Return Of The Legendary Overlord

Return of the Prodigal Son

Zi Han drove off with Zhen Lee in his personal Range Rover and headed down Qingcheng Boulevard, taking the underpass to save time. After a thirty-minute drive, they finally reached Majing Square, where Zi Han ordered Zhen Lee to stop the car.

The car rolled to a smooth halt outside a small pizzeria with the words ‘Uncle Sam’s Pizza’ scribbled on its display board.

Zi Han stepped out of the vehicle alone and ordered Zhen Lee and his men to stay put.

As he entered the pizzeria, he was immediately greeted by its owner, Ryler Smith.

“Oh, thank God you’re back. I was worried you might skip today, and we are already short on drivers,” he said, sighing with relief. “I already have three deliveries lined—”

“I am not here to work,” Zi Han replied, cutting him off. “I am actually here to quit.”

The words came as a shock to Ryler, who stood there gawking at Zi Han. For a moment he thought he had simply misheard him or it was some kind of a prank.

“Nice joke, man. Listen, I’ll pay you two hundred yuan extra for overtime this week. Just get dressed and pick up the orders on the table.” Ryler was about to walk back and ring up his customers when Zi Han called him back.

“I’m not joking. I don’t need this job anymore.”

Ryler turned around with a blank expression that gradually changed into a perplexed smile. “Huh, so you finally managed to find a better job. Good for you, man. I guess I’ll just clear your dues.”

“I don’t need the money,” Zi Han put in promptly. “Keep it.”

“It’s two thousand yuan. Are you sure?” Ryler stared at Zi Han in confusion. A broke college student refusing to take his final pay was unheard of and it left him struggling for words.

“I am sure. I don’t need the money. I just need a small favor,” Zi Han replied with perfect clarity.

Ryler nodded, trying to force a smile. But his mind was riddled with confusing thoughts. “What do you need?”

“Let me borrow one of your delivery bikes for a few hours. I’ll return it safe and sound by evening,” Zi Han replied.

***

Inside a small two-bedroom ground-floor apartment in Fenwick Housing Complex, an elderly man and his middle-aged wife were sitting in their stuffy living room, surrounded by stacks of papers and other unused junk.

Mr. Clayton was staring intently through his fogged-up spectacles and looking at a bill. His forehead was creased and greasy, and the little black hair on his face looked more like the whiskers of a cat than a mustache.

“You’ve been using the phone too much. The bill’s up to nine hundred yuan this month, and we also need to pay two hundred as late fees,” he declared in a gruff voice, his face scrunched up like an old bath sponge.

Mrs. Clayton gave him a nasty side-eye and scoffed from the kitchen. “Oh, it’s all because of me, is it? What about you hogging the T.V. all day and watching the stupid news for hours? Did you even check our electricity bill?” Hobbling into the living room, she set a bowl of watery chicken stew and some stale bread on the table. “Just blame everything on me and keep stuffing your face with food!”

Mr. Clayton sighed and crumped the telephone bill before tossing it into the waste paper basket. “If this goes on, we won’t be able to pay our mortgage on time. We are already late by a month.”

Mrs. Clayton’s initial thought was to tear into her husband and charge him for spending so much money on cigarettes every week, but she had a change of mind as her eyes fell on a half-cracked photo frame with a blurry picture inside it.

“It’s all because of that orphan boy we adopted. I told you to throw him out of the house when he turned seventeen, but you didn’t listen. That ungrateful pig didn’t even pay his rent on time!” he grumbled, glaring at Zi Han’s picture with such hatred it seemed like her eyes would pop out.

“Hell, you are right this time. I should have kicked that freeloading bastard out long ago,” Mr. Clayton muttered, slamming his fist onto the old wooden table in front. “Ever since he came here, he’s only brought us bad luck. I swear I should have just sold him off at one of those workhouses. At least I could have made some money out of that.”

“There is no point crying—”

Buzz!

A squeaky buzz from the doorbell interrupted their conversation, forcing Mrs. Clayton to shut up momentarily. She set her apron down on the couch and wiped her hands before reaching for the door.

“Who is it?” she barked, frustrated by the visitor.

“Good afternoon, madame. It’s me,” a refined voice answered from the other side.

As Mrs. Clayton opened the door, she found a man dressed in a plain white shirt and black tie standing outside. He smiled peevishly and tipped his black hat.

“It’s been a while, and you are late on your mortgage payments,” he said, looking over her shoulder and surveying the squalor inside the apartment. “Ah, Mr. Clayton’s here as well. Don’t be shy. Come on out.”

Mr. Clayton gulped the airy lump in his throat and joined his wife at the doorway. “We are really sorry, Mr. Meng. It’s just been a difficult few weeks. But I promise—”

“Ahh. Tut tut tut!” Mr. Meng, the chief loan officer from Minhang Bank, hushed him before he could make any excuses. “I don’t need your empty promises. I’m here to collect. If you don’t have the money, your other possessions will suffice.”

Before Mr. and Mrs. Clayton could utter another word, two rugged-looking men wearing low-neck tank tops pushed them aside and barged into their apartment.

Without bothering to explain anything, the duo began ransacking the place, looting every valuable item they could get their hands on.

Mrs. Clayton shrieked in a frenzied voice as she watched one of the thugs unplug her T.V. set while the other one picked up her new induction stove.

“This cannot be legal. You cannot do this!” she cried out.

“Just stop this already, or else I will call the authorities!” Mr. Clayton joined in.

But Mr. Meng remained unfazed. “We are a privately owned small finance bank. We can always ignore the legalities whenever it suits us. And you can call whoever you like,” he replied nonchalantly, hardly bothered by the couple’s pleas and threats.

As the two thugs were carrying the valuables out, a pizza delivery bike zoomed down the road and stopped in front of them.

Zi Han took off his helmet and stepped down.

“I am sorry for not coming home last night. What’s going on here?” he inquired, looking from one face to another.

Mr. Clayton clenched his fist and stomped outside. “I think I already told you not to come back here. You are no longer welcome in this house!” he yelled, glaring at Zi Han.

“Just look at what’s happening because you can’t even afford to pay your rent on time,” Mrs. Clayton muttered from behind. “Just get out of here before I lose my temper!”

Zi Han had gotten used to the insults by now, and just like before, he ignored them both and approached the loan officer.

“What seems to be the problem? Are they short on the payments?”

Mr. Meng took a cursory glance at Zi Han’s old, worn-out jacket and soiled jeans and replied, “Huh, I can see how you belong so perfectly in this dump. And to answer your question, yes, we do have a problem. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton’s mortgage payments have been due for the last three months.”

“How much do they owe the bank?” Zi Han asked casually.

“Ten installments of fifty thousand each,” Mr. Meng answered curtly. “And another fifty thousand for overdue fees.”

“What if I clear the entire payment now?” Zi Han asked. “Do you promise not to bother them again?”

Mr. Meng’s face stiffened, and he scoffed at Zi Han. “You really want me to believe you have that kind of money on you right now?”

“Oh, I don’t have anything on me right now. But it can be arranged.” Zi Han took out his battered phone and spoke to someone for a few seconds before disconnecting.

Seeing this ridiculous discussion, Mr. Clayton lost his calm and walked up to Zi Han. “Is this one of your sick jokes again? Do you think it’s funny? Get the hell out of here before I toss you into a dumpster!”

“Mr. Meng, please don’t mind this idiot. This boy has mental problems,” Mrs. Clayton joined in, pleading in her most womanly voice. “I beg you, please give us some more time. We can definitely work—”

Screech!

Before she could finish, two black SUVs screeched down the road and stopped right behind the loan officer’s white sedan.

Zhen Lee and twelve of his most trusted men stepped out of the vehicles and bowed to Zi Han.

“We are here, boss! What do you need?”

Seeing the dragon tattoos on their necks, everyone understood who these suited men were. Mr. Meng turned silent, and the two thugs accompanying him quickly dropped whatever they were carrying.

Mr. and Mrs. Clayton turned to stone, their hearts thumping nervously as they laid eyes on the gangsters bowing to Zi Han.

‘Why are they calling him their boss?’ Mrs. Clayton found no answer to her question but continued staring at the whole situation in disbelief.

Even Mr. Clayton didn’t dare move a muscle for fear of his life.

But Zi Han walked up to Zhen Lee and patted him on his back. “That’s alright, Zhen. Enough with the courtesies. I need some money. Fetch me the bags from the back.”

“Yes, boss!” Zhen Lee strutted off at once and came back, hauling two black suitcases. He placed them both on top of the car’s hood and flipped their locks.

Mr. and Mrs. Clayton gasped as Zhen Lee opened the suitcases filled with stacks of crisp 100-yuan notes.

Zi Han looked at Mr. Meng and said, “There’s one million yuan in there. I hope you accept cash.”

“We do,” Mr. Meng replied, flashing an unfiltered smile as he reached for the suitcases.

But Zi Han stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

“Just pay him already, darling,” Mrs. Clayton cooed in an unnaturally sweet voice, coaxing Zi Han like the mother he never had. “I always knew you were a good son, Zi Han.”

Zi Han chuckled at her words and turned to face her. “Oh, I will clear all the pending payments alright. But first, I need something in exchange,” he replied, flashing a sly grin.