Counterfeit Hero

"Weren’t you going to throw us out by our hair? Screw that, come on, throw us out now!" Fatty stretched out his neck, offering his head to the middle-aged man, chirping defiantly.

Fatty has never been a paragon of virtue, nor has he been groomed since childhood as what one might call ’cultured’ or, to put it plainly, an elite aristocrat with enough cunning and strategy.

In fact, nobody should expect a child who lost his parents at the age of six and faced the world alone, to possess any noble ethics of repaying grievances with virtue. He had no adult guidance, no adult protection. He didn’t even know what was right or wrong. All his experiences were learned from getting sidelong glances and beatings.

He is sensitive, insecure, and vain. He has no ambitions, let alone any noble temperament. He only possesses thick skin that protects his dignity firmly and a patch of pure green land in his heart. At most, he spends a bit more dreaming of being a petty bully with henchmen and stubbornly refuses to be bullied as a commoner in reality.

Fatty’s IQ is quite high, and his early independent confrontation with society made him quickly grasp some simple truths.

He doesn’t get upset about the private booking because the world is inherently unfair, and it has never been fair. Some people will never own a piece of Fanani clothing in their lifetime, while others can buy one, wear it once, and toss it aside like a shoe. Fatty understood this truth the day he realized others had parents while his parents had vanished from his life. Otherwise, why did other children have parents when his own disappeared?

On that day, the little Fatty, who had been timid under his parents’ care, possessing endless weird fantasies, cried the entire day hidden in a corner where nobody could find him, and then began to stubbornly confront the world. Almost starting from that day, Fatty grew up.

When some wealthy kids showed off their toys in front of him, the six or seven-year-old Fatty would usually turn and leave, sneering internally with disdain.

"Show off what?! Who the hell is six years old and still playing with toys?!"

"Once I have money, I’m gonna buy the world’s biggest inflatable doll company. Then every day I’ll eat in the design department and sleep on the production line! All the dolls will be mine! Mine!"

Precisely because Fatty had developed this good mentality of amusing himself with many distractions from a young age, he never hated power nor envied the rich. Moreover, the fact is, now he has already become a nouveau riche. If needed, he could happily engage in activities like private bookings, not for the quiet clothing selection, but purely for showing off.

The reason he hits people is simple: because he feels like it.

He’s not a gentleman, nor does he aspire to be one. Knocking out the arrogant thugs before him is every common man’s most instinctive thought. It’s not about some dragon scale that triggers wrath upon touch, nor some rage for a beauty in distress. It’s purely about a man’s territorial instinct towards his woman and the petty vengeance of a commoner.

If he must adhere to a noble reason, then for Fatty, it’s merely because those two idiots who publicly groped and relied on their power and authority to bully others have tarnished the sacred profession of a lecher in his eyes.

True perverts must have a noble character. Engaging in this profession involves studying women’s underwear, researching sexual techniques and inflatable doll versions, drooling over pornographic magazines hidden in corners, or worshipping actress posters on the floor, constantly innovating for the improvement of human reproductive actions.

Even if one can’t achieve what Master Fatty can—precisely gauging cup sizes at a glance or using professional knowledge to solve cases—one should never publicly exploit power to molest another man’s companion! Especially touching Master Fatty’s woman is like the old man hanging himself, courting disaster.

Since the other party dared to bully by threatening to drag Helen and Meiduo out by their hair, Fatty was not stingy to retaliate tooth for tooth, beating them so hard their souls ascended, with harsher spitting paying back the humiliation attempted to impose on him.

Even though his status and position at this moment aren’t that of the pesky little Fatty throwing tantrums, he unwaveringly adheres to this simple and direct belief. If anyone can’t stand it, whether they preach grand truths or criticize his harshness as excessive, Fatty’s usual response is just one word.

Hah!

Seeing Fatty stretch his neck and offer his head to the middle-aged man, people around were dumbfounded, mouths agape, able to fit a large duck egg inside.

The brief yet violently aesthetic fight, the shattering glass, the bodies flying, and the whistling fists and feet were overwhelmingly shocking, leaving many still struggling to return to their senses. Overcoming six opponents, Fatty had beaten six insolent bodyguards, but what was destroyed was an unchallenged power.

Many gentlemen present clenched their fists.

Where they previously felt sympathy for Fatty attempting foolishly to enter Fanani with two female companions, that sympathy had now evolved into admiration. Recalling the battle scenes, thinking of those strong bodyguards knocked down by Fatty, rushing unhindered with strikes hitting north and south, people fell into excitement, breathless and thrilled beyond control.