Chapter 13: The Second Unlucky Soul

Don’t underestimate this U-shaped lock. Though it looks plain and ordinary, it used to be nothing more than a psychological comfort for Mo Fei when he rode his electric scooter, but it’s heavy and fits well in the hand. The curve of the U-grip is just right, and the lock head is solid metal—when swung, its impact is anything but minor. Now that it’s rusted, it’s practically enchanted with tetanus, doubling its lethality.

Most importantly, it’s not a regulated weapon. No modification needed, low barrier to use. Some weapons—sharpened screwdrivers, steel pens, flashy knuckle dusters, pepper spray, even stun guns—just carrying them marks you as someone prepared. If you fight back and cause injury, that can easily be used against you in court.

But the U-shaped lock doesn’t carry such risks. If someone tries to attack me, and I grab a lock and knock them out, isn’t that perfectly reasonable? No one could say I was armed and waiting. This thing is tailor-made for self-defense.

Mo Fei was very satisfied. From now on, he’d go to work carrying his lock—even though he didn’t own a bicycle. The scooter it once guarded had its battery stolen, and unable to afford a replacement, he’d hauled it off to the scrap yard.

Thinking of this, Mo Fei stroked the U-shaped lock, his expression slipping for a moment. That little scooter had been with him from university to graduation, and he would never forgive those criminals!

Over at the shoot, Mo Fei’s scenes weren’t as numerous as the lead’s. Most of the time, he just needed to show his face and was done, far more relaxed than the main actors. After the discovery of a severed limb in the film base—quickly resolved though it was—the cast had all been affected, unable to get into the right state.

Director Wang was so furious his eyes nearly popped out. Turning around, he saw the props team huddled together, trembling and avoiding the storage room. He had no choice but to shoot exterior scenes to lighten the mood.

This scene was a road sequence. The main group drives toward an abandoned village, setting up various flags for themselves and showcasing tangled romantic relationships. Mo Fei looked at the script, where arrows traced relationships so convoluted they nearly formed a flower. His head spun.

Trite! Yet… somehow interesting.

He chuckled, burying his face in the script, trying to untangle the web of connections.

After reporting in, Director Wang set up the equipment on a stretch of usually deserted road.

There weren’t many road scenes, just a couple of days’ work. This spot was closer to Mo Fei’s old neighborhood than the film base. He arrived, lock in hand, riding a shared bike—plain and unassuming.

As the fifth male lead, his scenes were few, essentially serving as a background prop. Perfect, Mo Fei was quite content.

The only downside was during lunch breaks, the old man remained wary, keeping a sharp eye on Mo Fei as if afraid he’d steal a boxed meal.

Was he really that sort of person? Still, with the old man watching so closely, his plan to nab an extra lunch fell through.

Mo Fei squatted by the roadside, eating. Though the road was closed to traffic, it was safer not to eat in the middle of it—responsible for his own safety.

Night scenes awaited—time to perk up.

Director Wang glanced over and saw Mo Fei utterly absorbed in his meal, staring at the lunchbox with such intensity that Wang began to wonder: was it really that delicious?

Not far from that stretch of road, someone staggered along. Clearly in a bad way, one hand clutching his ribs, gasping for breath, filthy and disheveled, long hair hanging in tangled strands.

Less than a kilometer behind, two men dressed as laborers followed, tracking him with sticks.

One cursed, “What’s wrong with you? A couple of smacks and you’re terrified.”

“The goods are prime—if something happens, how are we supposed to sell?” the other retorted. “Got to offload before she dies.”

If she really died, it wouldn’t matter much, but not making money was a loss. This one was truly top quality.

The first licked his lips, his eyes glinting fiercely. “When we catch her, we’ll beat her again, then contact the buyer.”

“Damn, educated ones fetch a higher price, but they really cause trouble.”

The fleeing “goods” knew well that if she couldn’t escape, being caught would mean disaster. But after two days with nothing but water and a beating, she was dizzy and weak, her legs leaden, moving forward on sheer willpower.

Beside the road was a patch of wild grass and wasteland. The hunted “goods” could no longer tell direction, relying only on instinct.

From above, you’d see the distance between her and her pursuers shrinking. Just ahead—only a few dozen meters—was the film crew, while a pair of eyes watched from the shadows.

Just as the two pursuers were about to spot her, a slender figure burst from the weeds and tackled her to the ground.

The collision was unexpected, landing right on her wound. She nearly blacked out with pain, letting out a muffled groan.

Rough hands groped her crude and quick, followed by a curse: “Damn it—male?!”

“Why does a guy have long hair? Screw you, you freak.”

The attacker, after cursing, raised a carpenter’s axe, ready to finish what he saw as a pervert. The two pursuers arrived.

Seeing the sudden appearance of this wild card, both sides hesitated.

Pinned to the ground, the unlucky soul gritted his teeth and forced out, “Bro—help me.”

That spark ignited the scene. The two pursuers thought the axe-wielder was his brother; the axe-wielder thought the two with sticks were his brother. The atmosphere shifted instantly.

Though small in stature, the axe-wielder was fierce and ruthless. Without a word, he swung his axe at the two.

Though the pursuers were used to fighting and trafficking, they’d never faced someone who came at them so murderously.

They dodged, swinging their sticks, trying to subdue him.

The axe-wielder was clearly desperate. With one hand holding the axe, the other grabbing a stick, he ignored the second man and chased the one whose stick he’d caught, hacking at him—blood soon flowed.

The other swung his stick at the axe-wielder’s head several times, but with a quick turn, the axe-wielder countered with another blow.

The scent of blood spread.

The unfortunate soul on the ground gasped for air, then tried to scramble away. The axe-wielder spotted him, accelerating his attacks.

He wanted to finish these two, then send that freak down to join them!

A gust of wind swept by. Waiting for his scene, Mo Fei sniffed the air.

He glanced at the lunchbox man, who defensively pressed down on the food cart.

Mo Fei walked straight over and asked, “Is our food made here?”