The First Heir by Master Yu Who Smokes

“Wait, Philip, hold on. Why the rush? It’s not always that we get to meet old classmates. Let’s talk for a little longer.” Wesley ran after him. Philip’s eyebrows furrowed further, his expression darkening. There was little he and Wesley Warren had in common. Philip would very much rather not deal with old classmates like him anymore. They had changed—changed into people of greater statuses. Philip shook his head and said coldly, “Back then, you were but a piece of trash to me, Wesley Warren. Though I did not expect that you’d still be a piece of trash now.” Wesley froze. “What did you say?”

He did not expect a sentence like that to come out from the mouth of a good-for-nothing like Philip Clarke. He called him a piece of trash? Who was the real piece of trash here? “You think that now you’re the manager of Arc de Triumph, you’re at the top of the world? So cool now, are you? So you’re showing it off to rub it in my face? What’s wrong with us delivery boys?

Philip Clarke you dumb f*cker, are you

more than five thousand a month. What do you have that’s better than me in terms of familial background, status, and contacts? How am I not better than you, Philip Clarke? Yeah, I’m f*cking better than you,

were f*cking great during university. You even had yourself a bunch of juniors falling at your feet. Why’re you delivering food now? I’ll tell you why. ‘Cause you suck! You are all pieces of trash in my eyes! So what if I think I’m better than you all?” Wesley

violence. They were letting their fists do the talking. Right then, tens of bodyguards rushed to the scene. With Wesley protected behind them, the bodyguards stood off against Philip’s mob of people. “F*ck! They have the f*cking galls to hit me! What are you doing? Get this group of busybodies out!” Wesley roared as he straightened his suit and touched the spot on his face where he had been punched. The group of bodyguards had Philip’s mob of people surrounded in an instant. Merely surrounded and nothing more. There were too many people, after all. Over 60 of them. All of them stood on Philip’s side as they glared at Wesley. “Very well, Philip Clarke. Can’t get you to leave on your own, huh? Fine. If you don’t want to leave on your own, then don’t blame me for

clients?” Wesley sneered, a mocking expression painting his face. He then slapped the head of security, pointed his finger at him, and began to reprimand. “Who’s the manager here? If I tell you to throw them out, you throw them out!” ‘What a waste of space. Talking back to a superior too!’ “Manager Warren, they’re really our hotel’s VIP clients. There’re at least 100 BMW motorcycles outside,