HDRDTH -Chapter 82 The Old Fox’s Final Trump Card

The door opened.

Wang Dafu, a half-eaten greasy chicken leg dangling from his mouth, froze the moment he saw the people outside. He even forgot to chew. The fat on his face trembled twice.

Two men stood at the door.

The man in front had white hair. His Armani suit was wrinkled like pickled cabbage, and his crocodile-leather shoes were caked with thick yellow mud. He looked completely worn down, like someone who had reached the end of the road.

Behind him stood a younger man, shrinking his neck, his right arm in a cast—the same arrogant troublemaker from yesterday at the fishing gear shop, Zhou Kai.

The man in front was Lin Jianguo, chairman of Xinghuang Entertainment.

“Thud.”

Without the slightest hesitation, Lin Jianguo’s knees gave out. He dropped straight onto the cold marble steps.

Wang Dafu took a step back, nearly dropping his chicken leg.

“Mr. Yu.” Lin Jianguo’s voice was hoarse, his forehead pressed against the steps. “I failed to discipline my subordinate. I’ve brought this beast here to apologize.”

He suddenly grabbed Zhou Kai by the collar and dragged him down onto his knees, forcing his head to slam toward the ground.

Inside the living room, Yu Xian didn’t even turn around.

He was holding a soup ladle in his right hand, calmly skimming the oil floating on the surface of a clay pot stew.

“Old Su, the heat’s been five minutes too long. Chicken gets tough if overcooked.”

Su Wanyi, wearing an apron, quickly jotted it down in her notebook.

“Next time add two slices of codonopsis for flavor. Cut the goji berries in half.”

Yu Xian scooped another spoonful, blew on it, and took a slow sip with satisfaction.

Outside, Lin Jianguo listened to the casual conversation about chicken soup. Cold sweat soaked through his shirt.

All his shady money-laundering accounts had been torn apart overnight by economic investigators. When the big shots in Beijing heard he had offended someone surnamed Yu in Jiangcheng, they hung up faster than if they had seen a ghost.

One old comrade with a shred of conscience only said one thing before cutting the call:

“That man can get a provincial military district to send helicopters and can make state media personally blacklist someone. And you still want to run? Go kneel now.”

Lin Jianguo knew then—he was finished.

“Mr. Yu.” Lin Jianguo crawled forward on his knees half a meter, holding out a thick stack of documents. “Thirty percent of Xinghuang’s shares, plus three villas under my name. Please show mercy.”

Yu Xian put down the soup ladle and strolled to the doorway in anti-slip slippers, leaning casually against the frame.

“President Lin, page twelve. Priority buyback rights.”

Lin Jianguo’s hand trembled.

Yu Xian raised a finger and pointed at the contract from a distance.

“Page nineteen. Voting restriction clause. My shares have no proposal rights.”

He bent a second finger.

“Page twenty-three is more interesting. Performance gamble clause. If targets aren’t met in three years, the shares are automatically reclaimed.”

Three fingers.

Lin Jianguo’s face went from pale to ash-gray. He couldn’t utter a single word.

“Stop flipping through it. These kindergarten-level tricks went out of style twenty years ago.”

Yu Xian’s tone was calm.

“Why would I want your shares? So I can attend meetings and listen to your fake accounting reports every day?”

He glanced at Lin Jianguo.

“Take the contract back. Rewrite it.”

Lin Jianguo raised his head, eyes filled with despair. “Just tell me what you want. Anything Xinghuang has.”

“Alright. First.”

Yu Xian raised one finger.

“The rights to five thousand songs in Xinghuang’s catalog are to be transferred free of charge to Wu Fei’s personal studio. Permanent, full transfer.”

A faint gasp came from the stairway on the second floor.

Wu Fei stood gripping the railing, her knuckles white.

She understood exactly what that catalog meant. With it, she would no longer be just a singer—but someone holding half the music industry in her hands.

This man, while casually crushing an entertainment empire, was also paving her final step toward the throne.

“Second.”

Yu Xian raised another finger.

“My daughter Su Xi is about to start a national tour. All Xinghuang theaters and billboard screens will provide unconditional promotion.”

Lin Jianguo’s throat bobbed.

Those were the lifeblood of Xinghuang. But he had no choice.

“Sign it, or go spend fifteen years sewing uniforms in prison. Your choice.”

Yu Xian took a sip of room-temperature water.

Choice? What choice did he have?

“I’ll sign.”

Lin Jianguo closed his eyes. Two lines of old tears ran down his wrinkled face.

Without hesitation.

“Get lost. And don’t let me see this floral shirt again in Jiangcheng.”

Yu Xian turned and walked back inside.

Zhou Kai heard those words, and his pants immediately soaked through. He collapsed on the steps, a foul stench spreading in the night air.

Lin Jianguo kept bowing and dragging the limp Zhou Kai away, disappearing miserably down the mountain path.

Yu Xian stood at the doorway, nostrils twitching as the smell drifted in on the wind. His disgust was practically overflowing.

He stepped back three paces and grabbed a bottle of disinfectant spray, blasting the air wildly.

“Dafu, stop standing there. Go get the hose from the backyard.”

Wang Dafu, staring at the mess on the ground, twitched his cheek.

“Dad… maybe we should hire a cleaning service tomorrow?”

“Do you think cleaning services are free?”

Yu Xian leaned against the doorframe, giving him a sideways look.

“Hurry up. Wash it clean, then spray perfume three times. If that smell gets into the dining room, you can forget about your chicken soup tonight.”

“Alright, I’m on it!”

Wang Dafu shrank his neck and ran to the backyard.

A high-pressure stream of water blasted out, washing away what was left of Xinghuang Entertainment’s last shred of dignity down the drain.

Only then did Yu Xian finally relax, shutting the heavy security door behind him.

“Old Su, bring some sandalwood. This place is barely livable now.”

Wu Fei stood at the stairway, watching Yu Xian’s obsessive disgust at the smell—more upset about it than about destroying a corporate empire—and couldn’t help but laugh.

That laugh dissolved all the earlier tension and fear, leaving only a strangely warm feeling.

“This man… is really interesting,” she murmured softly, eyes lingering on his broad back.

Just then, Wang Dafu walked past carrying a bucket.

“Miss Fei, that look is suspicious,” he teased. “You staring at my dad like that—what, planning to become his second wife?”

“Get lost and carry your feed!”

Wu Fei shot him a glare, flustered, and turned to go upstairs.

The doorbell rang again.

A military off-road vehicle stopped outside the courtyard.

Major Chu Feng strode up the steps, holding a black velvet box.

“Mr. Yu.”

He snapped a salute.

“The joint commendation from the provincial department and military district has been approved.”

“If there’s no cash reward, don’t bother bringing it in,” Yu Xian said while wiping his hands. “My 28,000 yuan fishing rod is still lying at the bottom of Black Dragon Pond. I’m still heartbroken.”

“Five hundred thousand yuan in cash has already been credited.”

Chu Feng extended the box forward slightly.

“But this thing… is worth ten thousand times more than that.”

Yu Xian raised an eyebrow and opened the lid.

His hand froze mid-air.