Europe.
Qin Fan's first stop was not Russia. Instead, he chose Britain. Walking the streets of Britain in the cold, snowy weather, he seemed like an outsider in his thin athletic wear. Compared to the burly men who were all wrapped up tightly, the slender Qin Fan didn't even shiver.
"Chinese?" a middle-aged man with a hooked nose, sniffling from the cold, suddenly stopped as he brushed past Qin Fan.
"Can I help you?" Qin Fan asked, one hand tucked leisurely into his pocket as he smiled casually.
"Aren't you cold?" The man with the ruddy nose reached out to touch Qin Fan's thin clothes, even more astounded.
"Chinese Kung Fu," Qin Fan quirked his lips playfully and blurted out the phrase.
"Chinese Kung Fu? Oh my God! Good! Good! Good!" Hearing the words "Chinese Kung Fu," the man's eyes lit up as he exclaimed in admiration.
