Chapter 125

City Bureau Meeting Room.

Peng Deyu had met Yu Jiangyue years ago, and today, seeing her again, he couldn’t help but marvel—time hadn’t dimmed her beauty.

Aside from a slightly anxious expression, Yu Jiangyue looked much as she had twenty years ago in his memory.

“…That’s about it.” Finishing her account of the past she’d buried, Yu Jiangyue seemed to shed a heavy burden, exhaling softly, hand on her forehead, steeped in regret. “I mishandled this. Duqiu was deeply traumatized, mentally unstable. I was frantic and didn’t consider the consequences of my actions.”

The others, listening, didn’t know what to say.

A mother’s love was understandable, but imagining themselves deceived by family for years, even with good intentions, would sting.

Lu Qing asked hesitantly, “Mr. Yu… never suspected anything?”

Yu Jiangyue glanced at her, eyes heavy with guilt, shaking her head. “Back then, we were still on good terms with the Du family. I asked Du Yuanzhen to help bury it. With his clout in the news industry, he erased nearly all reports about the kidnapping.”

“But it happened. No matter how thoroughly scrubbed, someone determined could find traces. Duqiu had the ability to uncover the truth, but that wound runs too deep—it hurts to touch, so he never did.”

Thus, he still believed he caused Yang Yongjian’s death.

In Yu Duqiu’s mind, this was unquestionable fact—no need for doubt. Yang Yongjian, Yu Jiangyue, his father, his grandfather—all among the few he trusted. They built him a towering ivory tower, and his privileged status kept him in the clouds, blind to the filth below, to the schemes of lesser men.

A life of suspicion, yet always undone by trust.

Setting aside the fallout, Yu Jiangyue had planned carefully. She not only handled Yang Yongjian’s affairs discreetly but funded his family’s future, a sum large enough for a comfortable life.

“I couldn’t pity the kidnapper’s family. The money was to keep them from extorting us later or stirring Duqiu’s painful memories. I was busy caring for him, so I delegated those tasks to subordinates, didn’t dig deeper, assumed it was settled. For over a decade, I never checked on Yang Yongjian’s family.”

Understandably so—her son nearly died. Yu Jiangyue, no saint, would likely shred Yang Yongjian’s photo, let alone care if his family lived or died.

“Until Xiao Zhao mentioned that article today… The writer clearly knew the inside story, calling Duqiu a ‘murderer.’ I knew something was off. Who else but Duqiu, guilt-ridden over Yang Yongjian’s death, would twist the truth like that?”

“His family—equally clueless,” Feng Jinmin added. “I asked the cops who rescued your son. They swore they never leaked details. But oddly, the officer who shot Yang Yongjian died in an accident the next year.”

Peng Deyu gasped, “That happened?”

“Yeah. His colleagues said he was heading home after work, saw a teen, maybe seventeen or eighteen, scrawny, pushing a tricycle piled high with goods on an uphill road, struggling, drenched in sweat. The cop, kind-hearted, helped push. Bad luck—a manhole without a cover was hidden by the tricycle. He stepped into it, fell. His body was found two kilometers away at a wastewater plant.”

A seemingly innocent accident—no one then linked the cop’s death to shooting a kidnapper a year prior. But now, everyone in the room felt a chill.

Yu Jiangyue revealed the answer: “The year Yang Yongjian was killed, his son… was seventeen.”

The others’ faces shifted.

Yu Jiangyue’s usually proud head drooped, exhausted, recounting this painful tale:

“Only today did I learn my subordinates didn’t follow my orders to properly settle Yang Yongjian’s family. Instead… they threatened them.”

Born into privilege, educated elite, Yu Jiangyue’s poise was bone-deep. Even in hatred, she’d never stoop to crude insults. She didn’t need to—her orders were enough, and subordinates handled the rest.

But orders from above often got amplified below, executed with extra zeal… or cruelty.

Imagine Yu Jiangyue’s command: “Keep Yang’s family away from my son.” To ensure compliance and secure their jobs, subordinates stormed Yang Yongjian’s home, intimidating them, exaggerating claims: Yang Yongjian crossed a big shot, got himself killed. Take the money, shut up, or you’ll end up like him.

They likely bragged about the Yu family’s power and wealth—cops wouldn’t dare cross them, reporters stayed silent. Step out of line, and you’d vanish like Yang Yongjian.

“Yang Yongjian came from a poor northwest county, backward conditions. A decade ago, the village barely had a TV. His wife, barely literate, never traveled far. Losing the family’s breadwinner, who sent money monthly, then facing threats from strangers—she must’ve been terrified and furious.” Yu Jiangyue sighed, hand on forehead. “I shouldn’t have sent them.”

Xu Sheng muttered, “No wonder his wife brushed me off every time I reached out…”

Lu Qing realized, “No wonder Fei Zheng said he envied Yu Duqiu for having cops help him kill…”

That family likely despised the police.

A poorly educated rural woman, however resentful, couldn’t touch the mighty Yu family far away. Her anger turned inward, onto her family.

“Yang Yongjian’s son was seventeen, studying at the town’s only high school, top grades, poised to be the village’s first college student. But my people were too flashy, stirring gossip. Some classmates, from less poor families, had access to outside news, likely found reports I hadn’t fully erased. Word of his dad’s failed kidnapping and death spread fast…”

A sudden family tragedy would crush any teen’s psyche. A father once revered became a despised criminal overnight—how could he not break?

Rare candies from the city went uneaten, classmates and teachers shunned him, his mother’s daily rants fueled by hate: “Your dad crossed someone… Why else would they pay us? They’re guilty… The cops helped them…”

The seed of vengeance took root.

Her complaints were a powerless vent against a bitter fate, perhaps a way to comfort her son. Though she wouldn’t admit it, she might not truly believe her husband was innocent—why else keep those words behind closed doors, brainwashing her son?

But she didn’t know children learn by example. Raise a child on resentment, and what emerges is far from healthy.

Shunned and ostracized, the boy was a skiff on a stormy sea, gossip pelting him like hail, his boat near breaking. Learning from his mother that his father hadn’t killed for greed, was still the man he admired—what would he feel?

Relief, like grasping a lifeline, rushing to tell classmates: My dad’s no criminal, he was forced, he’s a good man.

But the facts were published, evidence solid. Would classmates doubt the police to believe a criminal’s family?

Predictably, he humiliated himself. Their mockery turned into a vicious flood, shattering his skiff, sinking him into icy depths.

The storm seemed to calm, the sea inky blue, serene—until a grotesque monster burst forth, lunging at those who buried him!

“The first victim… was a classmate.”

Xu Sheng, leading Fei Zheng’s background probe, shared with Yu Jiangyue, “He used a hard candy slice to blind a classmate’s eye, then ate the weapon… He was a minor, the village had no cameras, he claimed the kid hit a rock. Police couldn’t pin it. His mom used some of your money to settle with the victim’s family, and it was dropped. But she realized her son was terrifying, remarried soon after, leaving the money to him.”

“The second victim was likely that cop,” Feng Jinmin said. “Expelled, he left home with the money, tracked one of his ‘father’s killers,’ and after several tries, staged that ‘accident.’”

Yu Jiangyue asked, “Why didn’t he come for me next? Why wait so long?”

Feng Jinmin replied, “You may not realize, ordinary people can’t easily reach your level, especially a rural kid back then.”

The boy soon saw his remaining enemies were untouchable with his status.

So, he changed his name, endured humiliation, used his enemies’ money to study abroad, returning as an elite, gaining access to high society. He soon met someone tied to that case—Du Yuanzhen’s cousin, Du Weiming.

The brothers were at odds, Du Weiming scheming to siphon family wealth discreetly. A young, overseas-educated talent offered a novel suggestion.

Thus, the third victim emerged.

“But why kill Du Weiming after Du Yuanzhen? Wasn’t he his patron? And Du Weiming wasn’t involved in that case,” Lu Qing asked, puzzled.

Peng Deyu, seasoned, cut through, “Forgot what I said this morning? Du Weiming’s death mirrors Cen Wan’s case.”

Lu Qing gasped, “He used Du Weiming’s death to make police investigate the Pei family?”

“Likely. He probably met Bo Zhiming while dealing drugs, learning Pei Xianyong hired killers for Cen Wan’s family. The Pei and Du families had old grudges, Pei Ming had motive, and Pei Xianyong was a suspect in Cen Wan’s case, though unproven. After Bai Zhao exposed Pei Xianyong, landing him in jail, Fei Zheng couldn’t reach him, so he aimed to steer police to the truth, pushing for Pei Xianyong’s death penalty.”

Killing to kill—what kind of psychopath devises that?

Sadly, the psychopath failed. With Du Yuanzhen’s precedent, police assumed the brothers were crooks who got what they deserved.

“No, I still don’t get it,” Yu Jiangyue interjected, brows knit tightly. “I watched Shuyan grow up. I know his character and limits—he couldn’t control such a savage criminal. Why would they work obediently under him for years? I took Duqiu to meet Shuyan several times, that person was there, had chances to harm us—why act only now?”

The room fell silent, no one offering a certain answer.

But one thing was clear: a butterfly’s wing-flap sparked a hurricane spanning two generations across four families, raging nearly twenty years.

Even Pei Xianyong likely never foresaw his failed plot would be picked up, surpassing him in a bloody, devastating storm.

Amid the silence, the meeting room door was knocked.

Zhao Feihua peered in, nervous before the roomful of cops, waving a phone. “Uh… Madam Yu, you told me to call President Yu, but no one’s answering. I tried Baoguo’s phone—he hung up. Something’s up. Keep calling?”

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Buzz… buzz…

A faint vibration came from somewhere, startling the bodyguard aiming at the lower deck, slowing his shot by half a beat.

Bang!

A searing pain shot through his right arm, his gun clattering down. Before his scream could escape, a rough, red hand clamped his face, twisting it 180 degrees. Turning, he faced a scarred, terrifying visage looming large.

The bodyguard’s gasp caught in his throat as a dull thud rang out—likely his skull cracking.

Zhou Yi dropped the knocked-out bodyguard, hearing several gunshots. The two cops had downed Fei Zheng, one bullet striking the floor by Hong Yuanhang’s feet, shouting, “Drop the gun!”

Hong Yuanhang, fueled by a burst of courage, was spent after firing. Seeing the tide turn, mistaking the cops for Yu’s men, he tossed his gun, raising hands, shielding Hong Liangzhang. “Okay, okay! I’m done! Please don’t kill us!”

Lou Baoguo, heaviest, climbed the deck half a second late, having clung to ropes on the yacht’s outer wall for nearly fifteen minutes, arms sore and numb. Ready to fight, he looked around, fuming, “Not one left for me?”

Zhou Yi grabbed the fallen gun, nudging the sprawled, unconscious bodyguard with his foot. “Still breathing. Give him a couple punches.”

“Too easy…” Lou Baoguo started, then shouted in panic, “Young master, watch out!” Zhou Yi, alarmed, spun toward Yu Duqiu—

Fei Zheng, left arm bleeding, right leg shot, should’ve been down. Yet, monstrously resilient, he sprang up, dual guns in hand, heralding death’s approach!

Yu Duqiu, hit by Hong Yuanhang’s three shots, wore a vest, but three hits in one spot were brutal, organs feeling flipped, pain nauseating, slowing him, unable to flee danger.

The cops raised guns to fire again, but a figure flashed like lightning, pouncing.

Bai Zhao, always gripping Fei Zheng, had blocked the gun’s muzzle, ensuring Fei Zheng’s shots couldn’t hit Yu Duqiu.

When Fei Zheng fell, Bai Zhao was seizing his gun. Now, as Fei Zheng leapt up, Bai Zhao slashed a brutal hand-chop, knocking the right-hand gun loose, and kicked Fei Zheng’s knee!

Crack!

Bones shattered, Fei Zheng collapsing, knees slamming the deck.

Bai Zhao kicked away both guns, grabbed Fei Zheng’s short, stiff hair from behind, and smashed his head into the deck!

Thud! The deck quaked.

Bai Zhao didn’t stop, yanking Fei Zheng’s hair—nearly tearing scalp—and slamming again!

“Ugh!”

Fei Zheng finally let out a pained groan.

Bai Zhao leaned down, eyes icy. “Try pulling his hair again.”

The others shuddered.

Such terrifying vengeance…

Thankfully, this guy was undercover, or these two ruthless men together would’ve been unbeatable…

Yu Duqiu, clutching his waist, coughing, sat up, grinning at his triumphant queen. “Don’t kill him. That death’s too easy for him.”

Fei Zheng knelt before Yu Duqiu, a statue of penance, motionless, only his bleeding arm proving he lived.

The cops, seeing him neutralized, cuffed him. Bai Zhao released him, rushing to Yu Duqiu. “You okay?”

Yu Duqiu shook his head, leaning into him. “Not okay, hurts like hell. Hug me.”

Bai Zhao, without a word, gently pulled him close, careful not to squeeze, soothing, “It’s over.”

But they were too optimistic.

Perhaps driven by peak survival instinct, the battered Fei Zheng surged, shoving the cops aside with uncanny strength, rolling straight for Hong Liangzhang!

Hong Liangzhang, already surrendered, was caught off guard, neck seized in a flash.

Hong Yuanhang screamed, “What’re you doing? Stop fighting, we can’t escape!”

Others gaped—hostage-taking was normal, but grabbing your own ally? Saving them the trouble?

Though Lou Baoguo and Zhou Yi knew Hong Liangzhang had betrayed them, years of camaraderie lingered. Seeing him in peril, their hearts leapt, realizing Fei Zheng’s cunning—he was betting on Yu Duqiu’s mercy.

“Don’t come closer, or… cough! I’ll choke him!” Fei Zheng’s claw-like fingers dug into Hong Liangzhang’s thin neck, bloodied hands gruesome, as if piercing his throat, ripping it out.

But it was futile resistance.

Yu Duqiu, with Bai Zhao’s help, stood slowly, unfazed. “Secretary Fei… you know anyone here could blow your head off. Why keep fighting?”

“Haha… ironic, you saying that,” Fei Zheng rasped, leg broken, hunched nearly as low as Hong Liangzhang, forehead bruised black and purple. Despite his state, he laughed wildly, as if holding an unplayed trump card, “Yu Duqiu… you disappoint me. I dropped so many hints, but you still can’t guess why I want you dead… Genius? Just a fame-chasing fool!”

Yu Duqiu shrugged. “Say what you want. I won. Confess the rest to the cops.”

“Of course you’d win, with so many helping, drawn to your fame and wealth, treating you like a god, even the police…” Fei Zheng’s venomous eyes gleamed with nearing triumph. “They even killed the driver who crossed you. Now… you’ll order them to kill his son, too?”

“…What’d you say?” Yu Duqiu’s pupils shrank, his face shifting like the sea’s sudden storm. “Whose son?”

Fei Zheng coughed, blood dripping from his mouth. “Jiangxue Apartment… the candy I eat… kidnapping you over and over… You’re hopelessly stupid, Yu Duqiu… Of course, my father, to you, was just an ant you could crush, leaving no trace, right? Hahaha…”

A massive wave crashed against the hull, seawater surging through the cracked stern. The lodged speedboat bobbed, nudging the fragile ship. A crack sounded—a thin fracture spread from the deck’s center, ominous creaks unending. Scattered chess pieces, stirred by the waves, spun in circles, like fate’s endless cycle.

The shock in Yu Duqiu’s eyes rivaled the tide, as if struck by lightning, frozen, gripping Bai Zhao’s arm, murmuring dazedly, “Tell them not to shoot… I need to ask him something.”