Shen Zimo’s shirt.

Through his blurry, tear-filled eyes, Shen Zimo noticed fresh wounds on Cheng Ji’s hands, his fingertips still a pale, frostbitten blue and trembling slightly, though Cheng Ji was clearly controlling it.

“Your knee is injured,” Shen Zimo said in a shaky voice.

Cheng Ji glanced down at himself, saw the bloodstain, and replied casually, “It’s fine, I injured it when I hit the wall earlier.”

Once Shen Zimo was dressed, Cheng Ji patted his shoulder and gestured for him to follow.

He turned to the master bedroom, pulled off the bedsheet, and then grabbed another sheet from the guest room. He tied the two together diagonally, securing one end around Shen Zimo’s waist and the other around his own.

After confirming the knots were tight, he led Shen Zimo into the master bedroom’s bathroom and pointed at the open window. “We’re climbing down. You go first, I’ll follow.”

Here, Cheng Ji could speak softly since several walls separated them from the hallway, ensuring they wouldn’t be overheard.

“Climb down?” Shen Zimo asked, confused. His voice was hoarse from the earlier screaming.

Cheng Ji glanced outside. “It’s just the third floor. The windowsill is less than ten meters from the ground. Surely you’ve got the guts for this? Besides, I’ll hold onto you.”

“I—I’ve never tried it before.”

“Then try now,” Cheng Ji said.

Shen Zimo looked at him and saw the determination in his expression—it wasn’t a joke. Trembling, he summoned his courage and climbed onto the windowsill.

“Step on that stone flower carving,” Cheng Ji said, tapping the back of Shen Zimo’s hand to guide him. “Once you’re down, run. Don’t look back or worry about anything else.”

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me either.”

“Who are you?” Shen Zimo asked. “Why are you helping me?”

Cheng Ji tilted his head and said, “I told you, don’t worry about me. I’m nobody important, no need to remember me.”

“You knocked him out earlier. Will there be any consequences?”

“There won’t.”

“But that guy seems really powerful—”

“Save it for later! Focus and get moving!” Cheng Ji cut him off sharply.

Startled by the scolding, Shen Zimo obediently began climbing down, his movements clumsy, like anyone untrained.

As Shen Zimo descended, Cheng Ji gradually let the sheets out, feeling the weight pull against his waist.

Shen Zimo, though slim, was still a grown man. Soon, the strain dragged Cheng Ji half a meter closer to the window ledge. He had to stand on one foot, pressing the other firmly against the wall to prevent himself from being pulled down.

Suddenly, he remembered something and called out, “Hey, little waiter!”

Shen Zimo responded, “What?”

Cheng Ji said, “If you ever encounter something like this again, learn to read the room. Taking a verbal loss is no big deal, got it?”

Shen Zimo looked up at him, lips trembling slightly, but said nothing.

Cheng Ji smiled and said, “You should head home early. Remember not to come to places like this again. There are no good people here.”

“I won’t,” Shen Zimo replied.

With that, Cheng Ji steadied himself and continued assisting Shen Zimo down. He found that Shen Zimo was climbing much slower than he’d expected, and a sense of urgency began to creep in.

Sure enough, as he leaned out to check whether Shen Zimo had reached the ground, a fierce gust of air from a punch swept past the back of his head.

Cheng Ji shifted his body to the side, and Qi Beisong’s first punch missed.

Qi Beisong turned back, fury blazing in his eyes, and immediately launched a second punch.

Realizing he couldn’t keep tethered to Shen Zimo any longer, Cheng Ji dodged while quickly untying the sheet around his waist. After all, the drop was only a few meters—falling wouldn’t be fatal, especially with the snow-covered grass below to cushion the impact.

He tossed the sheet aside and turned to face Qi Beisong.

Qi Beisong had already discarded his shirt, his eyes blazing with anger, jaw muscles twitching. His strikingly handsome face was now distorted by rage.

“You want to Fight?” Cheng Ji asked.

Qi Beisong’s expression resembled someone forced to stare at a mouthful of disgusting flies, yet unable to look away. He chose not to speak.

Seeing that Qi Beisong was determined to fight, Cheng Ji stretched his fingers and slipped off two cheap rings from his hands, tossing them out the window. “These are metal, so I’ll take them off to avoid cutting you. I don’t want to take advantage.”

Qi Beisong sneered, pulled off his watch, and casually flung it aside. The watch, likely worth millions, clattered against the marble floor. It was clear how enraged he was, and how confident he felt about finishing Cheng Ji in under five seconds.

Qi Beisong had a well-trained body, with defined muscles across his chest and abs, strong shoulders and arms, and long, straight legs.

But Cheng Ji wasn’t worried. Judging by the first two punches, Qi Beisong had the form of a fighter but no actual combat experience. Likely no one dared to fight him seriously, and with his bodyguards always nearby, he probably didn’t need to get his hands dirty.

Cheng Ji, however, had faced all kinds of human tanks—those trained in police or military combat, sanda champions, practitioners of traditional martial arts like Wing Chun, agile and brutal Muay Thai fighters, and even retired Russian military officers.

That last encounter had been a disaster. In what was supposed to be a friendly match, Cheng Ji ended up with a fractured rib despite the Russian soldier holding back. He spent two weeks afterward barely able to breathe, speaking softly, avoiding running, and laughing as little as possible. His friends even teased him by calling him a “fragile beauty” because he constantly clutched his chest with a pained expression.

Now, Cheng Ji thought, ‘Physically, you’re stronger, but I have the experience you lack. We’re evenly matched.‘

“Come on,” he said calmly.

But in the first round, Qi Beisong’s punch nearly grazed Cheng Ji. It was all because of the mesh socks Cheng Ji was wearing—they slid against the tiled floor, throwing him off balance.

Cheng Ji lost footing, slipped to one knee, and just as he stood, he slid again and fell awkwardly with a yelp.

His clumsy movements gave Qi Beisong the illusion of victory. He smirked cruelly, convinced he could take Cheng Ji down in three seconds.

But Cheng Ji had already darted out of the bathroom, his feet landing lightly on the bedroom carpet.

“That doesn’t count. Let’s start over,” Cheng Ji said.

Qi Beisong couldn’t wait for him to declare rules. He rushed forward, throwing another punch.

Expecting Cheng Ji to fall, Qi Beisong was stunned when Cheng Ji deflected the punch with a light touch, redirecting its path.

In the next moment, Cheng Ji moved at a dizzying speed. One hand pressed against Qi Beisong’s forehead, pushing it back, while the other supported his elbow. Before Qi Beisong could recover, Cheng Ji’s grip slid down his arm, twisting his wrist in a smooth motion.

Before Qi Beisong could process what had happened, his right arm was wrenched into a joint lock behind his back. The excruciating pain brought him crashing face-first to the ground.

“I win,” Cheng Ji said, pressing Qi Beisong’s back. “Admit it, my dear patron, hmm.”