The next morning, news of ‘Chairman of Baolijian had been stabbed to death in a private club’ appeared online. The keyword rose to the top of real-time hot searches amid public scepticism, but it vanished again after only a few minutes.
An hour later, the story shot back up to the top of the trending list, bringing the name ‘Zhao Jinchuan’ into the open. After a few fluctuations, it took firm hold. Immediately, multiple news outlets jumped in, related reports arrived in quick succession, and a tumult swept the whole internet. Alongside them resurfaced other reports that had been repeatedly mentioned over the years and then buried — ‘Baolijian contained toxic substances that caused deaths’, ‘multiple batches of Baolijian products failed quality checks’, ‘Baolijian consumption caused liver damage’… and trending terms like ‘Zhao Jinchuan’s background’, ‘the Zhao family’, and ‘his surname Zhao’. At noon, the J City police released an official notice—the case was a homicide, and the suspect had committed suicide.
Although the notice did not explain the specifics, as attention mounted fragments of detail began to circulate online. Resistance followed: a large amount of content deemed ‘false statements’ was deleted and accounts were banned, but this seemed to have little effect. More and more ‘inside stories’ that were being exposed grew, scattering across the web like snowflakes. The whole network felt as if it had become a great whirlpool, being stirred by an invisible hand that spun ever faster. Some tried to stop it, but they were powerless.
Zhao Jinchuan died a gruesome death, with blood splattered all over the wall.
That night, he had stormed out of Zhou Lixing’s party full of anger. He went back to his private club and drank heavily. Still unsatisfied, he had summoned a young MB and brutally tormented him, only calling the bodyguards in after the man had fainted. The bodyguards carried the man out of the room and, seeing the sheets stained with blood, knowing Zhao Jinchuan hated filth and would be furious when he woke the next day, told the cleaner to come in and change the sheets.
No one expected that, inside their own establishment, that timid cleaner would harbour murderous intent.
In the short ten minutes after the door closed, the cleaner took a fruit knife from the kitchen and cut open Zhao Jinchuan’s carotid artery, then stabbed him six times in the chest. Zhao Jinchuan was heavily drunk and made almost no sound as he died. The killer then covered him with a blanket, wiped the blood from his face, took the dirty sheets in his arms and walked out of the room with his head down, telling the bodyguard at the door, “Young Master Chuan is sleeping.”
Because Zhao Jinchuan would get angry if someone disturbed him while he was sleeping, the bodyguard never went in. It was only when the driver came in the morning to take him to a meeting and found no answer to repeated phone calls that they discovered him lying with his eyes half-open under the blanket, his head and body dried with blood.
The killer had not attempted to conceal his actions; the police quickly located him through surveillance. He had returned to a rented room on the outskirts of town—a basement of only a dozen-odd square meters. The door was locked; armed police surrounded it and, when shouting went unanswered, forced entry, and a choking smell of burning charcoal hit them.
The room had no windows, it was cold and damp, yet very tidy. Bowls and clothes were stacked neatly; a few certificates were posted on the wall; on a nail hung a small patched schoolbag. There was no table, only a high stool and a small woven mat used as a chair and table. A worn wooden bed lay against the wall; in front of it, the brazier’s charcoal glowed red.
The suspect, or rather the killer, lay on the bed facing upward, eyes closed, his face peaceful; no longer breathing.
By his hand lay a battered notebook, stained with grease and curled edges; inside it recorded the household’s daily expenses. The largest item had been the cost of treating his wife’s kidney disease, and that expense had disappeared five months earlier. The last page of the notebook bore a few words.
—I killed Zhao Jinchuan. I will seek on behalf of Xiaoru the justice she could not get in this world. A blood debt must be repaid with blood; it is right, and I do not regret it.
There were no complicated twists in the case, no convoluted motives, no bizarre mysteries, only naked vengeance.
The internet was abuzz with updates, and many media outlets began to track down the killer’s life. As they dug deeper, they witnessed the catastrophic change that had befallen what had once been a happy, comfortable family. The wife had fallen ill after taking Baolijian, and he treatment had drained all their savings. They sold their car and house, and in the end, she still died. The grieving husband had nowhere to turn, lost his job, and lived with his only daughter. A month earlier, he had started working at a club called ‘Waterfront Garden’, where he saw the person who had pushed him into the abyss. He had picked up a knife and walked a path toward mutual destruction.
When people understood the whole truth, they seemed to feel the despair and desolation in that lone figure’s back.
It was the most ordinary family, the most common life, just like yours and mine.
Empathy linked millions of hearts’ pity and anger into a thunderous roar that swept the entire online world. People kept asking—
Why did his wife die?
Why did Baolijian contain the SBXD component without any labelling?
Why could such a supplement pass quality inspection and be sold?
Why, despite frequent problems, was public opinion suppressed repeatedly?
Why did so many complaints yield no results?
Why could ordinary people not get the justice they deserved?
Baolijian’s stock plummeted to its daily limit within forty minutes. The company had to post a temporary statement expressing sorrow over the accident involving Chairman Zhao Jinchuan, while also noting that the ‘Wuhua herb’* contained in Baolijian had not been classified domestically as ‘toxic or harmful’ and that Baolijian’s products had passed quality inspections.
Fifteen minutes after the statement, scholars from K University stepped forward, noting that research three years earlier had already shown the SBXD component damaged the liver and could lead to liver disease and liver cancer, and that it had been categorised internationally as a prescription drug. Adding the Wuhua herb containing that component to supplements was itself illegal. An elderly professor with white hair even scolded the experts and influencers who had promoted Baolijian’s products as ‘profiting from people’s deaths’ and ‘shameless’.
Afterward, reporters’ cameras revealed appalling crimes.
One victim after another, tormented by liver disease, looked waxen and emaciated, less than half alive. They had been crying out in grief over fate and injustice, and the world finally, for the first time, heard their cries.
It turned out that besides mountains and seas they had not seen, there were also sufferings they had not seen. Thousands of miles apart, they made you unable to bear to look, to listen, or to believe.
Ripples rose on the surface, while beneath the water a deadly struggle raged.
Baolijian’s PR team had already lost control; Kuangmu Group’s attempt to manage the situation had little effect, and the Zhao family began to apply top-down pressure. But unexpectedly, this pressure proves ineffective in the short term.
At this critical moment, the long-dormant “Major H City Line 6 Subway Collapse Incident” was thrust into public view. Corruption, dereliction of duty, illegal bidding, layers of collusion, and falsified casualty figures behind the accident were exposed. More than a dozen Zhao-affiliated officials were taken away by the Discipline Inspection Commission*, and Zhao Siyuan, the Zhao family’s person in charge in H City, was among them.
The public’s fury was fully ignited; the targets of outrage were not only Baolijian but also Kuangmu and the entire Zhao family.
Events began to slip from control.
Zhao Dongsheng, still reeling from the sudden loss of his son, was overwhelmed by a barrage of bad news. He glanced at Zhao Jinchuan lying on the mortuary table and was about to leave when Fang Huiyun grabbed him. She trembled and wept, asking, “Where are you going? Your son is dead — where are you going? Your son was killed, murdered! Why do you not shed a single tear?” She sobbed so hard she could hardly breathe. “Such a good child, how could they treat him like this? That animal… does he think death by suicide will make it all go away? I will make sure he never finds peace…”
“Enough!” Zhao Dongsheng suppressed his anger and said in a low voice. “You go home first. I still have things to handle.”
“You are not allowed to leave! Don’t go anywhere…” Fang Huiyun, eyes streaming, gripped his hand and pressed it onto Zhao Jinchuan’s. “He is your flesh and blood. When he was alive, you never truly spent time with him. Now you still want to abandon him?”
When Zhao Dongsheng touched that cold, lifeless hand, he recoiled as if bitten by a snake and snapped, his face sullen, “What use is all this crying and yelling? Will it bring him back? Do you know what the situation is? Someone has targeted our Zhao family!”
“Your son is dead, and you only care about the Zhao family?” Fang Huiyun stared at him in disbelief. “Jinchuan did everything to get you to notice and approve of him… In your heart, did you ever treat him as your real son?”
“What nonsense are you spouting?” Zhao Dongsheng bit his teeth. “Who was behind what happened to Jinchuan, which opportunists were fishing in troubled water—none of that has been investigated! What’s the use of just crying?”
Fang Huiyun, desolate, leaned over to cradle Zhao Jinchuan’s face and cried, “You go… You go investigate, handle your big affairs, protect the Zhao family. You have other children, but I have only this one child. I will stay here with him.”
Zhao Dongsheng sighed in frustration, told his secretary Yue Zhong to arrange the funeral matters, and then left with a grim face.
Zhao Jinchuan looked peaceful and calm on the mortuary table, like a sleeping angel. Fang Huiyun stroked his face again and again; tears kept falling. After a moment of silence she grit her teeth and asked, “Who else is in that killer’s family?”
Yue Zhong checked the files and answered, “There is an eight-year-old daughter; she attends J City Elementary School No. 2.”
“Bring her to me.” Fang Huiyun wiped her eyes and said in a dark tone, “My son is dead; his daughter should not live either.”
“I will find someone to handle it immediately.” Yue Zhong replied with his eyes lowered.
Qin Mu was startled when he saw the news of Zhao Jinchuan’s death. He stared at the suspect’s name, “Sun Mougao,” in a daze for a moment, then began searching for related information.
The more scattered details he pieced together, the heavier his heart grew.
He turned on his computer and opened the backup files of the Baolijian case that Zhou Yi had sent him, stopping on a page containing the registration form of the parties involved.
Sun Jiangao, male, 39 years old, from J City. His wife, Wang Xiaoru, experienced abnormal liver function after taking two courses of Baolijian, later developing hepatomegaly and ascites…
This was a record made by Teacher Xiao. After Qin Mu organized the materials, he had contacted him using the phone number listed there.
It had only been a few days ago.
At that time, Sun Jiangao said on the phone that he no longer intended to sue. When Qin Mu pressed for the reason, he said he could not afford to wait for fairness any longer.
What had he been thinking then? Murder for revenge?
Sun Jiangao had previously filed lawsuits and had gone to many departments to report the situation. The people from Baolijian had long listed him as a high-priority target to monitor. How had he managed to slip into Zhao Jinchuan’s private club? Zhao Jinchuan’s visit to the club yesterday had been a sudden decision, so how had it happened that Sun just happened to be scheduled for cleaning at that particular time? And from the murder to his suicide, why had every step gone so precisely and so smoothly? Had he thought about how his young daughter would live alone after his death? Was he not afraid of the Zhao family’s retaliation?
Qin Mu did not believe it.
A man who had loved his wife deeply, a father who insisted on carrying the family no matter how bitter or difficult life became—how could such a man abandon his child and go to his death with such finality?
The only possibility was that his affairs after death had already been arranged, arranged in a way beyond his own ability, something that allowed him to close his eyes in peace. This had not been a crime of passion committed in the heat of the moment, but a final decision made after careful thought.
Who had orchestrated all of this, placing the knife in his hand and pushing him into Zhao Jinchuan’s room?
Qin Mu recalled Shen Liu’s expression from the previous night.
It had been killing intent.
A surging, bone-chilling killing intent.
Qin Mu felt all the blood in his body go still, a suffocating pressure making it hard to breathe. He tilted his head back and covered his eyes with the back of his hand.
Shen Liu had been busy the entire day and returned only very late. Two middle-aged men followed beside him, one tall and one short. The three of them talked as they walked toward the study. When they pushed the door open and saw Qin Mu sitting inside, their conversation stopped. Shen Liu spoke to the two men in a low voice, “Go take care of it.” The two nodded and left.
Shen Liu walked in, loosened his collar a little, poured himself a glass of water, and asked, “You’re not asleep this late. Were you waiting for me?”
“Yes.” Qin Mu closed the book in his hands. “I have something to ask you.”
Shen Liu finished the water in one breath and sat down on the sofa beside him. “What do you want to ask?”
“Was it you who sent Sun Jiangao?” Qin Mu looked at him as he spoke.
“Who?” Shen Liu tilted his head in confusion.
Qin Mu’s gaze darkened. He stood up and walked toward the door.
Shen Liu frowned, stood up, and grabbed his arm. In a flash of realization, the name came to him. “You mean the one who killed Zhao Jinchuan?”
Qin Mu turned his head and stared at him expressionlessly. “You arranged it?”
Shen Liu was silent for a few seconds, then answered, “Yes.”
Qin Mu felt his voice become a little unsteady. “What condition did you offer him?”
“That his daughter would never have to worry about food or clothing, and would grow up safe,” Shen Liu replied.
Everything matched what Qin Mu had expected. A coldness surged up from the soles of his feet, impossible to resist. He spoke with difficulty, “You bought his life with that?”
Shen Liu opened his mouth, seeming as though he wanted to say something, but in the end he did not. He slowly released his hand. He looked somewhat tired as he turned and sat back on the sofa. He looked up at Qin Mu and asked, “A fair exchange, both sides willingly agreed. What is the problem?”
Qin Mu’s eyelashes trembled slightly as he lowered his gaze. “That was a human life.”
“To me, he was only a chess piece.” Shen Liu’s expression was extremely indifferent, like a god on a high altar whose joy and anger could not be discerned. “I have many such pieces. I do not need to remember their names or their faces. I only need to calculate their value, offer the necessary chips, and let them be used by me. I am not a kind person, and I do not walk a righteous path, because kindness and righteousness cannot survive in my world. In truth, I am no different from Zhao Jinchuan. If it serves my purpose, I too will use any means.”
These were words that should not have been said. At least, not at this moment.
After being apart for so long, their worlds had already grown into two realms that no longer fit together. Both of them had always been aware of this, which was why, when their values collided, they would subconsciously avoid the clash—especially Shen Liu. Yet today, he did not know why he suddenly lost control.
Maybe it was the exhaustion of having to control everything. Maybe it was the weight of too much pressure. Or maybe it was because he was trying to hide too many fears and uncertainties.
Qin Mu did not say anything. He simply stood there without moving. The tall bookshelf behind him made his figure look exceptionally solitary.
The sight of it struck Shen Liu like a sharp pain. He regretted it, and he suddenly had an impulse to stand up and pull that man into his arms. But it was at that moment that Qin Mu spoke. His voice was very soft, a little hoarse, like clouds scattered by the wind.
“In your eyes, how much is my life worth?”
Shen Liu froze.
Qin Mu turned and left.
Shen Liu sat for a while, then irritably ran his hand through his hair and leaned his head back against the sofa with exhaustion. His phone vibrated. After reading the message, he immediately stood up, knocking over the copy of ‘Being and Nothingness’ that had been resting on the arm of the sofa.
The book fell to the floor, and the paper tucked inside slid out, showing a yellowed corner.
It was something hidden away, a memory forgotten over the long years. It had been pressed flat and neat for so long that, had it not happened to fall out at that moment, it would have looked like just another page of the book.
A handwritten old contract.
Party A: Shen Lan.
Party B: Shen Liu.
I hereby promise that if Party A fulfils the following conditions, I, after completing my undergraduate studies, will follow Party A’s arrangements to study abroad. The country, university, and field of study will be decided by Party A…
Shen Liu suddenly crushed the paper in his hand.
Qin Mu… had known.
Notes from author:
*Fictional Chinese herbal medicine
*Fictional Organisations
T/N:
Usuallyyy, when the ‘bad guy’ dies this early, it means that he’s not the final boss/problem in their relationship.. Especially with that kind of anticlimactic death
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