Mike Sullivan moved to the side of the man and said softly, “Sir, think about it—if you appraised something for someone and they refused to pay, how would you feel?”

“If someone didn’t pay me, I’d just cut them down. But you, you’re not me. I’m a martial artist, and you’re nothing.”

The man looked at Mike Sullivan with utter contempt and sneered, “If it were an appraiser from the city, I’d pay whatever they asked. But you? I just won’t pay you—what can you do about it? I came to this godforsaken dump of a place, and that’s already giving you a huge honor.”

Mike Sullivan’s clean face, with its long, relaxed eyebrows, still wore a bright smile as he said, “So, you think I’m easy to bully and don’t want to pay?”

Chapter One: Don’t Even Think About Leaving Without Paying (Part 2)

The man looked at the smiling youth before him and, for no reason, shivered.

This young man looked so ordinary, but that smile—why did it make him feel uneasy?

He’d already said he wouldn’t pay and even threatened him, yet the boy was still smiling, so calmly. What was this youth relying on to be so composed?

Wait, what was he thinking!

The man shook his head and looked at the youth before him with arrogance.

A country bumpkin—what could he do even if he didn’t get paid? After all, he was a martial artist! And from the city, no less. Toward someone like Mike Sullivan, the man felt a natural sense of superiority.

“That’s right! I do think you’re easy to bully. You’re just a hick from the countryside—what can you do?”

Mike Sullivan kept smiling. “If you don’t pay, it’s not just me you’re refusing. You’re refusing to pay our whole village. This house was built by the uncles and elders of the village, who provided the labor and materials. The appraisal tools were bought with the villagers’ money. Every household in the village has a share in this shop. If you don’t pay, you’re bullying all the elders and folks of our village… Heh, I’m afraid you can’t afford the consequences!”

Mike Sullivan’s smile was radiant, but the man found it increasingly hateful and felt more and more uncomfortable.

This damn country bumpkin dares to threaten me?

Worst of all, he was actually starting to feel a little afraid… Realizing this, the man became furious out of embarrassment, clenched his fist, and waved it in front of Mike Sullivan: “So what if it’s your whole village? A bunch of country hicks—do you think you can stop me?”

“You’re welcome to try.” Mike Sullivan seemed not to notice the man’s threat and continued in a calm voice, “You’re not the first to refuse to pay after an appraisal, and I doubt you’ll be the last. But whether it was those before you, you, or anyone in the future, as long as they don’t pay, they won’t leave our village.”

These words, though harsh, were spoken so calmly, as if he were stating the most ordinary fact.

“Damn bumpkin, trying to scare me?” The man suddenly reached behind his back and drew his broadsword with a crisp “clang.” “I’m a martial artist, and I just won’t pay. Let’s see which of you hicks dares to stop me!”

With that, he gripped his broadsword and swaggered toward the exit.

“If you can walk out today, I’ll take your surname.” Mike Sullivan didn’t try to stop him. Instead, he turned and walked behind his appraisal table, grabbed a long rope, and gave it a hard pull.

“Dong… dong…”

At once, the deep sound of a bell echoed.

“The bell’s ringing—Mike Brooks is in trouble.”

“Someone’s come for an appraisal and won’t pay again. Let’s go.”

“Trying to bully someone from our village? Let’s go, everyone.”

The bell’s sound spread through the village. Whether resting at home, working in the fields, or tending livestock, villagers who heard the bell grabbed whatever tools were at hand and ran toward Mike Sullivan’s appraisal shop.

Outside the shop, the man had just stepped out, broadsword in hand, when three elderly farmers with hoes blocked his path.

“Haha, what a joke. Just you three old men think you can stop me?” The man swung his broadsword through the air, making a whooshing sound.

“If you don’t want me to cut off your heads and use them for kickballs, get lost!”

As soon as he finished speaking, the man’s eyes narrowed. In his line of sight, six more old farmers appeared, and these three were holding not hoes, but sickles.

Nine old farmers, and some had sickles—this was getting tricky. Even as a martial artist, if he wasn’t careful, he could get hurt.

The man quickly weighed the strength of both sides, just about to consider how to use his presence to scare these bumpkins off, when more villagers appeared in his view.

But in the blink of an eye, the path was packed with villagers. They surrounded him, holding hoes, sickles, pitchforks, shovels—whatever tools they used for work—completely encircling him.

He even spotted four or five villagers in the crowd holding crossbows.

Crossbows—those were weapons that could threaten his life!