Rampaging Through the Heavens: Starting by sending Chan Ho-nam to Stanley

Chapter 213 The Inside Story

The audience won't buy it.

Their anger surged like a tidal wave; some threw beer cans into the ring, others threw folding chairs into the arena, and still others pushed forward as if they wanted to rush into the ring and tear Peter to pieces.

The security guards, holding hands, stood between the stands and the ring, but were pushed and swayed by the crowd.

Peter stood on the stage, looking at everything in a daze.

Before long, Peter stood in the wrestling ring owner's office.

The office was small, but very messy.

A huge mahogany desk occupied two-thirds of the room, with a jumble of things on it: ledgers, calculators, banknotes tied with rubber bands, half-eaten sandwiches, and several empty beer cans.

A cheap oil painting hangs on the wall, depicting several horses running on the grassland. The frame is crooked, and no one is there to fix it.

In the corner was an old safe, its door open, and the inside was empty.

Peter stood in front of the desk, his hands hanging at his sides, his fingers slightly curled.

He hadn't changed out of his wrestling outfit yet—it was a tight-fitting red bodysuit with a spider pattern on the chest.

The clothes were very thin, and I could feel the cold air from the air conditioner seeping in through the gaps in the fabric; it was chilly.

The boss was sitting behind the table counting money.

He was a fat, bald man in his fifties, wearing a wrinkled plaid shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows, revealing two thick, hairy arms.

His fingers were thick, but he counted money very quickly; with a flick of his thumb and forefinger, a banknote would flip over with a rustling sound.

A crisp "snap" sound.

He glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw Peter walk in. Without looking up, he pulled a banknote from the stack of bills on the table with two fingers and casually tossed it onto the table.

Franklin, one hundred dollars.

The banknote slid a short distance on the table before hitting the calculator and coming to a stop, with one corner slightly curled up.

Peter stared blankly at the banknote.

He picked up the Franklin note, pinched one corner between his fingers, and held it up to his eyes to examine it.

Then he watched with anticipation as the boss counted the money.

That stack of banknotes must have been worth at least seven or eight thousand yuan.

He thought the boss was counting the remaining two thousand nine hundred dollars that belonged to him.

The boss stopped what he was doing, looked up at Peter.

Those small eyes held a kind of annoyance that seemed to say, "Why haven't you left yet?"

His lips moved, and he uttered a few words.

"Get out of here."

Peter was stunned.

"Didn't GG say there was three thousand dollars?"

His voice was a little tight, as if something was stuck in his throat.

He clutched the Franklin note so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

What's more, he just defeated the Big Mac on stage.

That behemoth that everyone said was invincible was taken down by him in less than two minutes.

He deserves more money.

You only got a fraction of the money?

The boss chuckled dismissively, gathered the stack of banknotes in front of him, crossed his arms in front of his stomach, and leaned back in his chair.

The chair creaked under the weight.

"Read that 'GG' carefully."

His voice was slow and deliberate, as if he were explaining something to a child who couldn't understand human speech.

"GG ​​says—three minutes, three thousand dollars."

He spoke slowly and deliberately.

"You only took two minutes."

He spread his hands, his face showing a "Do I need to teach you this?" expression.

"So, you're lucky to have received a Franklin."

Peter clenched his fists.

He understood perfectly; the fat man was playing a trick on him.

The game advertised 3,000 RMB for three minutes. He won, even faster than three minutes, but instead of getting more money, he didn't even get the original 3,000 RMB.

I only took one hundred yuan.

What can I buy?

How many tanks of gasoline can you buy?

Is it enough to cover a month's insurance premium?

He needs this money.

He was waiting for the money to buy a car and take Mary Jane out for fun.

"I need this money!"

His voice was louder than he had expected, echoing in the small office.

The boss wasn't intimidated at all.

He didn't even change his posture; he was still leaning back in his chair with his hands on his stomach.

The corners of his mouth even curled up slightly, revealing an expression that said, "What can you do to me?"

"This is not my problem."

His voice was soft and slow, but every word struck Peter's chest like a stone.

It clearly states on GG: three minutes, three thousand dollars.

If it didn't even take three minutes, then it wasn't three thousand yuan.

As for him beating the Big Mac? GG doesn't say there's a bonus for winning.

It only took three minutes to write on GG.

He was always best at handling inexperienced youngsters.

You can tell just by looking at Peter's outfit—a tight-fitting bodysuit with a spider pattern—that he doesn't even have the money to buy a decent set of clothes.

These kinds of people are the easiest to deal with. Give them a little something and they'll rush forward; give them a slap and they'll behave.

Peter stared at him, his chest heaving.

Their eyes met in the air.

One was angry, the other was contemptuous.

The boss's eyes were small but bright, like two glass beads floating in water, carrying a sense of "I've seen plenty of people like you."

He knew Peter would leave. Kids like that always leave eventually.

They'd hurl a few insults, glare at him, and then slink away.

Just as the two were locked in a stalemate, the door opened.

They pushed the door open without knocking.

A refined-looking man walked in.

He wore a dark gray suit, well-tailored, made of fine fabric, and his tie was tied meticulously.

Her hair was combed back, revealing a smooth forehead and a pair of shrewd eyes.

His skin was very fair, his fingers were long and slender, and his nails were neatly trimmed.

He looked like he had just walked out of a financial company's annual meeting, completely out of place in this dirty and chaotic underground wrestling arena.

Peter was still staring intently at the wrestling ring owner, but the owner sprang up from his chair as if he had been springed up by a spring.

"Mr. James."

His voice carried a deliberately lowered respect, his waist was slightly bent, and his hands hung at his sides, like a dog seeing its master.

The man called James ignored him.

He didn't even glance at the boss.

She simply turned slightly to make room and introduced herself to the other man following behind her.

"Mr. Chen, this is our underground wrestling arena."

His tone was completely different from before. If he was condescending and indifferent when speaking to the boss, now he was cautiously respectful.

"Within the group, the wrestling ring is one of the businesses with lower risk and more stable cash flow."

He stretched out his hand, palm open, as if inviting the other party to inspect it.

When making the introduction, James's face was just as respectful as the wrestling ring owner's.

No, it's even worse than that.

He bent his waist lower, his voice softer, and his smile more cautious.