Chapter 5 — The Professional Debt Collector
The street smelled like iron nails and sour beer. Chickens flapped at the edges of the crowd, scattering feathers every time someone shifted. Merchants had abandoned their stalls to watch the drama, because who wanted to buy radishes when a man's jaw might get broken for free?
The debtor stood like a crooked post in the middle of the dirt road, his oily hair plastered to his forehead, eyes burning with arrogance. He had just driven his boot into the stomach of the debt collector, the good man desperate for coin to buy medicine for his sick mother. The sound of that kick had echoed like a drumbeat, sharp and heavy, followed by the wet choke of blood spilling across the dust.
The crowd winced as the debt collector dropped to his knees, clutching his chest, coughing out red threads that stained his sleeve. His words cracked apart, half-sobs, half-screams.
"Wh-why… I only… wanted my mother's medicine…"
His body trembled like a bowstring drawn too tight. He spat another line of crimson into the dirt.
The debtor snorted, smirking with lips curled into cruelty. "Your mother's medicine? Then maybe she should die with you. Debt is debt. If you can't pay, then rot."
That single line made even the drunk at the back of the crowd sober. People whispered among themselves. Some shook their heads at the cruelty, but nobody moved. This was the kind of street where fists solved more than laws, and fists usually obeyed whoever was mean enough to swing first.
The collector tried to stand but collapsed again, palms scraping the stone road.
And that was the moment Long Tianchen moved.
Stepping into the Spotlight
He didn't walk so much as slide out of the shadows, as if the whole scene had been staged just for him. The crowd shifted, surprised at the sudden appearance of a young man with an unreadable grin and a robe patched so many times it looked like a quilt made by a drunk tailor. His presence didn't scream power—if anything, he looked like the kind of guy who got scammed at vegetable markets. But his grin… that grin made people lean forward.
Tianchen tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief, his voice carrying clear over the crowd.
"I'll help you."
The collector, still coughing blood, blinked through watery eyes. His vision blurred, and he twisted toward the voice.
"What…?"
"I'll help you get your money back."
Tianchen's words landed like stones in a pond. The ripples spread. Murmurs flew through the crowd:
"Who's that clown?"
"He's crazy. That debtor will snap him like dry wood."
"Wait, is he serious?"
Even the chickens stopped flapping, their beady eyes watching as though expecting free entertainment.
The debt collector wiped blood from his lips, shaking his head weakly. He turned, and in that instant, the sight nearly blinded him.
There stood Long Tianchen, bathed in the crooked sunlight that fell between roofs, his patched robe glowing like silk, his teeth flashing like blades. The grin he wore was shameless, arrogant, dazzlingly bright.
It wasn't the brilliance of a hero. No. It was the brilliance of someone about to sell snake oil and somehow convince the crowd it cured baldness.
The collector's lips parted. His voice cracked.
"Wh-who… are you?"
Tianchen raised his chin, every tooth in his mouth showing in a grin so wide it could sell umbrellas in a desert.
"I," he declared, each word drawn like a sword, "am a professional debt collector."