Zhao San was not a man entirely unfamiliar with the world. He had swaggered through enough places, bullied enough people, and survived enough scraps to understand that intimidation was often more useful than honesty. There was no chance he would hand money over meekly just because a young girl demanded it.
His neck stiffened. He lifted his chin in defiance and spoke with a sneering, singsong sarcasm, as though the very idea of repayment were a joke.
"No money," he said loudly. "How do you expect me to pay you back if I don't have any?"
Mu Qingyue's lips curved, not into amusement, but into something colder—a smile sharpened by contempt. "No money?" she echoed. "Then hand over your house as collateral."
Zhao San burst into a harsh laugh. "What a joke. If you can get your hands on my property deed, then I'll admit you've got real skill!"
He flicked his hand dismissively and turned toward the house, already convinced the confrontation would end the way most confrontations did in the countryside: with the weaker party backing down, swallowing humiliation, and walking away.
In his mind, Mu Qingyue was still just a girl—young, slender, raised in poverty—someone who might bark loudly but would never dare truly bite.
But Mu Qingyue's voice cut through his assumptions like a blade.
"I have money and connections in S City," she said coolly. "I can afford the best legal team. If we end up in court, you'd better hope you can keep up this same shameless tantrum in front of a judge."
Zhao San stopped mid-step and snapped his head around. His eyes widened, then narrowed, as anger flared across his face.
"What—are you threatening to sue me?" he barked.
Behind Mu Qingyue, Ma Hongli's heart lurched. He knew Zhao San's reputation: a local thug with a nasty temper and a wide network of equally unpleasant friends. Ma Hongli stepped forward anxiously, trying to soften the situation before it could turn ugly.
"Forget it, forget it," he pleaded in a low voice. "Ayue… we're all villagers. Don't make a big fuss."
Mu Qingyue nodded once, as though she had considered his words carefully. Her expression remained calm—too calm.
"I can choose not to sue," she said evenly. "But I have plenty of money. I wouldn't mind spending a few hundred thousand to hire people to come to your house every single day and hound you for payment. Let's see how your family enjoys life then."
The words were delivered with such matter-of-fact composure that they felt more threatening than shouting. This wasn't a tantrum. It was a promise.
Zhao San's face darkened. Jealousy and resentment twisted together in his chest—jealousy that she could speak so casually about hundreds of thousands, and resentment that someone he considered beneath him dared to press him like this. His voice rose immediately, louder, more vicious, determined to reclaim dominance through humiliation.
"So what if you have money? You think money makes you special?" he yelled, spitting the words out like phlegm. "This is between me and the Ma family. It's got nothing to do with you, you Mu-surnamed brat! You're just some wild orphan they picked up and raised! Your real father and mother didn't even want you! And you come here acting like you can manage everyone's business—what, you're so full you've got nothing better to do?"
The insult landed where Zhao San intended it to land: on the rawest, most sensitive part of Mu Qingyue's history.
But Mu Qingyue did not flinch.
She did not argue.
She did not let anger spill into messy words.
Instead—
Slap.
Her hand rose and fell with crisp, merciless force.
The sound cut through the air like a gunshot.
Zhao San's head snapped to the side. He staggered half a step, stunned, eyes blank with disbelief. For several seconds, he could only clutch his cheek, as if his mind had stalled, unable to process what had just happened.
Then the pain registered.
The humiliation registered.
His face flushed red—first with shock, then with rage. His features contorted. He bared his teeth and lunged forward, arms outstretched, ready to seize Mu Qingyue and beat her until she could no longer stand.
"You little bitch—!" he roared. "You dare hit me?!"
Mu Qingyue's mouth lifted into a cold, disdainful curve.
And before he could even get close, her palm flashed again.
Slap! Slap!
Two more blows landed cleanly, sharp and ringing.
Zhao San reeled. His vision swam. His mouth struck his own teeth hard enough that the skin split; blood immediately bloomed along his lip. He stumbled backward, disoriented, the swagger beaten out of him in three swift strikes.
For people like Zhao San—petty village bullies who survived on intimidation—Mu Qingyue did not need to "reason." Reason was something they used as camouflage when it benefited them, and discarded when it didn't. The only language such men respected was consequences.
Mu Qingyue took one step closer, gaze glacial.
"Uncle Zhao," she said, voice almost leisurely, "if I remember correctly… your son just graduated in S City, didn't he?"
Zhao San's breath caught. The rage on his face faltered, replaced by sudden alarm.
Mu Qingyue continued, tone light but deadly. "All it takes is one sentence from someone with the surname Mu, and you'll see how quickly every company becomes 'unable to hire him.' Tell me—who will dare offer him a job after that?"
The color drained from Zhao San's face.
His body went rigid as if a bucket of ice water had been poured down his spine. For all his bravado, for all his bullying, he understood one thing perfectly: his son's future was worth far more than his pride. No matter how much he wanted to retaliate, he could not gamble his child's life prospects on a moment of spite.
His shoulders sagged.
The fight leaked out of him like air from a punctured tire.
In the end, he swallowed his hatred, turned without another word, and went inside. A few minutes later, he returned with a tightly wrapped bundle—cash stuffed thickly within—and handed it over to Ma Hongli and his wife with a face so ugly it looked carved from bitterness.
Ma Hongli accepted the bundle with both hands. His expression was torn between relief and worry. He was happy to recover the money, but he couldn't ignore how dangerous that confrontation had been.
"Ayue," he said earnestly, "in the future… try not to lay hands on people so easily. Don't bring trouble onto yourself."
Mu Qingyue offered a faint, reassuring smile. "It's fine. I know what I'm doing."
Compared to the ruthless, intricate battles of a wealthy household—where smiles hid daggers and every meal could be a trap—disciplining one shameless debtor was hardly worth mentioning.
She accompanied her foster parents out of Zhao San's yard. They were visibly lighter now, walking with the buoyancy of people who had just recovered something they thought was lost. Yet as soon as they stepped outside, they found the lane crowded.
Villagers had already gathered, drawn by rumor like moths to a flame. Dozens of people stood around, craning their necks, whispering, smiling, eager for spectacle.
Zhao San had offended plenty of people over the years. He was notorious for arrogance and stinginess, and many villagers had suffered under his bullying. Now, seeing him finally subdued, the crowd erupted into delighted commentary. Some clapped openly. Others laughed behind their hands. A few even cheered.
Among the onlookers, some of the younger villagers whispered to each other in excited tones.
"Ayue has become so fierce," one murmured. "I remember before, she was always with Xiaonan. She barely spoke to anyone."
"Yeah," another agreed. "When we played games as kids, Xiaonan always acted like the princess, and everyone else had to be maids."
A third giggled. "Look at her now—Ayue is the real princess."
Mu Qingyue heard the words clearly, carried to her by the evening breeze.
She did not bask in them. She did not deny them either.
She simply smiled—slight, calm, unreadable.
"Let's go," she said to Ma Hongli and his wife.
The three of them walked home beneath the lowering sun, golden light pouring over the fields. The atmosphere was unexpectedly gentle, almost festive. A warmth settled in Mu Qingyue's chest—an old, familiar warmth she had not felt in years. It was the comfort of belonging, the quiet intimacy of walking beside people who truly cared whether she lived or died.
When they passed the small river outside the village, Ma Hongli chuckled, nostalgia softening his face.
"Ayue," he said, "you were mischievous when you were little. You loved catching fish in this river more than anything."
"Yes…" Mu Qingyue responded softly, her gaze drifting toward the water.
And then she paused.
On the far side of the riverbank, a striking luxury car stood out like a rare beast among farmland and wild grass. It did not belong here. Its sleek body gleamed even under the rural sun, polished to a mirror shine. The sight was so incongruous that it drew the eye immediately.
A moment later, a tall man stepped out of the car.
If he had merely been tall, Mu Qingyue might not have spared him more than a glance. She had seen plenty of wealthy men in expensive cars in her previous life; money often produced a certain predictable arrogance, a certain loudness.
But this man was different.
His presence was restrained—quiet, inward, almost shadowed. There was something subtly oppressive about him, not because he was overtly threatening, but because his aura was dense and contained, like a storm held behind a locked door. He did not resemble the bright, frivolous "rich young masters" she had encountered before. His temperament was darker, more withdrawn, as though he carried a private world no one else was invited to enter.
It made him impossible to ignore.
Ma family village was known as a scenic retreat. From time to time, wealthy people did come here to vacation, drawn by clean air and tranquil landscapes.
Mu Qingyue watched him, thoughtful.
I still have some extra pills, she calculated quietly. And I'm short on money right now…
If she could find an opportunity—just the right moment to speak—perhaps she could sell him something.
After all, if a man like that had come all the way here, it was likely he was seeking something he couldn't buy easily in the city.