[Lu Zhuonian is a very cunning person]

The manager in charge of the shooting range was surnamed Wang—Wang Jun.

Around forty years old, with a buzz cut and square face, he wasn’t tall, but he had a solid, compact build and an imposing presence that made him seem fully in control of any situation.

Wang Jun pushed a work badge and a payroll card across the table. “The exhibition hall and display cabinets are secured with double locks and need two people to access. From now on, you and Xiao Yan will be responsible for this area. The job’s easy—property management takes care of cleaning the hall, so you don’t need to worry about that. Just wipe the guns every now and then, keep an eye on the temperature and humidity levels in the range. The one thing you absolutely must be careful about is—don’t lose a gun.”

Chen Zemian replied, “Got it, Manager Wang.”

“Just call me Brother Jun. I’ll call Xiao Yan over so you two can meet,” Wang Jun said with a wave of his hand, picking up the internal phone. “Tell Xiao Yan to come by.”

A few minutes later, there were three rhythmic knocks on the office door, followed by a crisp, youthful voice.

“Manager.”

“Come in,” Wang Jun said.

Yan Luo pushed the door open. He saw Wang Jun sitting in his office chair, with someone else standing across from him.

The person had his back to Yan Luo, silhouetted against the light streaming in from the window, making it hard to see what he was wearing. All Yan Luo could make out was that he was tall and lean, with a slim build—narrow shoulders, a slender waist. The backlight outlined him in a faint golden glow, making him look paper-thin. His legs, however, were long and straight, almost like they’d been measured to perfection, forming an ideal golden ratio with his upper body.

Wang Jun introduced, “Xiao Yan, this is your new coworker, Chen Zhe. Just call him Brother Chen.”

Yan Luo nodded, neither arrogant nor overly polite. “Brother Chen.”

The man—Chen Zhe—turned around, revealing a small, delicate face. “Nice to meet you.”

Yan Luo quietly observed him.

From the way Chen Zhe twisted at the waist as he turned, it was clear that he had a very strong core. His limbs moved fluidly, giving off a sense of speed and agility. Though he was slim, his muscles were lean and powerful. His wrists were bony, joints prominent—he looked lightweight, but strong.

Yan Luo figured this guy could probably fight, and fight hard. His explosiveness would be off the charts—but with that slim frame, his stamina likely wasn’t great.

Wang Jun continued, “Chen Zhe, this is Yan Luo—Xiao Yan.”

At the mention of his name, Chen Zemian’s pupils noticeably shifted.

In truth, it wasn’t just a flicker of the eyes. When he heard the name “Yan Luo,” waves of emotion surged within him.

Yan Luo was an important supporting character in the original novel—cold, proud, and obstinate, a natural rebel who listened to no one except Lu Zhuonian.

As a child, he’d been saved by Lu Zhuonian, and later died saving him in return—gone far too young at just twenty-two. His death was the most heartbreaking moment for readers.

Now, Yan Luo still looked young—sixteen or seventeen at most—and hadn’t fully grown into his frame.

He stood slightly angled, with his feet apart front to back—a cautious stance, like a lone young beast. His dark eyes were intense, his thin lips pressed into a stubborn curve.

After listening to a few final instructions from Wang Jun, the two of them left the office together.

Yan Luo was silent, not speaking to Chen Zemian at all. He simply walked ahead, saying nothing until they reached the duty room door. Only then did he briefly say, “We usually don’t need to open the display cabinets. You can rest here in the duty room. If anyone comes to visit, hand the key to the manager.”

It sounded like a pretty relaxed job.

The first time Chen Zemian met Yan Luo, it hadn’t been Yan Luo who opened the display case during the tour. So he asked, “Don’t we need to open the case for visitors?”

“We usually don’t do it,” Yan Luo glanced at Chen Zemian. “Just follow the manager’s arrangement.”

Chen Zemian nodded. “Then how was the gun cleaning work divided up before?”

Yan Luo had already placed his hand on the doorknob. At those words, he let go and turned around to say, “I’ve always done it. No need for you to worry about these chores, Brother Chen. I’ll handle them.”

Chen Zemian had previously worked as a lead game designer, managing teams of over a thousand people. He liked kids who didn’t talk much but got things done—reliable, low-maintenance types. After a brief conversation, he realized Yan Luo was just as dependable as the book described. No wonder he would later become Lu Zhuonian’s most trusted partner in life-and-death situations.

Unfortunately, he died far too young.

The next day at work, Yan Luo and Chen Zemian opened the display case together. Chen Zemian leaned on the counter, watching Yan Luo clean the guns. Occasionally he asked a few questions, but otherwise they didn’t speak.

The following days were much the same.

Then one day, Chen Zemian volunteered to clean the guns. That finally made Yan Luo speak a little more. Most of what he said was about how Chen Zemian was a senior and didn’t need to handle such menial tasks—he could do it himself, he was used to it, and didn’t mind. Plus, he wanted to do something for Lu Zhuonian.

This was the first time Yan Luo mentioned Lu Zhuonian. Of course, Chen Zemian took the chance to continue the conversation. Though Yan Luo revealed very little, combined with what was described in the original novel, Chen Zemian could piece together a general picture.

Yan Luo was born on the Mid-Autumn Festival. The entire Yan family had gathered to celebrate when his mother suddenly went into labor. An elder uncle, drunk from the celebration, suffered a stroke and died in the emergency room. The time between the two events was less than half an hour—one life lost, one born.

A birth coinciding with a death was considered inauspicious, especially for a business family like the Yans, who were highly superstitious. They hired a feng shui master, who concluded that Yan Luo was “born under a fate of undefined destruction and separation.”

It was an extremely ominous reading—predicting a life of instability, misfortune, harm to parents, and a doomed fate.

After hearing that, Yan’s father wanted to change Yan Luo’s surname and send him far away, cutting off all familial ties. But Yan’s mother refused, and the couple argued constantly.

One day, after another fight, Yan’s mother went out alone and was killed in a car accident.

That sealed it. The Yan family became fully convinced that Yan Luo was cursed. They refused to raise him, even going so far as to have a nanny take him out in fancy clothes and jewelry, then “accidentally” lose him in the streets.

Yan Luo was kidnapped by traffickers and sold to the south.

The family who bought him quickly fell on hard times and resold him. The next family abused him—hitting him, scalding him with hot water, stabbing him with needles.

Eventually, he ran away.

He was eight years old.

From that age on, Yan Luo learned to survive on his own. He begged for food, stole, fought in underground matches, and even worked for loan sharks under various “big brothers.” Since he was a minor, he was never punished. But his “cursed” fate followed him—whichever gang he joined would quickly collapse. The leaders were either arrested or went on the run.

Until he met Lu Zhuonian.

It was in a narrow alley that Lu Zhuonian found the boy, wild like a feral cat. He was pinned to the ground by several men, curled up in a ball, bruised and bloody, half dead. His clothes were in tatters, and he was filthy.

“Young Master Lu saved me, so I followed him.”

So many hardships, condensed by Yan Luo into just eleven words.

Chen Zemian, still cleaning a gun, asked, “How old were you when you met Young Master Lu?”

“Fourteen,” Yan Luo replied.

Chen Zemian placed the gun back on the display rack. “So you’re sixteen now.”

Yan Luo’s catlike pupils instantly dilated, then constricted sharply. He let out a short, suspicious: “Hm?”

Chen Zemian didn’t say anything more, but Yan Luo kept staring at him. He clearly wanted to ask how Chen Zemian knew his age but stubbornly refused to speak. He just stared at him, waiting for an explanation—as if saying, ‘I’ll glare at you till the end of time if you don’t spill.’

“You want to know how I figured it out?” Chen Zemian didn’t push against the kid’s stubbornness and quickly offered a way out.

Yan Luo nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

Chen Zemian answered honestly, “I just guessed. Took a shot in the dark to mess with you.”

Yan Luo’s eyes slowly widened, as if he couldn’t believe he’d been tricked so easily. He looked a little mad at himself.

Talking always risked revealing something—he’d already cut back on speaking, and yet he still got tripped up by Chen Zhe.

Scheming, devious Chen Zhe!

If Chen Zhe had just asked outright whether he was sixteen, Yan Luo was confident he could’ve kept a straight face. But Chen Zhe had first asked how old he was when he met Young Master Lu.

He’d said fourteen. Then Chen Zhe immediately followed up with “so you’re sixteen,” and in his surprise, Yan Luo thought someone must’ve told Chen Zhe he’d known Young Master Lu for two years. That’s how he must have come to that number.

Who would’ve thought it was just a random guess?

Damn Chen Zhe.

Yan Luo twisted the cleaning cloth viciously and decided he would never talk to Chen Zhe again.

His decision lasted until the afternoon.

Saturday afternoons brought more visitors to the shooting range than weekdays.

The exhibition staff were too busy, so they temporarily asked Yan Luo to act as a guide and receive some guests.

Technically, Yan Luo wasn’t even a staff member of the shooting range. He just lived there and occasionally helped out. The display case key he held was a backup—just like the one Chen Zemian had.

The exhibition hall had official custodians—those were the two people Chen Zemian saw when he first visited.

Yan Luo had a backup key because he lived on-site; it was convenient in case of emergency.

As for why Chen Zemian had the other backup key…

Probably because Lu Zhuonian had no idea what Chen Zemian could do, so he just threw him into a random position to give him something to do.

No wonder no one had asked him to do anything since he started working—everyone probably knew he was just here to pass the time.

Even Yan Luo had been told by Manager Wang not to give him any real tasks.

Chen Zemian had fought hard just to scrub three guns, practically snatching the job.

This was every worker’s dream job—so relaxed that his brain was starting to rot from idleness.

Lu Zhuonian was truly a great boss.

He handed him a backup key and paid him a five-figure salary every month. After taxes and full benefits, Chen Zemian still cleared over eight thousand yuan.

“Who else but Big Boss Lu would pay me eight grand a month for doing nothing?” Chen Zemian said with heartfelt admiration. “All my sucking up to him was worth it.”

Xiao Kesong sipped from his straw and hesitated before saying, “But… even though you’re earning his salary, you’ve been spending it all on bullets. Once the money cycles back, doesn’t it just go back into his account?”

Chen Zemian: “…”

Shooting was indeed a money pit. The cheapest bullets cost over ten yuan each, pricier ones went for fifty or sixty, and they were only sold in batches of ten. A few rounds and hundreds of yuan were gone.

Chen Zemian spent his days doing nothing at the range—just shooting and more shooting. He’d only been working for a little over a week and had already spent over twenty thousand on ammunition.

His monthly salary was only eight thousand.

Lu Zhuonian truly had the mind of a business mogul. Even at this early stage, his economic instincts were razor sharp. He’d actually placed a gun enthusiast to work at a shooting range.

So sneaky!

Chen Zemian said with mock fury, “I can’t believe I misjudged him!”

“You better watch out,” Xiao Kesong looked at Chen Zemian with a sympathetic gaze. “Lu Zhuonian is a cunning one—don’t end up getting sold by him and still helping him count the money.”