Chapter 27: The Expression of My Wasteful Sister

In order to show his respect for the Demon King, even after the last equipment trailer had departed and the place had truly become an abandoned factory devoid of people, Fourth Brother Huo remained, keeping vigil at Ma Weimin’s side.

At this moment, Fourth Brother Huo was like a child, wanting to initiate some conversation with the Demon King, yet not knowing what to say and fearing he might say the wrong thing. The atmosphere, as a result, was rather awkward.

Little Ma himself felt his scalp tingling, striving not to meet anyone’s gaze, not uttering a single word, posturing with a turned shoulder, pretending to be aloof.

The Demon King’s resentment was dissipating, and naturally, so was his aura. Even Little Ma could not control this process. According to a certain someone’s “report,” Ni Feihong, before leaving, had muttered about “letting Little Ma go.” What a calamity she was; somehow, she always managed to stir up this body’s emotions. When she was muddle-headed, the body harbored resentment; conversely, when she showed concern, it became joyous, and the resentment faded away at a maddening speed.

Now, pondering Ni Feihong’s odiousness was useless—it was like developing drug resistance, bizarre and inexplicable.

“Second Brother, do you intend to remain vanished?” Fourth Brother Huo couldn’t help but ask, “Did something happen in the family, making you deliberately avoid certain things?”

Not only was Fourth Brother Huo suspicious, but Little Ma himself harbored doubts. Unfortunately, this body gave no hints whatsoever.

Not knowing how to answer, Little Ma recalled his earlier claim that “Ma Jiaohong doesn’t care for him.”

He continued his act, lifting a hand to signal, “Don’t babble. If you have questions, ask Ma Jiaohong.”

Fourth Brother Huo was mortified, thinking he’d be crazy to go interrogate that madwoman, and decided against it.

He had plenty more to ask, but anticipated the reply, “Do I look like someone who enjoys explaining things?” so he abandoned the thought.

Moreover, Fourth Brother Huo had no desire to linger with him for no reason. Seeing the Demon King had no intention of speaking, he simply waved his hand and departed with his people.

As the sound of Fourth Brother Huo’s convoy faded into the distance, Little Ma breathed a sigh of relief, feeling almost exhausted, with sweaty palms.

He was truly nervous; no one knew what predicament this body was facing, but for Little Ma, it was always a pack of wolves, the kind that could devour him in an instant.

Little Ma carefully analyzed the limited conversation just now and the earliest family trust document, and now he could basically confirm that Ma Jiaohong was a very important, highly intimidating, and formidable woman.

In theory, she should belong to the Demon King’s faction, but only in theory.

From Little Ma’s perspective, she was an unknown, mysterious realm, the uncertainty lying in this: if the early trust document was really drafted by the Demon King, Ma Jiaohong holding twenty percent of the family shares meant she was the successor.

But what if the document wasn’t drafted by the Demon King’s will? What if, as in some historical dramas, the successor was appointed by someone else when the Demon King was no longer lucid?

No one knew what the Demon King truly thought, but Little Ma, with his persecuted paranoia, had plenty of reason to doubt.

In any case, he knew far too little about the family affairs, yet dared not seek more, because as he investigated others, these old foxes and monsters were also investigating him. According to military doctrine, when the enemy knows your trump cards, it usually means the showdown begins!

That inevitably meant casualties—and many.

“Better keep my distance from them.”

Little Ma’s head throbbed; he didn’t want to think anymore, so he patted his head and left the scene.

Damn—

No sooner had Little Ma stepped out of the factory than he felt his feet slip, and was taken down by a grappling move coupled with a sweeping kick.

His assailant pressed a knee forcefully onto his back, twisted his arms behind him, and locked him in handcuffs.

The presence of handcuffs, not a knife, suggested his attacker was a police officer—at least he wouldn’t die. So Little Ma’s nerves relaxed once more.

He was flipped over, and a flashlight shone in his face.

“So it’s you, kid?” came the voice of Zhang Jing, the female anti-terror officer.

“Officer Zhang, you’re here! Thank you for coming to look after me.” For all her roughness, Little Ma felt a measure of relief at her arrival.

Immediately, his head rang with sharp slaps from Zhang Jing.

Little Ma was filled with resentment toward her, but dared not voice it aloud—experience taught him that sarcasm would only invite her wrath. Instead, he cursed her silently, drawing circles in his mind: Damn woman, may you lose your wallet every day, forget your keys daily, misplace your documents, be stuck in traffic for three hours, and be haunted by erotic dreams every night.

“You brat, reporting false alarms and wasting my expressions.”

Without another word, Zhang Jing dragged him into the warehouse by one foot, letting him remain sprawled on the ground.

Little Ma was on the verge of tears. Wasn’t it said that the eighteen bronze monks of Shaolin don’t accept female disciples? Yet she clearly had their training—apart from not using a bench to strike people, even her method of dragging him off was identical.

He really had enough!

Once inside, Zhang Jing ignored him, flashlight in one hand, service pistol in the other, crossing them to form her unique defensive barrier as she moved about, searching.

Little Ma felt a chill in his chest. Was all this anxiety necessary? With her jumpy temperament, he worried she’d forget he was lying there and, upon turning, shoot him by mistake. If that happened, he’d die in vain.

To avoid such a disaster, Little Ma kept humming and muttering, pestering and insulting her—not out of enmity, but to maintain his presence, so she wouldn’t forget “Little Ma is lying here.” Otherwise, he might really take a bullet.

“Stop your whining,” Zhang Jing insisted as she remained alert, scanning the area. “I’m searching for threats. Don’t distract me.”

“You’re the biggest threat here, what are you searching for? Someone like you, in a fantasy scenario, could easily kill a dragon,” Little Ma continued to nag, asserting his existence.

Eventually, nothing happened; Zhang Jing found the circuit breaker, flipped the switch, and—miraculously—there was still power, illuminating the whole abandoned factory.

After a quick scan, Zhang Jing holstered her gun. She didn’t abuse Little Ma further; instead, somewhat embarrassed, she said, “Don’t read too much into it. I’m from the anti-terror unit—this is a reflex. I know why you were blabbering just now.”

Little Ma nodded, indicating his understanding.

But the respite was brief; as soon as he was hauled to his feet, she slapped him on the back of the head.

Though he didn’t cry, Little Ma was furious, “Damn it, hit me again and I’ll fight you.”

Zhang Jing replied, “Not lacking in temper, are you? You tricked me with a false report, called me dozens of times while I was on duty, and left messages? Wasting my expressions, right? I show up and there’s nothing.”

Little Ma was embarrassed; during the apparent crisis, he’d tried to call her, only to find her phone switched off. In desperation, he left a message with the address, claiming, “There’s a fight and kidnapping, hurry and save me.”

In the end, he’d forgotten all about it, never imagining she would actually come. She was late, but still—she came alone?