Looking at Jiang Hai standing before him, the man couldn't help but feel a surge of intimidation. Jiang Hai stood 1.96 meters tall after his secondary growth spurt from obtaining the Dragon Ball—up from his original 1.86 meters. He weighed around 115 kilograms, all pure muscle.
His physique wasn't the lean, wiry kind typical of Chinese martial artists like Bruce Lee. Instead, it was thick, solid, and powerful—more akin to that of a European or American bodybuilder, though without the artificial puffiness from protein powders. His frame was massive, his muscles naturally sculpted from strength and lifestyle rather than the gym alone.
He looked like a mix between Jason Statham and Vin Diesel—but even broader, more imposing. So when he approached, the shorter man—barely 1.8 meters tall and half a head smaller—instinctively felt overpowered.
The fans nearby began to sense the tension. Some had already noticed the commotion within the crowd, and a murmur of unrest rippled through the air. Just then, a bespectacled man leaned in and whispered something to the smaller man. His face darkened, and he started to back away.
But Jiang Hai wasn't about to let him go so easily.
"Hey, weren't you just acting tough? Why are you running now?" Jiang Hai sneered, grabbing the man by the collar.
The commotion drew immediate attention. Several people rushed forward—though not to fight, but to pull them apart. Unfortunately for them, Jiang Hai's companions weren't the kind to just stand aside.
Azarina, Galina, Wallis, and the two bodyguards all reacted in sync. Azarina and the other women struck swiftly, knocking back their opponents with ease, while the bodyguards locked the rest into grappling holds. Though they held back to avoid escalation, their efficiency was unmistakable.
"Shengji Oppa's being attacked!" someone in the crowd suddenly screamed.
That single shout was enough to set off chaos. The mass of fans, numbering in the hundreds, surged forward like a tidal wave. The security line buckled under the pressure. For a moment, it seemed like a stampede was imminent.
But just as the situation threatened to spiral out of control, several black cars screeched to a halt outside the crowd. From them poured a group of men in black suits. They moved with practiced coordination—clearing a path through the mob while shielding a middle-aged man who strode confidently toward the center.
The moment these men arrived, the atmosphere changed. The leader, his expression stone-cold, pulled out a pistol—not to fire, but to send a message. Even the most frenzied fans quieted immediately, instinctively stepping back. The tension in the air thickened, then slowly eased.
The security guards inside the circle finally exhaled in relief; if a stampede had broken out, they'd have been held responsible.
The middle-aged man, however, didn't spare them a glance. His eyes locked onto Jiang Hai—and when he saw him standing unharmed, he relaxed visibly. Flanked by his men, he approached with a deep, respectful bow, completely ignoring the celebrity still clutched by Jiang Hai's collar.
"You're here! We went to the control tower to welcome you, but they told us you'd already arrived. I deeply apologize for the confusion, truly," the man said, smiling deferentially.
Jiang Hai frowned slightly. So this was the man sent to receive him.
He didn't recognize him, but the man in his grasp clearly did. Cold sweat broke out across his forehead. This official wasn't just anyone—he was a high-ranking figure in South Korea's political hierarchy. The thought that such a man was bowing to Jiang Hai made his stomach twist. Just who is this Chinese guy?
Jiang Hai's tone was calm, but carried unmistakable disdain. "No need to apologize. You'd better handle the situation here. Seems like your country's not too happy to see me. If it's going to be like this, maybe I should head back."
The official's smile didn't falter, though a flash of murderous intent crossed his eyes when he turned to glare at the Korean star. If Jiang Hai decided to leave because of this fool, that would spell disaster—and someone would have to pay for it.
The celebrity's legs turned to jelly. He knew exactly what this was about: that batch of goods he'd withheld months ago. Back then, he was following orders. But when Jiang Hai flipped the tables, his own government had cut ties, throwing him under the bus. Now, if he had to pay the damages himself—over a hundred million U.S. dollars—he'd be ruined.
"Please, don't worry!" the middle-aged man said hurriedly, bowing again. "No one here would dare offend you. I'll handle these small matters personally. I haven't introduced myself—my name is Li Xihuai. I'm in charge of all matters related to your visit to South Korea."
His tone was eager, almost servile. Jiang Hai merely smiled faintly, waved dismissively, and began walking toward the exit. Immediately, the men in black formed a protective corridor around him.
Li Xihuai followed close behind, afraid to say or do anything that might displease him. The others, including the Korean celebrity, could only watch in silence as Jiang Hai's entourage disappeared into the waiting cars.
When the vehicles finally pulled away, the man in black turned to the celebrity and his manager, his expression cold.
"I'm really sorry for the trouble," the celebrity muttered quickly. To his credit, he knew when to bow his head.
"Lee Seung-gi, isn't it?" the man in black said coolly. "Apologizing to me is pointless. You didn't offend me. You offended him. That man is a state guest. And you—being a national celebrity—should understand the consequences. If you haven't earned his forgiveness before he leaves Korea… don't blame us for what happens next."
Lee Seung-gi's heart sank. "I understand," he said softly. "Please… tell me who he is."
"That man's name is Jiang Hai," the bodyguard replied. "He's Chinese—owns a massive manor in the United States."
"A Chinese man running a manor… in the U.S.?" Lee Seung-gi repeated, stunned. "That's it?"
The man sneered. "Don't underestimate him. He makes more money in a single year than you could in ten lifetimes. Do you know how much he earned just from selling grass recently? Two billion U.S. dollars. And that's just feed for his cattle."
Lee Seung-gi froze. "Two billion… U.S. dollars?" His voice cracked.
He quickly did the math—1,200 won per dollar… that was 2.4 trillion won. His entire career, all his endorsements, concerts, and shows combined didn't even come close to five billion won.
The scale of wealth was unimaginable. It crushed any lingering pride he had left.
The man continued coldly, "He's not just a rancher. His beef, his fish, even his grass are world-class commodities. He's here on official business. If you dare cross him again, we'll make sure your entire family regrets it."
Lee Seung-gi could only nod, drenched in sweat. He finally understood that Jiang Hai wasn't just rich—he was the kind of man entire governments bowed to.
Meanwhile, Jiang Hai, now seated comfortably in the car, didn't spare another thought for the incident. Whether the man he'd stepped on lived or died didn't matter to him in the slightest. Forgiveness? He smirked faintly.
Everyone who knew Jiang Hai knew one thing well—he was not a forgiving man. He'd often joked that he had a "virgin's grudge" — pure, stubborn, and never letting go.
And that much, at least, was true.