Here's the translation of that passage adapted for an American audience:
"You... What do you want now?" The woman's voice trembled in fear. Her husband had just been knocked down, and even the officials wouldn't intervene. It was clear now: she had no one left to rely on.
Wan Qingping walked up to her, kicked the big man a couple of times, and barked, "Get up! Stop pretending to be dead—get up!"
The big man groaned as if just waking up. He tried to get up and lunged at Wan Qingping, but the woman held him back, crying, "Husband, don't do it! We can't afford to anger him—wuwu~"
It seemed that the man listened to her and hesitated, lowering his fists. But when he looked at Wan Qingping, who wore a mocking half-smile, his face flushed with embarrassment. The woman helped her husband to his feet, seeing that the group of disaster victims had formed a tight line. She figured they could at least try to get some porridge from the end of the line, even if it wasn't guaranteed.
"Stop!" A cold, harsh voice rang out.
"What do you want now? If you keep pushing me, I swear—swear I'll fight to the death!" The big man turned, veins bulging in his neck, his face a mask of rage. He clearly believed Wan Qingping was going to humiliate him again.
Wan Qingping knew that people like him could be dangerous when pushed to the limit—an honest man pushed too far could become a wild animal.
But instead of answering, he walked over to his older brother and roughly cleared some space between them, creating a gap in the line.
"That guy and that nasty woman—get in line!" Wan Qingping barked loudly, his eyes flashing dangerously. Everyone around him instinctively avoided eye contact, clearly intimidated. Wan Qingping smiled to himself, satisfied with the results.
The big man and his wife hadn't expected this, but now they found themselves with a chance at getting some porridge. Grateful, they moved to the back of the line, their resentment toward Wan Qingping fading almost completely.
Wan Qingping wasn't doing this out of kindness, though. He had a reason. First, he feared that if the big man got too angry, he might come after him later. If the man didn't get any porridge today, he might go hungry and then turn that frustration into violence—maybe even sneak into Wan Qingping's bedroll at night to get revenge. If Wan Qingping was awake, he could deal with it, but if he was asleep and caught by surprise... well, he didn't want to take that risk.
"Give a slap, get a sweet date" was an old trick Wan Qingping had learned from his streetwise associates. He knew how to defuse tension with just a little show of force. It had saved his skin more than once.
He also got to test how much people feared him—after all, if he could make the crowd cower, maybe tomorrow he wouldn't have to go through the same hassle when coming for more porridge.
After a few more people received their porridge, it was finally his brother's turn. Wan Qingping grabbed the broken piece of brick he had used earlier and strutted up.
The two servants handing out the porridge couldn't help but chuckle when they saw Wan Qingping's brother carrying a small bucket. The porridge was served with just a spoon per person—what did they need a bucket for?
The young man, still innocent and a little embarrassed, caught the servants' laughter. He awkwardly took a spoonful of porridge and didn't know what to do with himself.
"Hey, brother, do me a favor and give me more, alright? There's eight or nine of us to feed!" Wan Qingping stepped forward, offering a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
The two servants glanced at each other, remembering the earlier scene when Wan Qingping had hit the big man with the brick. They knew he was someone not to mess with. After a brief pause, they gave the bucket two extra scoops.
"Well, it looks like my reputation isn't as strong as I thought," Wan Qingping continued, before placing the brick in his palm and squatting into a stance like a martial artist. He clenched his hand, veins standing out on his wrist. Then, with a shout, he slammed his palm down, shattering the brick into smaller pieces.
He tossed the pieces aside and wiped his hands off. Then, with a casual motion, he pointed to the rope tying his pants. There, tucked into the knot, was a short dagger with a shallow blood groove on the blade—dried blood from a recent kill.
Wan Qingping casually unsheathed the dagger, twirling it in his hand. "You know, I've dealt with people who didn't give me enough respect. They're probably six feet under by now." He gestured to the wall nearby, grinning. "That wall won't stop me—especially at night."
The two servants exchanged nervous glances, their faces turning pale. They didn't say a word but quickly filled the bucket with more porridge.
Wan Qingping's expression hardened, but inside, he couldn't help but feel a sense of triumph. The old saying was right: "Soft people fear tough people. Tough people fear wild ones. Wild ones fear those with nothing to lose."
The dagger was his only weapon—he had picked it up years ago while stealing from a wealthy family. It had served him well since. The blood on it? That was from a recent theft when he had killed a chicken for food on his journey.
On the streets, you had to know how to bluff. Even if you couldn't scare someone, you had to make it look like you could.
Of course, if these two didn't back down, Wan Qingping had a backup plan—he would just steal the porridge and run. Who would chase him over a little food?
The small bucket filled up quickly, and Wan Qingping waved his hand, signaling his brother to stop. "You know, you two gave me face today. If you ever need help, just call on me. In the streets, I'm known as 'The Death Blade' Wan Qingping. If someone's bothering you, I'll handle it—for the right price. A hundred taels of silver, and I'll take care of one or two problems for you."
With that, he led his brother off toward the willow tree where his second mother was resting. Meanwhile, the two servants were left standing there, pale-faced, but secretly relieved. A man who spoke so casually about murder had to be someone not to cross. They were glad they hadn't made him their enemy. They didn't realize that the so-called "Death Blade" was just a name Wan Qingping had made up on the spot—there was no one by that name in the streets.
This translation preserves the tense atmosphere, character interactions, and street-smart behavior of the original text, while making it more accessible to an American audience by adapting cultural references and dialogue pacing.