Lord of Solva: Players as My Pawns

"Jerry, I need a favor."

On the other side of the call, Jerry sat up properly in his chair. In front of him, a row of people immediately became alert. His gaze swept over them for a second before he raised his finger, motioning for them to leave. Without a single word, the entire room emptied out.

He leaned back, placing his boots on the table, and exhaled. "Shaoran… you fker. You stopped talking to me after you hooked up with Tanisha. Now you're calling me after all this time, no 'hi,' no 'how are you,' just straight up asking for a favor?"

"Well," Shaoran's voice came through the speaker, calm as ever, "do I need to ask that? You, Jerry… every time you step out of your fking room, it becomes local news. I just need to turn on a TV channel, and they're already talking about what you had for dinner."

Jerry clicked his tongue. "Tsk. Can't argue with that."

The two fell into a small argument, the usual bickering of old friends, insults flying back and forth. But even in the irritation, there was familiarity.

After a brief pause, Jerry leaned forward. "So, what's up? Why'd you call me?"

Shaoran hesitated for a few moments. His voice was steady but carried a weight behind it. "I'm going to start a gaming company. I'll give you 30% shares."

Jerry narrowed his eyes. "Ohhh? That doesn't sound like you. There's more to it, isn't there? If it was just a simple startup, you wouldn't have called me. How much money do you need?"

Silence stretched between them.

"Yes, there's more," Shaoran finally admitted. "I need your help with a lot of things. But I don't know how much I can tell you right now. There's a lot to discuss—come to my place."

Jerry stared at the phone for a second before lowering it. Without a word, he opened his desk drawer, pulled out his golden Desert Eagle, and stood up. The door swung open, and a dozen fully armed men inside the hallway immediately straightened.

"Boss?" one of them asked.

Jerry glanced at them and nodded. "We're taking the helicopter. City 403."

"Yes, boss."

Within moments, the entire base stirred into motion. Helicopters roared to life, their blades cutting through the night air like a storm. Twenty helicopters took off simultaneously from his secret base, forming a formation above the city. Below, several armored cars rolled onto the streets, their engines growling like beasts.

Inside one of the helicopters, Jerry leaned back against his seat, tapping his fingers on the scar on his hand. His mind wandered back to the past—to Africa, to the betrayal.

Surrounded by government soldiers. Tied to a chair, beaten, bones cracked, hope slipping away. Then, out of nowhere—

A man appeared.

Not with guns. Not with grenades. But with kitchen knives.

One by one, he killed them all.

When Jerry asked him later why the hell he didn't use a gun, Shaoran had simply said, "Couldn't find a gun shop willing to sell me one."

Jerry chuckled, shaking his head. "A perfect assassin, but sometimes a complete idiot."

By the time Jerry reached City 403, the sky had already darkened. The neon lights of the bustling metropolis flickered across the streets, reflecting off the polished surfaces of luxury cars and high-rise buildings.

His phone buzzed—a text from Shaoran.

"Meet me at Uncle Bai's stall. His burgers didn't sell today, so he's offering 50% off."

Jerry stared at the message, unsure if he should laugh or cry.

He glanced out the window of the helicopter as they neared the landing zone. The bright city below stretched endlessly, yet Shaoran had chosen some run-down burger stall for their meeting. Typical.

With a smooth descent, the helicopter touched down in an open space near the rendezvous point. Jerry stepped out and immediately noticed a convoy of cars waiting for him, black SUVs lined up in disciplined formation.

He entered one of the vehicles, resting against the seat as he called his security personnel.

"Hmm, how many people do we have now?"

A voice came through the earpiece. "Boss, we brought around 170 people with us. 130 are moving with the convoy, the rest are with the choppers."

"Hmm. Okay." Jerry exhaled, rubbing his temple. "We're going to Chinatown. Contact the Triads. Tell them to keep their men in check."

"Already done, boss. Mister Xiao has invited you to his club."

Jerry nodded, but instead of heading to the club, the convoy drove toward an old street corner where a broken-down burger stall stood.

There, under the dim glow of a flickering streetlight, sat Shaoran—eating chicken wings like he had all the time in the world.

Jerry felt cynical. This bastard had called him all the way here for burgers?!

He stepped out of the SUV, signaling his men to stay back for now.

As he approached, an old man suddenly emerged from behind the stall. His weathered hands reached out, and before Jerry could react, the man wrapped him in a bear hug.

Crack.

Jerry felt his bones protest, his spine nearly snapping in half.

His bodyguards instantly reacted, stepping out of their cars, guns raised, fingers on the trigger.

But the sight before them made their blood run cold.

The old man slapped Jerry's back so hard that the sound echoed through the street. Yet Jerry—who had endured bullets, knives, and explosions—didn't flinch.

Instead, Jerry sighed and looked at the old man. "You fat old bastard, you almost broke my ribs."

The old man grinned, showing crooked teeth. "You brat, you forgot your Uncle after growing up! Look at you, all skin and bones! You're not even eating properly!"

He turned his gaze toward the armed guards, his eyes full of amusement. "And what's with all these toy guns? You planning to rob me?"

The bodyguards exchanged nervous glances. Jerry simply raised a hand, motioning them to lower their weapons.

"Relax," Jerry muttered before sitting beside Shaoran.

Everyone else followed suit. Some grabbed whatever chairs were available, while others simply sat on the pavement, turning the once-quiet street into a lively gathering spot.

Uncle Bai fired up the stove, flames roaring high as he tossed ingredients onto the sizzling pan. The scent of fried onions, grilled meat, and toasted buns filled the air.

In no time, burgers were flying through the kitchen.

Jerry caught one mid-air, barely reacting before taking a bite.

The moment the flavor hit his tongue, nostalgia slammed into him.

A memory of his childhood—of sneaking out late at night, of eating burgers with Shaoran after pulling off reckless stunts, of Uncle Bai yelling at them to pay their tab.

For a brief second, Jerry forgot why he had even come here.