183: Chapter 183 Locked

At eleven o'clock at night, the signs of the Linjiang Night Market went out one by one.

A black business van was parked diagonally across from the most remote alley in the night market, its headlights off.

Old Chen sat in the driver's seat, both hands on the steering wheel, his gaze passing through the blurred windshield after the rain to stare straight at the cart at the end of the alley.

A sudden rain had just passed, and Lin Shuo was bent over, tidying up the cart.

He tied the mouth of the remaining half-bag of bean sprouts tightly and stuffed it into the bottom shelf, repeatedly wiping the edge of the wok with a rag; his movements were mechanical and his rhythm dull, no different from a clockwork tin toy.

Jiang Feng pushed open the car door and stepped into the muddy water.

"Old Chen, bring the things."

Old Chen fished out a kraft paper envelope from the passenger seat and followed him out of the car.

The sound of the two men's footsteps was exceptionally clear in the empty night market alleyway, one light and one heavy, approaching from a distance.

Lin Shuo heard the noise.

He didn't look up; the movement of his hands wiping the wok skipped a beat, then he continued wiping.

It wasn't until Jiang Feng walked to a position three steps away from the cart and stood still that Lin Shuo slowly straightened his back.

The streetlights after the rain cast a dim yellow light on his face, and the shadows on his cheekbones were a layer deeper than the last time they met.

He recognized Jiang Feng.

His face darkened.

"You're here again."

"Business is good, isn't it?"

Lin Shuo didn't respond. He draped the rag over the cart handle and bent down to turn off the valve of the gas tank.

Jiang Feng wasn't in a hurry either and tilted his chin.

Understanding his meaning, Old Chen strode to the cart's counter and pulled a stack of red bills from the kraft paper envelope—a thick stack, exactly ten thousand yuan.

Lin Shuo slowly stood up, his gaze falling on the stack of money.

Ten thousand yuan.

It was all brand-new hundred-yuan bills, tied with a bank seal and stacked neatly, glowing with a piercing red under the streetlights.

"Buying out the night." Jiang Feng pulled over a plastic chair, wiped it twice with his sleeve, sat down, and crossed his legs.

"However much fried rice is left tonight, it all Belongs to Me."

Lin Shuo stared at the stack of money for five or six seconds.

His right hand slowly wiped twice on his apron, stopping when his fingertips touched the corner of the apron.

"What exactly do you want to do?"

His voice was very low, carrying a sense of alertness.

"Coming to a place like this in the middle of the night to spend ten thousand yuan on a few boxes of fried rice—who are you trying to amuse?"

He took half a step back, his hands tightly gripping the apron straps.

"I'm just a fried rice seller; you've found the wrong person."

Jiang Feng leaned against the back of the plastic chair, his hands crossed in front of his stomach, his posture as relaxed as if he were taking a stroll through the night market.

"A fried rice seller?"

There was an ambiguous smile in his tone.

"When did the Lins Shop successor get used to sticking his head in a swill bucket and acting like a turtle?"

As soon as those words were dropped, the effect was immediate.

Lin Shuo's bloodshot eyes were pinned firmly on Jiang Feng's face, fear surging in his pupils.

"What did you say?"

"Can't hear clearly? Then I'll be more specific."

Jiang Feng sat up a bit straighter on the plastic chair, his speaking speed not fast, delivering each word one by one.

"On September 17, 2019, the central kitchen under the Dingsheng Catering Group unilaterally cut off the core seasoning supply chain for Lins Private Kitchen on the grounds that raw material quality control was not up to standard."

"In early October of the same year, you were forced to temporarily change suppliers, causing the flavor of the dishes to fluctuate. Dingsheng took advantage of this to manipulate the gambling agreement, suppressing your brand valuation from thirty-two million to four million."

"The shortfall on the books for liquidated damages was twenty-seven million, eight hundred and sixty-four thousand yuan."

"You couldn't come up with the money, so the people from Dingsheng took the contract to the court to apply for compulsory execution. Your three stores, the equipment in the central kitchen, and even the Lins Shop sign that had been passed down for two generations were all frozen and seized."

Jiang Feng paused for a beat, watching Lin Shuo's face turn from livid to deathly pale.

"From then on, you became a useless person pushing a broken cart in the furthest corner of this alley, selling twelve-yuan fried rice."

The alley was quiet for a long time.

Water droplets from the edge of the awning fell one by one after the rain, hitting the muddy ground with an even rhythm.

Lin Shuo's breathing became heavy.

The dead ashes in his eyes were being ignited bit by bit.

It wasn't the kind of burning that rekindled hope.

It was the fury erupting from the gaps in his bones after having his last layer of dignity stripped away in front of him.

"What exactly do you want to do?"

"You investigated me? What right do you have to investigate me? Are you in league with those people from Dingsheng?"

Old Chen took half a step forward but was stopped by Jiang Feng raising his hand.

"I have absolutely nothing to do with Dingsheng."

Jiang Feng's gaze passed over Lin Shuo's shoulder, falling on the iron wok behind him that had been scrubbed bright with a bamboo brush.

The oil stains at the bottom of the wok had been scrubbed clean. Although the stove was old, the burner and wind shield were meticulously maintained.

A person who has truly given up wouldn't tend to a fried rice wok as if it were their life.

"You're not dead, so your mastery is still there."

"I just want to see with my own eyes how that Dingsheng sign gets smashed to pieces, hammer by hammer."

Lin Shuo's chest heaved violently. He didn't say yes.

Nor did he say no.

The entire alley fell into a long silence.

One minute.

Lin Shuo slowly let go of the edge of the counter and bent down to pick up the fallen bamboo brush from the iron wok.

He stood up straight with the bamboo brush, his head lowered, his shoulders still shaking.

"What makes you think I can still make a comeback?"

"Based on that wok of yours."

Jiang Feng pointed to the fried rice wok that was tended to more preciously than life itself.

"A person who truly intends to rot in a mud pit wouldn't scrub their wok three times every day after closing up shop."

Lin Shuo's eyes turned red.

He gritted his teeth, forced himself to swallow that breath, reached out to grab the ten thousand yuan, and slammed it onto the counter.

"I don't want the money."

His voice was hoarse.

"If you really have the ability to make Dingsheng pay the price, you can take this life of mine, Lin Shuo, and use it."

Jiang Feng looked at the stack of bills that had been thrown back and laughed.

"Keep your life for yourself; what I want is your craft."

"Tomorrow morning, go to the first floor of the Xingchen Security building and look for a street fortune-teller named Master Jiang."

"That would be me."

"Bring your lifeblood before you come."

Lin Shuo was puzzled and pointed to the black wok.

"The wok?"

"It's the complete set of recipes and seasoning ratio manuscripts for Lins Shop."

"How do you..." Lin Shuo hesitated to speak, and finally just nodded.

[Ding! Lin Shuo has been locked as the first Defier of Fate.]

[Current number of locked individuals: 1/5.]