These traveling performers need to get paid, or someone will come to cause trouble, and the audience will disperse, and they won’t earn anything. They have no choice but to pay up. That man thought Qi Shejiang was young and out selling his art for the first time and said, “Our godmother is celebrating her birthday; little brother, just give a couple of bucks.” Qi Shejiang knew this, but he hesitated. It sounds simple when he says two bucks, but for many families, that’s the cost of several days of groceries.
Yet, just now, he had worked up a sweat and barely earned a little over one buck. The joy of earning some money just moments ago vanished in smoke, and Qi Shejiang pinched his pocket, reluctant to agree; this money was too important for his current family situation.
“What’s wrong, kid? Not happy?” That little rogue could read the mood, and upon seeing Qi Shejiang’s expression, his face changed, reaching out to grab his collar, “What are you? Do you dare to refuse our big brother’s invitation? Do you still want to perform in Jun City?”
Qi Shejiang had to stand on tiptoe; before he could say anything, he saw a hand stretch from beside his ear to the rogue’s face. One hand is no big deal, but the key was that this hand held a long, pitch-black spear, the tip pressing firmly against the rogue’s chin. The little thug’s legs went weak, his hands raised, and he dared not move a muscle, his nose almost dripping: “M-M-Master, please spare my life…”
In Jun City, there aren’t many who can swagger down the street with a gun, pointing it at someone casually.
