The sound of the door being pushed open sent Zong Ying's heart racing and her spine stiffening.
She hurriedly gathered the exam papers and blood-stained documents spread across the hospital bed when a voice suddenly came from behind: "Who are you?"
Zong Ying turned her head at the sound and recognized the doctor on rounds. Only then did her tightly wound nerves finally relax, though her face remained pale from the sudden fright, her thin lips devoid of color. Her hands trembled faintly as she packed her bag.
She stuffed the phone back under the covers but met resistance from another hand.
She replied to the doctor, "I'm his sister."
The doctor glanced at the monitor, frowned at Zong Ying in her hospital gown, and quickly recalled the earlier conflict in the consultation room. "So you're his sister? What did you just talk about that got him so worked up?" He turned back to the monitor, his tone slightly reproachful. "He needs rest right now. How could you let his emotions flare up like this?"
Zong Ying nodded and murmured, "I understand." Meanwhile, Zong Yu kept pushing the phone outward, desperately signaling for her to take it away.
His breathing grew increasingly labored, yet his gaze remained fixed on the bag in Zong Ying's hands. Behind the oxygen mask, his lips struggled to form words, repeating only two syllables: "Take—it."
Zong Ying turned to look at him. The monitor suddenly blared with urgent beeps, and the doctor immediately pushed her aside. Two nurses rushed in from outside in response to the alarm, one of them shoving Zong Ying straight out the door.
Inside, life and death hung in the balance amid frantic activity. Outside, Zong Ying stood with one hand clutching the heavy bag and the other gripping a cracked phone on the verge of dying.
The corridor of the VIP ward was eerily quiet. From the far end came the rapid "click-clack" of hurried footsteps—a caretaker arriving upon hearing the news. But she, too, could do nothing but wait outside the door.
Zong Ying glanced up at the digital wall clock—7:30 p.m. Nearly forty minutes had passed since she entered.
She stared silently at the closed door. Ten minutes later, the doctor still hadn't emerged. The caretaker turned to her and kindly reminded, "His mother should be back soon."
Zong Ying tightened her grip on the phone, anxiety creeping in. After a moment’s hesitation, she strode toward the elevator. Just as the floor indicator climbed from 14 to 19, and the elevator was about to reach the 20th floor, she abruptly turned and ducked into the stairwell.
Five seconds later, Zong Yu's mother stepped out of the elevator.
Zong Ying descended the emergency stairs, all twenty floors. By the time she reached the bottom, her breathing was ragged, her mind foggy from oxygen deprivation, and the bag in her hand felt even heavier.
Outside, the streetlights had all flickered on. The early autumn night, fresh from a sudden downpour, was now whipped by fierce winds.
Zong Ying returned to her apartment.
No one had been there for days, and the windows had remained shut. As she opened the door, the stale air of a long-sealed space rushed at her.
She switched on several lights and pushed open the balcony window, finally letting some freshness into the room.
From the bookshelf, she retrieved the last schedule log Yan Man had used before her death, along with the notebook she had taken from Xing Xueyi’s villa. She walked to the sofa and sat down, placing them on the coffee table alongside the blood-stained reports from the bag and Zong Yu’s phone.
Outside, the autumn wind howled. Inside, only the steady ticking of time filled the silence.Zong Ying clasped her hands together and sat on the sofa for a moment, steadying her emotions before reaching out to turn her phone back on. She tapped open the recording and once again heard the words: "The gentleman said... whether the surgery succeeds or not... all you need to do is wait."
The speaker was Secretary Shen, and the "gentleman" he referred to was none other than Lü Qianming, who was deeply embroiled in the battle for equity in Xinxi.
Connecting this with the deleted rumors online, as well as the Emei Mountain scenic area ticket and the protective talisman, it was clear that there was some kind of link between Lü Qianming and Zong Yu's Mother.
Listening further, Secretary Shen said something particularly thought-provoking: "Don’t worry about Zong Yu’s surgery. The gentleman always keeps his word. What Zong Qinglin wouldn’t dare risk, the gentleman will make sure to accomplish for you." Finally, he inquired about "the progress on handling the 2.6% shares held by Xing Xueyi" and instructed Zong Yu's Mother: "Sort through Xing Xueyi’s belongings as soon as possible. The gentleman wants them dealt with quickly."
From the latter part of Secretary Shen’s words, the relationship between Lü Qianming and Zong Yu's Mother seemed more like a transaction.
Lü’s bargaining chip was helping Zong Yu find a suitable heart, and the condition was Xing Xueyi’s shares and personal effects.
There were two puzzling aspects to this:
First, why would Zong Yu's Mother involve an outsider in Zong Yu’s surgery?
Second, why would Lü Qianming want Xing Xueyi’s belongings in addition to the shares?
Zong Yu urgently needed a transplant but had been waiting endlessly for a suitable heart. In such a critical situation, would Zong Yu's Mother consider obtaining an organ through "illegal channels"?
Secretary Shen’s remark—"Rather than searching the world like looking for a needle in a haystack, isn’t what’s right in front of you much more convenient?"—suggested that before targeting her heart, they might have already tried other avenues to find a suitable organ.
And when he mentioned "what Zong Qinglin wouldn’t dare risk," was it because Zong Qinglin had rejected the idea of "obtaining a heart through illegal means," prompting Zong Yu's Mother to turn to Lü Qianming for help?
Help came at a price, and Lü Qianming naturally laid out his conditions—Xing Xueyi’s shares and belongings.
If the shares were sought to gain an advantage in the Xinxi equity battle, then the belongings were likely wanted to destroy evidence.
Whether it was the earlier encounter at Xing Xueyi’s residence or the later burning of Xing Xueyi’s villa, one thing was clear—among Xing Xueyi’s belongings was something Lü Qianming desperately needed to find, and his purpose in finding it was to destroy it.
Could this be what he was looking for?
Zong Ying picked up the few sheets of report paper on the table and scrutinized them word by word.
These pages appeared to be only part of a larger report, structurally incomplete. The content concerned the safety evaluation trials for a new drug’s market release. Back then, Yan Man had reviewed it and raised doubts, noting in small handwriting: "Why do the data in this report differ from the actual data I have?"
She circled a few figures and left a final remark: "Remember: deliberate falsification, no matter how minor, is still fraud."
The last page of the report bore a date—September 13, the day before Yan Man’s death.
Report compiler: Xing Xueyi; First reviewer: Lü Qianming.
The large bloodstains under the dim light indicated these reports had been present at the scene of Yan Man’s fatal fall.
Why would Yan Man have taken the report with her when she jumped? Besides Xing Xueyi, there had been a third person with her—Lü Qianming.Three people met because of this report? Had an argument over it, which ultimately led to Yan Man falling from the building?
The report fell with Yan Man, and fearing it might leave behind incriminating evidence, Xing and Lü picked up the blood-stained document.
Images from the crime scene kept flashing through Zong Ying’s mind.
Yan Man’s body, the vast pool of blood—the scene grew clearer, even gaining sound and scent—
The moment she fell, the report in her grasp scattered, drifting slowly to the ground, the pages closest to Yan Man quickly soaking in blood.
The two upstairs might have panicked or remained eerily calm if it was premeditated. Either way, they hurried downstairs, ignoring Yan Man’s faint breaths, only gathering the papers from the ground.
Was there a mastermind? If so, who was it—Lü Qianming or Xing Xueyi?
Zong Ying raised a hand to her forehead, closing her eyes to steady her thoughts and emotions.
After a long pause, she reached out and flipped open Xing Xueyi’s notebook on the coffee table. The entry for September 14th only read: "On this day, I devoured my own conscience." Though it contained no further details, the words carried a trace of remorse.
Xing Xueyi seemed to have been drowning in guilt ever since. Compared to Lü Qianming’s ruthless attempts to destroy evidence, Zong Ying’s intuition told her Lü was likely the one pulling the strings.
What was the relationship between Lü and Xing Xueyi afterward? Could Lü be connected to Xing’s death?
Was the 723 tunnel incident really an accident?
Who could have planted that bag of drugs in the car? Could it have been Lü Qianming?
At this thought, Zong Ying abruptly stood up and strode back to the bedroom, retrieving the package Lü Qianming had sent her from the dresser.
She opened the wooden box, took out the envelope, and emptied a stack of photos. Carefully picking one up, she held it to the light—
On the glossy surface, two or three intact fingerprints were scattered.
Just as she was about to place it into an evidence bag, the landline rang sharply, snapping her taut nerves.
Zong Ying instinctively rubbed her temples and hurried to answer. Xue Xuanqing’s urgent voice came through: "Hello?"
Zong Ying responded, "I'm here."
Xue Xuanqing exhaled in relief. "You are home. Scared me to death. When are you going to fix your phone? I can never reach you—it’s nerve-wracking."
After a pause, she added, "Why’d you suddenly go home?"
Zong Ying countered, "Are you free now?"
Xue Xuanqing brushed her bangs aside. "Of course!"
Zong Ying glanced at the evidence on the coffee table. "Then come over. There’s something I need to show you."
Xue Xuanqing arrived quickly, knocking on Zong Ying’s door fifteen minutes later, slightly out of breath.
"The wind’s insane out there!" she complained, then froze when she saw Zong Ying’s face. "You look terrible. What’s wrong now? Did that old bastard bother you again?"
"No." Zong Ying turned and walked back to the couch, sitting in silence.
Xue Xuanqing followed closely. Before she could sit, her eyes landed on the evidence bag on the table.
Still stunned, Zong Ying handed her a cigarette.
Xue Xuanqing took it but didn’t light it immediately, pointing at the bag instead. "What’s all this?"
Zong Ying kept her head down, smoking. By the third drag, she turned away in a fit of coughing, her face flushing. It took her a moment to recover. "Sit. I’ll explain."
Xue Xuanqing narrowed her eyes in warning. "Put that out."Zong Ying indeed stubbed out her cigarette and tossed the remaining stub into the trash bin. The resentment and sorrow in her heart had peaked, yet manifested in an eerie calmness.
As she systematically explained the origins of the evidence and her deductions to Xue Xuanqing, her voice remained so composed that even she found it surprising.
When she finally played the recording of Secretary Shen and Zong Yu's mother, Xue Xuanqing nearly exploded with anger: "So they’ve been scheming all along! How could someone so vicious raise a son like that?!"
She crushed the cigarette in her hand to suppress her rage, then asked, "Zong Yu suddenly giving you these—does it mean he’s hinting at something?"
During the police investigation, Zong Yu had consistently claimed "temporary amnesia due to injury." But now, by producing this evidence, had he truly remembered, or was it a sudden pang of conscience after hiding it all this time?
Moreover, how did he even get this evidence?
Especially that report—it should have been with Xing Xueyi. How did it end up in his backpack?
Xue Xuanqing bit her lip in thought. Zong Ying handed her the final evidence bag: "I remember a complete fingerprint was lifted from the drug bag found at the 723 tunnel crime scene. The photos here were sent to me by Lü Qianming. You can compare whether the fingerprints match."
"Got it." Xue Xuanqing took it and bent down to pack all the evidence into a box. "I’ll handle this as quickly as possible."
Zong Ying sat nearby, watching with a momentary daze. Suddenly, she said, "My mother’s case, the 723 incident—maybe we’ll finally get a conclusive answer soon. But I can’t be sure if I’ll still be alive by then..."
"What nonsense are you saying?" Xue Xuanqing immediately cut her off, turning to stare into her eyes. "This is about your mother. When the truth comes out, you’ll have to take the results to her grave yourself. I absolutely won’t do it for you."
"I hope so too, I hope so too." She repeated softly twice before averting her gaze.
The clock’s hands pointed to 9:40 p.m.
The night was cold, but in 1937, Shanghai was unusually stifling.
The last batch of machinery from the Sheng family factory had been packed and shipped, disguised and transported out via Suzhou Creek under cover of night. But at the docks, they were met with bombing.
Enemy planes roared overhead, dropping indiscriminate shells. The fully loaded boats desperately rowed into dense reed marshes for cover, while workers who hadn’t yet boarded were caught in the bombardment. Faced with their fallen comrades, they could only grit their teeth, wipe their tears, and risk their lives to keep hauling machinery onto the boats.
This was the last batch. Once they reached Zhenjiang, they could transfer to river steamers and sail up the Yangtze to the temporarily safer inland.
A shell exploded a few dozen meters away. Half a minute later, the factory manager who had come with Sheng Qingrang wiped dust and tears from his face, clutching the shipping manifest as he turned and shouted, "Third Young Master! It’s too dangerous here! You—"
As the smoke and dust settled, he could no longer find Sheng Qingrang.
After Xue Xuanqing left, Zong Ying drifted into a heavy sleep.
The night was filled with long, tangled dreams. When she woke, the hallway light by the entrance was quietly lit. She rose from the sofa and walked straight to the balcony.
The effects of Typhoon Dujuan, the 21st of the season, lingered. Nearing dawn, the damp world was bitterly cold.
Amid the pervasive gray, she lowered her gaze and saw a figure—a long-unseen figure.
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