Reply to Keats - Chap 64
64. The Fallen Leaf Hadn’t Been by Chance
When Chen Wan woke up, he was alone. The marks on his arms and chest had already turned a purplish-blue. He touched them gently, cherishing them.
Though an entire night had passed, the pain still lingered, as if Zhao Shengge were still holding him, still moving inside him.
At some point during the night or early morning, Zhao Shengge had left. The other side of the bed was still faintly warm. Chen Wan buried his face in that spot a while longer before finally getting up.
As he got into the car, his eyelid twitched, but he didn’t think much of it. He had a full schedule today: meeting Liao Quan, whom he’d left hanging for two days; finalizing the share transfer with Chen Bingxin; then heading to Taiji to sign a shadow contract with Ge Xi…
He picked up his phone and dialed. “Ah-Xuan, can you do me a favor?”
Zhuo Zhixuan was silent for a moment after he finished speaking. Then he said, “Chen Wan.”
“Are you still planning to pursue Zhao Shengge?”
“I am,” Chen Wan replied. After a brief pause, he added, “I want to pursue him with a clear conscience.”
“Then stop. If you keep doing this kind of thing, he’ll only end up killing you.”
Chen Wan put the medicine away and said, “I’ll explain everything to him.”
Zhuo Zhixuan didn’t respond. He just hung up.
Chen Wan sighed. A moment later, a long voice message came in—half in Cantonese, half curses.
After listening, Chen Wan gave a helpless smile.
***
Early morning in Central was quiet. Minglong’s tower loomed proudly among the skyscrapers. Aside from a few employees who had worked late and slept at the office, no one had arrived yet.
The standalone buildings in the business core were the first to light up.
Zhao Shengge glanced at his phone. It was quiet. Chen Wan probably wasn’t awake yet.
Last night had gone too far. No matter what position he asked for, Chen Wan hadn’t hesitated for even a second.
Even with reddened eyes, he had still asked Zhao Shengge, “Does it feel good?”
“I can lift it a bit higher.”
“…” Zhao Shengge had burned with even more rage. He said nothing, face expressionless, but his movements grew even more ferocious.
The sun was rising over the Pearl Bridge. After a short break, Zhao Shengge called Shen Zongnian. The shell company they had previously tracked showed no new activity. During yesterday’s event, Taiji’s current head, Ge Xi, had spoken at length with Xu Zhiying, and the two had seemed to get along well.
Zhao Shengge mostly listened and said little.
Xu Zhiying seemed optimistic about bringing in Taiji as a sponsor. Chen Wan, on the other hand, had proposed the Yao family. But in truth, Zhao Shengge wasn’t satisfied with either option. The Yao family had deep overseas ties, which also made them hard to control.
Shen Zongnian still wasn’t answering his phone, so Zhao Shengge called again.
This time, the call was cut off after just one ring.
“…” Zhao Shengge had a pretty good idea who it was and didn’t call again.
The sun had climbed higher, and people were beginning to arrive at the park for work. The familiar bitter aroma of coffee once again filled the air inside the Mingjing Building.
The secretary came in to report to Zhao Shengge. “As of now, there appears to be almost no financial interaction between Ms. Song and Mr. Chen, aside from a few real estate transfers and some high-value insurance policies where the beneficiaries overlap. Ms. Song’s recent equity holdings haven’t changed much either. This round of bottom-fishing likely has nothing to do with her.”
Zhao Shengge nodded.
Rongxin’s stock price had been showing signs of artificial inflation. The tactic of buying low was one Zhao Shengge had used before in the financial district. But domestic regulations were different—these gray areas could either pass unnoticed or escalate dramatically.
He wasn’t sure whether it was Ge Xi or Xu Zhiying who had the appetite for such a move.
“Still, we’ll need more time to go through her recent equity transactions. Rongxin’s internal management is messy, and its disclosures aren’t exactly transparent.”
The secretary sounded a little guilty. Zhao Shengge wasn’t a harsh boss. Though he had nothing to do with warmth or sentiment, he was emotionally stable, focused on facts, and never made things difficult for others. Still, this was the second time he’d asked for progress on this matter, and the results were underwhelming.
Zhao Shengge didn’t say much. He simply replied, “Keep digging.”
There were likely several forces muddying the waters. Rongxin was still a family-run business that had never undergone restructuring, rife with internal strife—each branch of the family calculating its own gains. Investigating would take time.
The secretary exhaled in relief and left the room.
It was Wednesday, a perfectly ordinary workday.
As the end of the day approached, the extended executive meeting at Minglong was just wrapping up when the secretary rushed into the conference room, only to be stopped by the executive assistant.
The secretary’s expression was unusually grave. “It’s about Mr. Chen.”
The assistant hesitated briefly, then let him through.
The secretary walked straight to Zhao Shengge and leaned down to whisper a few words in his ear, right in front of everyone.
Zhao Shengge’s expression didn’t change. In a deep voice, he instructed the deputy to continue chairing the meeting, then stood and left the room with the secretary.
His steps were brisk, his voice steady as he issued instructions while walking. “Get in touch with He Yide immediately.”
He Yide was a commissioner at the Haishi Supervisory Commission.
Just moments ago, Chen Wan had received a summons from the Commission.
He was required to appear within twenty-four hours for questioning.
Zhao Shengge’s face remained blank, his pace swift, every movement deliberate and controlled. “Call Han Jin. Tell him that if he dares to sign the partnership dissolution with Chen Wan, Minglong will hold Kexiang fully accountable for breach of contract.”
Zhao Shengge had once told Shen Zongnian that he didn’t really understand Chen Wan. And in that moment, he realized just how true that was.
The fog that had clouded Zhao Shengge’s mind had never felt so clear.
It turned out that this risky maneuver hadn’t come from Ge Xi or Xu Zhiying.
Over ten million in financing was no small sum.
Zhao Shengge could only blame himself for having overestimated Chen Wan’s moral standards. Orchestrating large-scale transactions, shifting blame, misdirection—every part of it carried Chen Wan’s unmistakable signature.
Rush hour hadn’t yet started, and the overpass was still relatively clear. In the rearview mirror, the secretary could see that Zhao Shengge was on the phone the entire time.
He remained composed and methodical, but some of his usual ease and calm confidence had faded.
When he finally ended the call, the secretary handed him a file in person.
“President Zhao, this came up during the investigation into the Chen family’s shareholding ratios and Ms. Song Qingmiao’s asset transfers over the past few years.”
After Song Qingmiao entered the Chen family, the internal power struggles at Rongxin had intensified. The balance of shares and authority between the family branches shifted constantly.
But at some point, Song Qingmiao had begun frequently transferring assets to the Liao family of the second branch. The secretary found this suspicious. As he peeled back the layers, he unexpectedly discovered that these transfers might not have been “compensation,” but something closer to ransom.
The photocopies were blurry, but the bold red stamp marked “Secret” and the traditional characters for “Xiaolan Mountain” still stabbed at Zhao Shengge’s eyes.
Watching from the mirror, the secretary noticed that Zhao Shengge had gone still—just sitting there, holding the envelope in silence.
Time seemed to pause. It wasn’t until the Maybach crossed the Pearl Bridge that he finally opened it.
Zhao Shengge could clearly feel his heart sinking, inch by inch, into a pool of stagnant, black water.
The file was only a single page. It was, after all, from far too long ago. Time had buried nearly everything, leaving behind only the tip of the iceberg.
Zhao Shengge read it again. And again. Then he picked up his phone and dialed a number. It was answered almost immediately.
The sun was on the verge of disappearing beyond the horizon, its last rays blood-red. Zhao Shengge’s voice was heavy. “Zhuo Zhixuan.”
“I know everything you did for Chen Wan.”
Zhuo Zhixuan froze. The exposure had come far earlier than he’d expected. He hadn’t even figured out how to respond when Zhao Shengge continued, “From now on, every word I say, every question I ask, I want you to answer seriously, honestly, and in full detail.”
Zhao Shengge had a naturally commanding presence, and Zhuo Zhixuan, caught off guard by his cold, forceful tone, didn’t even dare to breathe. Because he knew the mess was too big.
But he couldn’t not help Chen Wan. In this world, if he didn’t help Chen Wan, no one would.
Then, from the phone, Zhao Shengge’s voice came again. “This isn’t a command or a threat. It’s my… request.”
Zhuo Zhixuan was stunned. At that moment, he realized Chen Wan had won.
It was as if he’d finally found his footing, his support. After a moment of thought, he replied, “Xiaolan Mountain… I don’t know much. I only heard him say that this year makes sixteen years since he first met you there.”
Zhao Shengge’s expression turned grim instantly.
A deep frown creased his brow. A faint thread suddenly flickered through his mind, as if, if he could just grasp it and pull, an unimaginable past would begin to unravel.
“Do you remember, after graduation, when you flew to California early? Tan Youming called a few friends to the airport to see you off. Just before you went through customs, I asked if you could wait one more minute?”
Zhao Shengge had no recollection. “I don’t remember.”
“It was Chen Wan. He was rushing to the airport. He’d escaped to get there. At the time, Chen Bingxin had locked him up in the basement. Song Qingmiao had gambled a large sum and infuriated him. Chen Bingxin beat them both badly. Chen Wan had also been accepted to your school.” Zhuo Zhixuan didn’t go into detail. “But he knew you were leaving early, and might not come back for years, so he just wanted to see you one last time. From outside the jet bridge, from far away. Of course, he didn’t try to chase you down or disturb you.”
The sun was almost gone as if casting its last breath of light.
“Second semester of your second year, you chose rugby. I told you the spare wristbands were from me, but they were from him. A lot of the drinks too. I’m sure you don’t remember.”
“Chen Wan watched every single one of your speeches and competitions, except for the ones held at the bowling alley and fencing hall. He simply couldn’t get in. That semester, I was away on an exchange program, so he never got to see you in person.”
“In your third year, your award-winning robot model was displayed in the rooftop gallery of the Yifu Building. There were multiple No. 8 typhoon signals that semester. Every time school resumed after a storm, he’d sneak onto the main campus using my student card to clean your model, bit by bit.”
“He’d clear away fallen leaves, sweep up trash. Your model was always the cleanest.”
“To avoid running into people, he’d only go very late, after evening self-study, or get up early to go before dawn.”
“He used to talk to that robot model.” Even back then, Zhuo Zhixuan had started to realize something was off with his friend’s behavior. “He’d say a lot of… things I couldn’t understand.”
Zhao Shengge had always believed this pursuit and trap were an intentional act and forced confession.
But it turned out, the fallen leaf drifting in through the window hadn’t been by chance. The confiscated lighter wasn’t. The Da Hong Pao tea brewed twice wasn’t. The texts and calls, every one with a reply, weren’t. The fireflies in the moonlight weren’t. The Christmas tree with a one-in-a-million probability wasn’t. Not a single detail had been accidental.
Zhuo Zhixuan was still speaking, but Zhao Shengge could no longer take it all in.
“What was the time?”
“One minute, five seconds.”
“Chen Wan, you didn’t stop the watch, did you?”
“…”
“You weren’t watching properly.”
“I really was watching.”
And just then, Zhao Shengge suddenly remembered that the “one minute, five seconds” Chen Wan had blurted out was his personal best from the high school sports meet. He recalled it vaguely, as it had broken the record previously held by a student-athlete, but the memory hadn’t left a strong impression.
No one could remember, with such speed and precision down to the second, the exact swimming final record of a classmate from ten years ago. Not even Zhao Shengge himself.
What Zhao Shengge had seen as mere chance and coincidence was, for Chen Wan, a journey across mountains and rivers.
The red lights stretched on endlessly, the four-way overpass resembling a grand auditorium. As the last trace of daylight vanished beyond the horizon, only silent blackness remained in Zhao Shengge’s eyes.
“I can’t hold him back.”
“He doesn’t care about anyone.”
“Zhao Shengge, you’re probably the only reins he has left, and also his last shred of reason.”
Zhuo Zhixuan didn’t know how far Chen Wan had gotten in his pursuit of Zhao Shengge, or how close they were now. Nor did he intend to overstep his bounds. After all, what he knew was only the tip of the iceberg, because—
“Chen Wan is someone who can endure a lot and suffer in silence. For him to be standing in front of you now really wasn’t easy.”
The last light of the setting sun fell across Zhao Shengge’s face. He lowered his eyes and said quietly, “He’s suffered enough.”
