Starting to Gain Experience from Push-Ups

The heart of the city under the night sky.

Tall buildings stand, neon lights flicker, like a flowing galaxy.

Amidst this, the top-floor office of a certain office building remains brightly lit.

It seems there are still people busy with work.

On the mirror-like marble floor lies a soft, thick woolen carpet.

On the wide mahogany desk sits a pure gold dragon-shaped ashtray.

Under the illumination of the crystal chandelier, it gives off a vulgar, ostentatious vibe.

On the wall behind the desk hangs a refined reproduction of "Thousand Miles of Rivers and Mountains".

The room's owner subtly reveals grand ambitions hidden within the ostentatious decor.

Xiao Shuai's hands are tied behind him with hemp rope, kneeling awkwardly in the corner.

His once fairly handsome face is bruised and swollen, eyes puffy, lips cracked, with still-drying blood.

Clearly, he has taken quite a beating since being brought here.

In the center of the room, five thugs guarding him are sitting around the coffee table in front of the sofa, smoking and loudly playing cards.

"Damn, a pair of Kings! Bomb it!"

"Shit, how are you winning again? Did you step in dog shit today?"

"Haha, give it here!"

A long-haired man with a cigarette in his mouth spreads his arms and swiftly sweeps all the money on the table toward himself.

He's the same thug who previously threatened Xiao Shuai with a dagger and smashed his head with a baseball bat.

"Ah Fei, are you cheating or what?"

The tall, skinny guy who lost money protests, swearing as he gets up.

He walks over to the corner and kicks Xiao Shuai, cursing viciously:

"It's all your bad luck transferring to me, damn it!"

Xiao Shuai grunts and curls up in pain, like a cooked prawn, cold sweat dripping from his brow.

But he bites his teeth hard, not uttering a single plea.

The others on the sofa watch and instead of stopping, they laugh mockingly:

"Ah Quan, can't win and take it out on someone, huh?"

"Yeah, look at you, putting so much effort even in giving Brother Xiao Shuai a massage."

At this moment, the scar-faced man speaks:

"Alright, go easy, the boss still wants to question him later. Who's going to clean up if you kill him?"

Upon hearing this, Ah Quan reluctantly lowers his leg.

Another thug with dyed yellow hair blows a smoke ring and impatiently asks:

"Scar Brother, we've been waiting all afternoon, why isn't the Gang Leader here yet?"

"Yeah, didn't the Gang Leader tell us to bring him over?"

Others can't help but mutter.

"Be patient."

The scar-faced man explains:

"When I called the boss this afternoon, Secretary Liu said he was entertaining a very important guest. At night, he'll probably still be accompanying them for dinner, drinks, and a sauna."

"Oh—"

The group, upon hearing this, immediately shows understanding with lewd smiles.

Just then, there is a faint sound of footsteps outside the heavy office door.

It seems someone is walking toward them.

The noise suddenly ceases.

The thugs, who were just sprawled out and cursing,

in the next second, spring up from the sofa as if electrified.

Some hurriedly stuff cards and cash from the coffee table into drawers, others frantically snuff out their cigarette butts in the ashtray.

They quickly tidy up and stand straight, looking solemnly at the door.

Click.

The door lock turns and the door is pushed open from the outside.

Three people walk in thereafter.

The one leading is a slender middle-aged man.

With his signature mustache, he's dressed in a well-tailored gray suit and wears gold-rimmed glasses.

This attire should appear cultured and elegant, but the eyes behind the glasses exude a sinister ruthlessness.

This forms a stark, discordant contrast with his outfit, full of an indomitable wild aura of the Martial World.

Two people follow behind him.

One, a young man also wearing glasses, with a professional smile on his face, carrying a briefcase, exudes restrained energy, giving off a "refined beast" vibe.

The other is a towering, muscular powerhouse, whose mere presence exudes a strong sense of oppression.

"Boss!", "Gang Leader!"

The scar-faced man hurriedly leads the others in bowing respectfully and greets.

"How many times do I have to tell you, call me Chairman!"

The middle-aged man frowns slightly, reprimanding them as he walks straight to the power-symbolizing large desk.

The person is the Red Tiger Gang Leader, now the Chairman of the "Yuanchen Group"—Chen Chen.

"Yes, Chairman!"

Hearing this, everyone corrects themselves.

Chen Chen sits down, takes off his glasses, and casually places them on the desk.

He then forcefully tugs at his tie and exhales a long, turbid breath.

Earlier at the hotel, in order to please a "noble" from a top aristocratic family, he nearly broke his back bending over.

That person's natural air of nobility, the look that regarded him as nothing more than a pig or dog, exerted an intangible pressure that still lingers in his heart.

But there's no choice. For the sake of his fortune and future, to climb higher, this opportunity must be embraced tightly.

Chen Chen swore bitterly in his heart:

Just wait. Once I hold real power, it'll be your turn to grovel at my feet!

Suppressing the surging in his heart, Chen Chen lifts his gaze, sweeping the office with his eyes.

"Right, where's the person I asked you to invite today?"