Chapter 72: Odorous Feet

“I’m clearly a bona fide European, so why am I so unlucky?”
“Is it really true that mysticism can’t save the unlucky, and money can’t change fate?”
“Does this mean I, Zhen Youcai, am doomed to be a failure all my life?”
At this point, the chubby youth’s emotions suddenly flared. His whole body shook as he shouted, “No! I don’t believe it!”
“From now on, I’ll stop believing in God, in Allah, in anything but myself. My fate is mine to command, not Heaven’s!”
He sprang madly to his feet, flailing his arms and legs, the entire room echoing with his deranged laughter: “Ahahaha, ahahahaha!”
“Money! I’ll spend money! I refuse to accept that I’m destined to be unlucky all my life!”
Suddenly, a glint in his eye caught sight of a figurine on the coffee table, one he had splurged on just a few days ago.
It was a group of muscular Black men, dressed in suits and ties, top hats on their heads, white gloves on their hands.
Their faces beamed with exuberant smiles as they carried a coffin, feet dancing in exuberant rhythm.
The craftsmanship of the figurine was exquisite, each of the men’s features and expressions captured with lifelike detail.
Especially their dark faces and bright, piercing eyes—all of them staring intently in Zhen Youcai’s direction.
A faint, mocking smile played at the corners of their mouths, as if ridiculing him, and Zhen Youcai’s anger only grew.
Was this the legendary... the Stare of the African?
Hmm... it did seem like the Stare of the African.
“Ha! Now I finally get it!” In that instant, Zhen Youcai felt enlightened.
It was an uncanny sensation, as if possessed by a young reaper; he, Zhen Youcai, had uncovered the truth.
“With you lot staring at me, how could I possibly get lucky? So that’s what’s really going on.”
His face flushed, patches of red blooming across his pale skin, making him look like a drunkard.
“I knew it! As a genuine European, there’s no way I could be this unlucky!”
With his confidence restored, Zhen Youcai tossed the figurine that had cursed his luck straight into the trash without a second thought.
That expensive figurine he’d bought in a moment of weakness was now blacklisted, banished forever from his sight.
Just then, his phone rang. The name on the screen was Katerina.
“Hello, Sis?” Zhen Youcai answered at once, though his mood was still low from his recent frustrations.
“We have to hunt down a disaster entity, but so far we only have a rough area, not its exact location,” Katerina got straight to the point about work, wasting no words.
“I’ll send you the target’s photo and information shortly. Keep an eye out for my message.”
“Got it,” Zhen Youcai replied, listless but compliant.
After all, this was a task assigned by his sister. No matter how reluctant he felt, he had to see it through.
Sensing his foul mood, Katerina fell silent for a moment on the other end.
“All right, how about this—if you find Hu’s whereabouts as quickly as possible, once my work here is done, I’ll come over and help you draw an SSR. How’s that sound?”
“Really?” Zhen Youcai’s voice shot up in excitement.
In that moment, it was as if he’d found a lifeline. Tears of gratitude welled up in his eyes.
Because although his sister Katerina was also pretty unlucky, she was still far luckier than he.
The only SSR he had ever drawn was thanks to Katerina’s help.
“Of course it’s true,” Katerina assured him.

In fact, she had no desire to trek all the way to Zhen Youcai’s place just to summon those silly spirits for him.
But what could she do, with such an incorrigible little brother obsessed with this nonsense?
To fully motivate him to work, she had no choice but to bribe him with this promise.
“Deal!” Zhen Youcai said hurriedly, hanging up at once.
He dashed to his computer desk in a whirlwind.
A minute later... he had hacked into the city network of H City and accessed the entire surveillance system.
“Kid, it’s just your bad luck to run into me at this time,” he muttered with a smirk.
He picked up his phone, studied the photo Katerina sent, committing Hu’s face to memory.
With a steely resolve, he began clattering away at the keyboard, fingers flying.
In no time, with the area Katerina had outlined, he pinpointed Hu’s current location.
“Sorry, man! I used to have no choice, but now I just want to draw an SSR,” the chubby youth sneered.

...

With a clear “ding,” Katerina’s phone chimed with a new message.
A location appeared on her screen—sent by Zhen Youcai.
From the moment she hung up to receiving the message, not two minutes had passed.
What’s two minutes, you ask?
It meant that before Chang Yu could even finish half a cigarette, their tracking work was done.
“Looks like we can’t underestimate that guy Zhen Youcai,” Chang Yu chuckled, flicking his half-smoked cigarette to the ground and stomping it out.
A notorious criminal the police had hunted for five years, and Zhen Youcai found him in the time it took to smoke half a cigarette?
If that’s not impressive, what is?
“Let’s go,” Chang Yu tugged at Feng Sanpao, who was still dazed beside him.
“Huh? Oh! You found him already?” Feng Sanpao snapped out of his daze, looking astonished.
Following the navigation, the group trailed after Katerina through winding streets and alleys.
At last, they stopped outside an old-fashioned traditional medicine clinic.
According to the coordinates, this was where Hu was hiding—their target and their journey’s end.
The group entered the clinic as if preparing for a confrontation, nerves taut as they scanned their surroundings.
The shop was small, barely more than a dozen square meters.
Inside were four hard wooden beds, clearly aged, with peeling paint in many places.
There were only two people in the room—one lying on a bed, the other standing beside him.
The man on the bed wore a mask and sunglasses, obscuring most of his face and making it hard to distinguish his features.
He was shirtless, with various sizes of cupping jars all over his back, groaning softly on the bed.
The man standing beside him was balding, with only a sparse ring of hair left on his scalp.
Dressed in a dingy white coat, he held a transparent jar in one hand and a burning alcohol swab in the other.
The bald man swiftly placed the swab into the jar to heat it, then with a crisp “pop,” pressed the jar onto the patient’s back—a smooth, practiced motion that bespoke a master’s skill.
“Hiss—” The man on the bed winced at the heat, then let out a satisfied sigh.
“Hey, Old Li, your skills are just amazing. The jars you set always feel so good,” he said, his brows knit in a mix of pain and pleasure.
“Well, my reputation as Iron Hand Li is well-deserved,” the standing man boasted glibly.
“Back in the day, I did cupping for sows for five years, and those pigs squealed every time!”
Chang Yu couldn’t help but laugh at the scene. So their target, Hu, had come for cupping therapy.
There were only two people in the room. The standing one was Dr. Li, so their target had to be the one lying on the bed. Chang Yu quickly confirmed it.
Suddenly, Dr. Li sniffed the air, a look of extreme discomfort appearing on his face.
“Do you smell something? Ugh, ugh!” Dr. Li gagged, retching a few times, and the jar in his hand fell to the floor and shattered.
“Ugh, ugh!” Hu’s body convulsed involuntarily, and he too began to retch.
“I... I smell it too,” he croaked between spasms. “Old Li, did you just let one rip?”
“That smell... isn’t it a bit strong? Like a can of aged surströmming opened after twenty years.”
“Nonsense!” Dr. Li’s face turned purple with the effort not to gag, nearly giving himself a heart attack. “Don’t you slander me! I didn’t fart!”
“If you ask me, it was you who farted and now you’re blaming me.”
“Hey, Old Li, you think I’d wrong you?” Now it was Hu’s turn to bristle.
“I’m an honest man, I own up to everything. If I really did fart, what’s there to hide?”
As the two, once harmonious, began bickering ever more fiercely, their argument threatened to escalate into a brawl.
Chang Yu felt he had a duty to help build a harmonious society, and to stop this quarrel before it spiraled out of control.
“Um... I think you’re both right. Neither of you farted,” Chang Yu interjected, moving closer.
“Who are you?” Dr. Li turned, startled by Chang Yu’s face suddenly looming near.
Chang Yu wore the expression of a well-meaning mediator, with two wads of tissue stuffed up his nostrils.
All in all, he looked anything but normal.
“Who we are doesn’t matter,” Chang Yu smiled at Dr. Li. “What matters is—the smell isn’t from either of you.”
“If not us, then was it you?” Dr. Li adjusted his glasses, convinced he’d uncovered the truth.
“No... Old Li,” Hu croaked from the bed before Chang Yu could reply.
“We were all wrong. That’s not a fart, that’s this gentleman’s foot odor.”
As he spoke, Hu stared wide-eyed at a pair of feet in slippers approaching his bedside.
Instantly, he was blinded by the thick black fumes wafting from those feet.
“Sir, could you please put your shoes back on? The smell is unbearable!”
Assaulted by the stench, Hu found even breathing difficult, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Hey! You’ve got nerve, kid!” came a gruff, menacing voice from above Hu’s head, brimming with indignation.
The next moment, the world spun.
Everything around him blurred and twisted.
When his vision cleared, Hu was shocked to find himself hauled off the bed.
“No one has ever dared call my feet smelly to my face,” Shi Chengjin growled, his stubbly chin inches from Hu’s face, enunciating each word. “You’re finished today—even if the King of Heaven himself came, he couldn’t save you!”
A shower of spit, laced with the stench of bad breath, sprayed all over Hu’s face, utterly shattering his composure.