Qin Haoran leaned heavily on his ironwood cane, hobbling across the hospital lobby toward Lin Mo.
His face was pale from his cracked ribs, but his eyes burned with relentless, desperate energy.
“Brother Mo!” Qin Haoran pleaded, his voice carrying to every corner of the reception hall. “You have to help me! Just give me one name! Who is being bullied in this city? Whose factory is going bankrupt? Whose medical bill needs paying? I will jump into another mudslide right now!”
Old General Qin let out a deep, rumbling chuckle, shaking his head.
The old commander walked over and placed a heavy, calloused hand on his grandson’s uninjured shoulder.
“Calm down, boy,” Old General Qin barked with gruff affection. “Virtue is not a sprint. You started at sixty-two. A sixty-two is a useless playboy who only knows how to spend money on fast cars and champagne. Today you hit seventy-five. A seventy-five is a man who stands up for his family and protects the innocent.”
Qin Haoran winced as he shifted his weight, his ribs throbbing beneath the tight herbal wraps.
“Grandpa, you don’t understand,” Qin Haoran groaned, looking at the glowing archway screen. “Seventy-five is still in the red zone! Five more points and I hit eighty! If I hit eighty, Brother Mo’s card will swipe for me! I can be part of the Taichu family!”
