Chapter Sixteen: So This Is What Satan Really Looks Like

Alas—there’s an old saying: it’s not ignorance that’s frightening, but being startled out of your wits. Even I, the first-generation Fiendish Corpse King, was taken aback by the sudden apparition of this grim reaper phasing through the wall. You tell me, does this fellow look like he has what it takes to be a reaper? I’d wager his method for collecting souls in the West is to sneak in unnoticed and give people such a fright they drop dead on the spot—saves him the trouble of doing any real work.

First, this character got me beaten up twice in the car, and now he’s scared me half to death. My temper flared, and I grabbed the reaper’s tail and gave it a fierce yank.

I expected him to resist, but instead he pleaded, “Brother, brother, please, if you pull off my tail, who’s going to let you out of here?”

As soon as I heard he was here to free us, I was overjoyed. I let go of his tail and said, “Ah, right, I haven’t asked your name yet.”

“Eh, my name must be known to everyone on Earth. I’m Satan, the Great Demon King who once ranked second among the Western powers. How about it, kid? Are you scared now?” As Satan finished, he actually struck a pose and winked at me, as if he were flirting.

I slapped him straight into the wall and said, “You, the Great Demon King? Then why are you playing reaper instead of ruling as a king?”

No sooner had I spoken than Satan crawled out from the crack and said, “Good question. You know who Caesar is, don’t you? The Western underworld was built by Lord Caesar and us demon kings together. If I’m following Caesar, what else am I supposed to do but serve as a reaper?” Then he added, “Someone’s coming—I’ve got to go.” With that, he vanished through the wall.

Moments after Satan left, the door opened and five burly men in suits walked in.

The leader, a man with a crew cut and a lit cigar dangling from his mouth, asked, “Which one of you is Hu Xiaodong?”

I almost said, “Are you blind? One Chinese, one foreigner—who do you think is Hu Xiaodong?” Of course, I didn’t say that. I just replied, “That’s me. What do you want?”

The crew-cut man took a deep drag of his cigar, filling the small room with its pungent aroma.

Then, with a nod from the leader, four men in black sunglasses stepped forward, each grabbing one of my arms and dragging me into the interrogation room. Clearly, these men meant business.

Even the local police chief treated them with deference—it was obvious they’d been well bribed.

The so-called interrogation room—a place for examining suspects—was more like a torture chamber. Once you entered, these officers wouldn’t hesitate to use force.

As soon as I was hauled in and heard the door slam shut, a club swept toward my waist.

Damn, they weren’t holding back. If I’d been an ordinary person, my spine would’ve snapped right then. Luckily, I could handle it. Flattened to the ground by their blow, I looked up to see the crew-cut man still chewing on his foul cigar, his beady eyes narrowed at me as he said, “Kid, of all the people you could’ve messed with, you had to pick President Gao’s son. If we don’t break one of your legs, President Gao won’t pay us this month. For our sake, just grit your teeth and bear it, ha.” He signaled his men to bring the club down on my left leg.

I couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly. “You really think you can break my leg with your little club? You’d need a broadsword, and even then you’d have trouble cutting through the legs of the Fiendish Corpse King.”

As they puzzled over why my leg wasn’t breaking, the interrogation room door burst open. Eight even larger men in suits strode in, each wearing a gold badge on their tie—the character ‘Ran’ on the badge made it clear they were with Erpeng.

These enforcers from the Ran Group were obviously summoned by Erpeng’s father. Their leader, with a soldier’s bearing, hands clasped behind his back, directed the other seven to take down the four thugs from Gao’s company.

Seeing the tables turn, the crew-cut man fell to his knees, kowtowing and begging, “I didn’t know who I was dealing with! Please have mercy!”

I dusted myself off and said, “Weren’t you just so tough? What’s the matter, lost your nerve? That won’t do. Guys, give him a taste of his own medicine.” At my word, the eight men set upon the crew-cut thug, leaving him wailing for mercy.

When they were done, one of the Ran Group’s men pulled a contract from his pocket and tossed it at the crew-cut man. “Our contract is void. Tell your boss our chairman is buying out his shares. He should retire while he still can—Ran Group already controls seventy percent of Gao’s company. Tell him to prepare for bankruptcy.” Without another word, they left, pausing only to tell me I was free to go.

I breathed a sigh of relief, left the interrogation room with my head held high, and collected Te from the holding cell so we could leave the police station together. As we walked out, I thought, “Erpeng’s efficiency is impressive—he’s a friend worth having.”

There were still several miles between us and the foot of Kunlun Mountain. Walking wasn’t an option—it seemed we’d have to wait until nightfall, the only time our preferred mode of transportation would appear.

Right now, the biggest concern was Te’s long robe. While I understood his attachment to it, anyone else would think he was crazy. Still, with my archaeological training, I figured the robe might fetch a good price.

So we headed to the nearest antique shop.

The shop was small and quiet, but the moment we entered, the plump, balding owner greeted us with a grin stretching to his ears. He launched into a rapid-fire sales pitch: “Are you here to sell, browse, pick, or choose antiques? We’ve got everything from the Qin and Han dynasties to the late Qing and Republic era. What sort of antique are you interested in selling?”

I had to hand it to him—despite his short, stout frame and shining scalp, his eloquence reminded me of a famous talent show host. He was wasted selling antiques in this tiny shop.

We stared at him in surprise as he twirled his mustache, clearly waiting for our response.

Te, being a foreigner, probably hadn’t understood a word—he’d spoken too quickly. I, on the other hand, caught every syllable. We weren’t here to buy antiques, but to sell them.

I shook my head and said, “No, no, no! We’re here to sell something. Boss, come take a look at this robe.” I gestured to Te’s garment.

Hearing we were sellers, the owner puffed out his chest and strutted over, magnifying glass in hand, to inspect the robe up and down.

Only Te, as a foreigner, could remain unfazed under such scrutiny; if it had been me, I would’ve knocked the sleazy owner out cold.

After a while, the owner’s expression grew increasingly astonished. He hurriedly locked the door, hung a “Closed” sign, and ushered us into a secret room. Clearly, he was a crafty sort—probably running an illicit operation from here. No ordinary shop could survive in such a small town without some under-the-table dealings.

He took a suit from the rack and handed it to Te, who changed out of the robe and left it on the table.

The suit looked utterly ridiculous on Te’s tall frame. The short, fat man’s suit made him look like he’d shrunk two sizes, the collar choking him, sleeves and pants comically short. Anyone who saw him would think, “This foreigner’s a real oddball.”

We didn’t care about appearances and asked the owner how much the robe was worth.

He kept that sly smile, pinching his mustache as he said, “No rush, no rush. Clearly, you two aren’t ordinary folk—what’s the hurry? Let’s introduce ourselves. I am Wang Jingtian, eighty-second generation disciple of the Southern Mao School.”

Damn, before becoming a fiendish corpse, I’d never heard of all these so-called Southern Mao and Northern Ma sects. Now it seemed they were everywhere.

At that moment, a young man in his early twenties entered, greeted Wang Jingtian as “Grand Uncle,” and introduced himself as Wang Sheng, eighty-third generation disciple of the Southern Mao School.

Great, another one. I was thoroughly exasperated. “Alright, alright, I get it. Just tell me how much the robe is worth—we’re in a hurry.”

Without another word, Wang Jingtian pulled a bank card and a slip of paper with the PIN from inside the robe and handed them to me. “This robe is priceless, but you seem pressed for cash. There’s four hundred thousand in this card—use it as you need. If that’s not enough, come back another day.”

...

(I won’t say much more here—after all, with daily updates and constant requests, I feel a bit embarrassed~)