Chapter 75: The Artistic Youth Prefers Not to Encounter the Clueless Youth in the Restroom

While waiting quietly, Boss Li slipped on his headphones, their large, hip-hop-styled ear cups emblazoned with a logo. As he bobbed his head alone, he managed to be both conspicuous and understated—a paradox, really, given his flamboyant, explosive attire. Yet everyone quickly adapted to this extravagant and flashy fellow.

He ordered a pitcher of local dark beer, took a sip, and raised his brows. “Well, not bad. This is good.” The aroma of malt and caramel was distinct yet not overwhelming, the bitterness just right; it was clearly tailored for the local palate. That sandy mouthfeel brought a comforting sense of cheap, familiar beer. “Water beer” might lack flavor, but some breweries managed to deliver that sandy bite, and after a long day, it was just the freshness that workers craved.

This deliberate adjustment of beer’s flavor was impressive; the bar owner must be a decent sort. No one requested songs, so the resident musicians had a chance to rest, though the drummer kept a gentle rhythm going, preventing the atmosphere from becoming too dull. Occasionally someone would sing, filling the place with comfort.

No wonder it was so popular: when the crowd was lively, they’d play a song to boost the mood—a few minutes of exuberance, then collective cooling down. There was a method to it. And since it wasn’t one of those pitch-black nightclubs with blaring beats, the clientele, even if not “successful types,” were at least “cultured folk.”

Boss Li wondered: with business this good, wasn’t anyone causing trouble here?

Just then, his headphones played “Sweet Dreams” by Eurythmics—a track he’d recently drawn after spending ten thousand reputation points. At first, he didn’t even recognize the song, but when the intro started, he realized it was “that Quicksilver tune.” He didn’t know the Eurythmics, nor had he heard of them; before crossing over, he’d just listened to anything while gaming, letting it be background noise.

Now, though, listening to these familiar-but-unperformed songs from his previous life was intriguing.

The food at “The Beacon Wolf’s Den” was plentiful; dozens of snacks were offered. Boss Li ordered a plate of fennel beans, then sat at table sixty-six in his hip-hop robe, eating slowly. He soon ordered another plate—truly delicious. Later, he asked for “Anhui-style fried rice,” loaded with salty pork cubes; a spoonful contained meat, peas, corn, carrots, shrimp—everything one could want.

And then… he simply ate.

Looping the “Quicksilver tune,” to outsiders he looked like just another youth in baggy clothes, acting the fool. Had Boss Li taken off his clothes, they’d have guessed there was a hefty layer of fat beneath.

Once his meal was finished, and the “Quicksilver tune” had looped countless times, a large, imposing group entered the bar. Sunglasses-and-black-suit bodyguards led the way, followed by a man with slicked-back hair and shades, one hand in his pocket. He was all smiles, hugging those who greeted him, his voice loud and brash.

“Where’s Xue Xuanqing? I want to hear a song I wrote tonight. We’re all artists, let’s share a bit.”

Yang Ying—what a character.

An artist, of all things?

Boss Li was genuinely shocked. He quickly checked his phone and discovered that Yang Ying, chairman of “Great Enterprise Film,” had, back in university, performed under the stage name “Amo,” frequently writing folk songs. He’d even been popular for a time, sparking a craze for “Spring River Folk” music.

Well, damn.

So he was an artistic youth after all? But if so, why was his behavior so idiotic?

Boss Li kept his composure, still listening to his headphones, sipping beer and nibbling snacks, his fingers twitching idly. That’s hip-hop style—what else do you expect?

But when the resident singer Xue Xuanqing picked up his guitar and began playing, the bar fell silent, and Boss Li put on a look of earnest attention.

“The river at dusk… calm and smooth.”
“Looking from afar…”
“It seems unmoving…”
“The shore~~”
“Is blooming with spring flowers~”
…

Not bad.

Though it was folk music, the melody carried real strength, far more grand than “campus folk,” and Xue Xuanqing’s clear enunciation hinted at rock influences beneath. It was a curious feeling.

Boss Li, the unsophisticated bumpkin with no knowledge of music, could still tell this was a good song—no need for an artist’s forced explanation to recognize its worth.

“Damn…”

Feeling moved, Boss Li munched on sticky rice twists, thinking: this bastard really does have something. Maybe I won’t torment him tonight—just break a leg and leave.

When artistic types cause trouble, they can be as destructive as any fool.

“Who knows where this pond leads…”
“If it’s the Han River, I wish to meet its goddess.”
“If it’s the Xiang River, I’d greet Ehuang and Nuying…”

Xue Xuanqing ended with a repeated humming, not much technique, just a final slide—leaving a lingering sense of longing. The song finished.

“Thank you.”

Xue Xuanqing, with impeccable poise, stood and smiled, thanking the crowd amid their cheers. The atmosphere was truly superb.

But damn, when would Yang Ying go to the restroom?

Forget it. No need to wait.

Boss Li would wait for him in the restroom!

He refused to believe it wouldn’t work.

Wearing his headphones, he played a round of “League of Kings” in the restroom, broke through three enemy bases, and was just about to push when Yang Ying finally came in to relieve himself.

Three bodyguards remained outside, one inside, who knocked on every stall door. Boss Li, feigning annoyance, yelled, “Are you nuts?!”

“Sorry,” the bodyguard replied politely. Yang Ying didn’t care; he was used to it.

But just as Yang Ying started to urinate, Boss Li pressed the flush, cursed, and pushed the door open, grumbling, “Can’t even use the bathroom in peace?”

“Sorry, sir, I—”

Bang!

A powerful hook struck the bodyguard’s neck—Boss Li could have crushed his throat for an instant kill, but he hadn’t planned on murder, even for Yang Ying’s men.

Yang Ying hesitated, only to see a “fat nerd” in hip-hop gear and oversized headphones charge the restroom door, landing a left front kick, a right whip kick, and a left jab.

The three bodyguards outside were caught off guard, instantly incapacitated. Their holstered pistols were visible, but it was no easy task to recover.

After all, Boss Li was naturally strong!

“You fucking—”

Smack!

Before Yang Ying could bark, Boss Li slapped him, dislocating his jaw. The blow was so forceful it may have even caused a mild concussion.

As Yang Ying reeled, still urinating, sprawled on the floor like a scene from a European city street, Boss Li cursed, grabbed a baton, and began striking Yang Ying’s left leg.

One crack, two cracks, three—Yang Ying’s adrenaline numbed the pain, and he lost consciousness.

Li pulled on rubber gloves, gave Yang Ying’s head a kick for good measure, then leapt, climbed out the window, and disappeared.

To avoid surveillance, he ducked into an alley, hugging the blind spots, then scaled the exterior of a building to a loft rooftop. There, crouched beside a water tank, he stripped off his hip-hop clothes, tucked himself into a corner, and set them alight with a match.