Zhang Songyang froze for a moment after reading the message, narrowing his eyes as he rubbed the stubble on his chin.
In all his years as a con artist, he’d never seen anyone this foolish.
Getting scammed was one thing—but after being swindled, not only did the guy fail to realize he’d been duped, he actually wanted to send the scammer bottles of Moutai.
A single bottle of Moutai went for nearly two thousand yuan on the market. Two bottles would fetch close to four grand if resold.
And this kid had mentioned borrowing from online lenders too—by now, debt collectors were probably pounding on his door.
Yet here he was, in the middle of all that, offering to send Moutai. That meant he still hadn’t given up hope—still believed the scammer could help him make money, and that the profits would pay off his loans…
The logic checked out. Most people who fell for scams were the ones looking for something for nothing—same psychology as gamblers. So it made perfect sense.
After a quick mental analysis, Zhang Songyang didn’t hesitate for a second. He fired back a reply:
“To be honest, the reason I didn’t respond before was that I was afraid you’d back out at the last minute. The funds are already in the market now, and this is the prime time to make money. Pulling out now would mean huge losses—for both of us. But the fact that you’ve come to see that means you’re finally starting to get it.”
He sent the message and sat in front of his computer, mulling over Jiang Chuan’s mindset as he waited for a reply.
Ding-dong.
A new message arrived.
Jiang Chuan: “Boss, you’re absolutely right. I was short-sighted before, and I’m truly sorry. Anyway, could you send me your address? I’ll place the order and have the liquor delivered to you right away. I don’t want to drag this out—these are expensive bottles, and if I accidentally break one, all my good intentions would go to waste.”
Reading the reply, Zhang Songyang let out a cold chuckle.
He could say with near certainty now—this kid was a fool through and through.
He’d originally planned to play polite, maybe decline out of courtesy. But at this point, turning down the offer would be an insult to himself—and an insult to the Moutai.
“Alright, since you’re so insistent, have someone deliver it to this address: Qinghai Residences…”
After sending the message, Zhang Songyang stretched comfortably in his chair.
Then he stood up, shut down his computer, and walked out of the office.
“Keep an eye on things here. Call me if anything comes up. I’m heading out,” he told his employees before leaving the company.
The address he’d given Jiang Chuan was for one of his several properties in the city—one he rarely used. Even if Jiang Chuan showed up in person, it wouldn’t matter; Zhang Songyang could just lay low at one of his other places.
As a seasoned con artist, he had at least that much caution.
Inside the rental apartment.
Jiang Chuan stared at the address the scammer had sent, a twisted smile mixing with the venom on his face.
Greedy bastard. The moment he heard “Moutai,” he’d practically tripped over himself to send the address.
Not that Jiang Chuan was complaining. The fact that the scammer was in the same city made delivery much easier.
He’d been worried earlier that the guy might be in another province. Sending the Desert Eagle by courier would’ve been a nightmare—these days, you not only need ID to ship packages, but they also check what’s inside.
If the courier had discovered he was shipping a Desert Eagle, the scammer wouldn’t have been the one scared—Jiang Chuan would’ve been the one in handcuffs.
But since they were in the same city, he could just send the bodyguard the system had given him. It’d be simpler, and he’d also get a look at the scammer’s place.
Glancing over at the Desert Eagle resting on the sofa, the cold smile on Jiang Chuan’s face deepened.
When that scumbag opened the package and found not Moutai, but a very real Desert Eagle, he’d probably wet himself—and he’d be more than happy to return every penny.
After a moment’s thought, Jiang Chuan got up, grabbed a delivery box from his room about the size of a Moutai gift bag, and packed it so it looked like an ordinary parcel.
Then he wrapped the Desert Eagle in layers upon layers of padding—from the outside, no one would ever guess it was a gun.
Once everything was ready, he said, “System, it’s time to bring out the bodyguard.”
The moment the words left his mouth—
The space in front of Jiang Chuan twisted and warped, as if reality itself had been torn open.
Then, from within that distorted space, a burly figure emerged: a man in a black suit, black sunglasses, with a square, imposing face. He stood a full head taller than Jiang Chuan and looked built like a tank.
Jiang Chuan swallowed hard.
He himself was 1.84 meters tall—and this guy looked at least 1.9 meters, with a frame that radiated pure intimidation. Just standing there, the man exuded an overwhelming sense of pressure.
Now this is a bodyguard, Jiang Chuan thought. Looks the part, that’s for sure.
“Hello, boss,” the bodyguard said, bowing respectfully.
Jiang Chuan blinked, then smiled. “What should I call you?”
“Whatever you’d like, boss,” the man replied in a deep, resonant voice.
Jiang Chuan thought for a second. “From now on, I’ll call you Jason Statham.”
“Understood, boss.” Jason Statham’s expression remained perfectly neutral.
“Don’t call me boss—just call me Jiang Ge,” Jiang Chuan said.
“Understood, Jiang Ge.” Still stone-faced.
Jiang Chuan ignored Statham’s lack of expression and fell into thought for a moment.
Sending Jason Statham to deliver the Desert Eagle as-is probably wasn’t the best idea. The guy looked way too conspicuous—nobody would ever mistake him for a delivery driver.
After mulling it over, Jiang Chuan pulled out his phone and placed an order on a delivery platform.
Knock, knock, knock.
At the sound of the knock, Jiang Chuan opened the security door.
“Hello, your delivery is here. Please give me a five-star rating!” the delivery guy said with a smile.
Jiang Chuan took the food, sizing up the rider. He grinned. “Hey man, how about I give you 200 bucks and you sell me your jacket?”
The delivery guy’s smile froze. “Huh?”
Then, out of nowhere, the rider noticed a hulking, fierce-looking brute in sunglasses standing silently behind Jiang Chuan.
Qinghai Residences, Building 3, 5th Floor.
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open, and a burly man in a delivery uniform—broad-shouldered, tough-looking, with an almost menacing face—stepped out carrying a large box. He glanced at the door numbers and walked straight to Unit 501.
He raised a thick, heavy palm and pounded on the door, bellowing in a gruff voice: “Hello! Open up—package delivery!”
But after knocking for a good while, no one answered.
The big man checked the time on his phone, looked at the box in his hands, then gritted his teeth, set the box down by the door, and hurriedly ducked back into the elevator.
Only after the elevator had gone down did Zhang Songyang emerge from the stairwell.
He walked quietly to Unit 501, glanced up at the elevator display to confirm it had indeed descended, then turned his attention to the box sitting by the door.
He studied the shipping label—the address matched the one he’d given Jiang Chuan. He picked up the box and gave it a light heft.
Looks fine. Weight feels about right.
No question—this had to be the Moutai from Jiang Chuan.
Grinning with satisfaction, Zhang Songyang scooped up the box and stepped inside Unit 501.
