"Get lost for me, grandpa! Every time I come to Fragrant Mansion to eat, I'm in private room number eight," he fumed. "Eight is my lucky number, and no matter who is dining inside right now, I want them to scram immediately."
"Brother Chang, how about you accommodate us just for tonight? Your entire expense at Fragrant Mansion will be on the house today. After all, someone is already eating inside, and it doesn't seem right to rush people out so abruptly, right?"
"Are you implying that Chang Yishui can't afford a meal? Now even a lowly server at Fragrant Mansion dares to challenge me, Chang Yishui? That's bloody hilarious."
With a loud "Bang!" a male server in his twenties was sent flying through the door of private room number eight, crashing heavily onto the floor. He curled up on the ground, clutching his stomach with both hands, occasionally letting out cries of pain—it was clear he had sustained a heavy blow to the abdomen.
