Chapter 486: Shedding Armor: Li Ping'an

March 11, 1999, the most ordinary morning in Shenzhen since spring arrived.

Li Ping'an, as usual, woke at five and practiced a set of Bajiquan on the balcony. He executed the top fist, chopping palm, elbow strike, shaking kick, completed all sixty‑four forms, his forehead slightly damp, breath lingering.

Lin Xueqing was cooking porridge inside; the scent of millet drifted through the door crack, mingling with the faint fragrance of the orchid pot on the balcony.

He sat on the rattan chair, lifted the zisha teapot, and only then noticed a few light‑brown spots had appeared on the back of his hand.

Age spots.

He was sixty‑eight, his hair still jet‑black, his back still straight, a single punch could still push back a robust forty‑year‑old by three steps.

But those spots, like a seal quietly stamped by time, silent and indisputable.

He set the zisha teapot down and watched Shenzhen awakening in the distance.

A crab‑shell blue just tinged the horizon; the streetlights on Shen Nan Avenue still glowed for the last shift, the tower crane that had worked through the night had settled, like a giant taking a nap in the morning mist.

Twenty years ago this city was a barren construction site; now skyscrapers stand like a forest, traffic weaving everywhere.

He personally turned it from blueprints into reality.

But he was old.

It wasn't a matter of whether his hair had turned white. One morning he woke and realized he no longer longed to go to the office; in a meeting, hearing a young man's proposal, his first reaction wasn't "Let me show you how," but "That kid thinks more thoroughly than I did back then."

Li Ping'an let out a soft sigh.

In the kitchen, Lin Xueqing carried the porridge to the table, glanced at him through the glass door, and said nothing.

After more than forty years of marriage, she was too familiar with that expression of her husband.

It wasn't fatigue, but a certain relief of having understood something.

9 a. m., the thirty‑eighth floor of Wanxiang Dasha.

The conference room was already full of people.

Zhou Wenbin rushed in from Hong Kong, his suit impeccably pressed, yet his eyes bore the fatigue of a night spent crossing borders.

Chen Jianghe sat beside him, his hand idly rubbing the Hero fountain pen he had used for twenty years, the cap engraved with "1979‑1999"—marking his twentieth year of entrepreneurship alongside his elder brother‑in‑law.

Zheng Guodong had gained a ring of weight and a ring of white hair. He had overseen the home‑appliance division for years; today he deliberately wore that dark‑blue Zhongshan suit—the very one he wore when the 1995 home‑appliance price war was won.

Zhang Wei was unchanged; he hadn't even changed out of his white lab coat, coming straight from the Nanshan R&D Center. His lenses were three layers thicker than a decade ago, his frames swapped five times, yet his eyes remained as sharp as an eagle's.

When Xu Jiaming pushed the door open, he still clutched a floppy disk; reaching the doorway he remembered today was not a work report, and sheepishly slipped the disk into his briefcase.

He Xiao followed behind, already thirty, still walking while pondering how to improve engine technology.

Zhou Huaming was the last to arrive. He entered dust‑covered, his shirt collar slightly wrinkled, yet his face bore a smile.

Chen Anbang sat in the corner, a notebook spread before him. He was the group's legal department director, a Peking University law graduate, Li Yaozong's cousin of the same year, and the youngest present today—thirty‑one.

Along the long rose‑wood table, twelve chairs.

Eleven people.

The head seat was empty.

Just after 9:05, the door opened.

Li Ping'an walked in, followed by Li Yaozong.

He wasn't wearing his usual dark‑blue Zhongshan suit; instead he wore a silver‑gray jacket, unzipped, revealing a faded blue shirt underneath.

It was the one Lin Xueqing bought two years ago at Wangfujing in Beijing; the cuffs had frayed, yet he couldn't bring himself to discard it.

The conference room fell silent for a moment.

Not because of his attire, but because of the expression in his eyes.

It was the calm of a fulfilled wish.

"Please sit." Li Ping'an took the head seat, placing a zisha tea cup to his right—an old piece he had brought from Beijing, accompanying him for a full thirty years.

No one spoke.

He scanned the room, from Zhou Wenbin to Chen Anbang, from the veteran who had followed him since 1984 to the young academician still pulling all‑nighters in the lab in 1999. Those faces, young or aged, had once argued, slammed tables, and reddened eyes within these walls.

They had also, in this very conference room, together with him, turned seemingly impossible tasks into realities, one by one.

"I've called you all here today," Li Ping'an began, his voice low yet each word steady, "not for a meeting."

He paused.

"It's a farewell."

Zhou Wenbin's tea cup swayed gently in its saucer.

Zheng Guodong lowered his head. Chen Jianghe clenched the Hero pen, his knuckles blanching.

Li Ping'an did not look at them.

"I'm sixty‑eight," he said, his tone as calm as if speaking of someone else, "Seventy is historically rare; I have two years left. I don't want to waste these two years in a conference room; I want to take Xueqing out for a walk."

He stared out the window.

"When we were young we always said, once this busy spell is over we'll go. After the van, there was the pager; after the pager, the DVD; after the DVD, the financial crisis… Forty years of busyness, and I've hustled my wife from her twenties right up to nearly seventy."

He turned back and smiled faintly.

"If I don't leave now, I won't be able to move later."

No one replied.

It wasn't that they didn't want to respond; they feared that once they opened their mouths, tears would fall.

Zhang Wei removed his glasses and slowly wiped his face with the edge of his shirt. He does that when nervous, when thinking, but mostly when he wants to hide something.

Xu Jiaming kept his head down, his expression unreadable, only his fingers lightly tapping the table edge.

He Xiao clenched and released his fist repeatedly. At thirty, he still felt like the day a master scolded him in the Workshop, holding his breath, unsure where to exhale.

"The group's affairs," Li Ping'an turned to Li Yaozong, "are all yours from today onward."

He looked at his son.

Thirty‑two, a Tsinghua graduate, he had rotated through the group for eight years, rising from Workshop technician to chairman's special assistant, then to general manager.

In these five years, Wanshang grew from five billion to two hundred billion, expanded from domestic to overseas, and changed from a pursuer to someone who can run side by side on certain tracks.

"Chairman and General Manager, he holds both roles alone. From now on, the name on signed documents is his. Decision‑making is his final call. Profits and losses are his responsibility."

Li Ping'an paused.

"It is also his glory."

Li Yaozong stood and bowed deeply to each person present.

He did not say, "Please take care of me."

A ninety‑degree bow, held for three seconds.

Then he sat down, opened his notebook, and placed the dark‑green steel pen to his right.

It was the pen Li Ping'an had used for thirty years.

Zhou Wenbin was the first to speak.

"Boss, the bank's leadership…"

"As long as you're still here, I'm reassured," Li Ping'an said. "Wanshang Bank has gone from an unknown Hong Kong investment to today; you spent twenty‑one years on it. How to proceed from now on, you know better than I do."

Zhou Wenbin nodded, saying nothing.

Chen Jianghe asked, "Regarding foreign trade, the interactions with Eastern Europe and Africa these past years…"

"Jianghe, you're my brother‑in‑law," Li Ping'an said, looking at him. "For thirty years, the toughest bones in the group have been chewed by you. Foreign trade, logistics, overseas acquisitions—none of them are untouched?"

He paused.

"From now on, you keep chewing them."

Chen Jianghe smiled, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes pressed together like the rings of an old tree.

"Fine." He tucked that heroic steel pen into its cap. "Then I'll work a few more years and finally retire for old age!"

Zheng Guodong lifted his head, his eye circles reddened.

"Boss, the home‑appliance side…"

"Home appliances were grown by you," Li Ping'an said. "In 1988, the first refrigerator production line—you personally went to Shunde to recruit technicians; in the 1995 price war, you slept in the Workshop for three months. How to move forward from now on, you understand better than anyone."

Zheng Guodong opened his mouth but said nothing, only nodded forcefully.

Zhang Wei put his glasses back on.

"Boss, the chips…"

"The Five‑Year Plan was your military order," Li Ping'an said, looking at him. "In 2003, the 32‑bit embedded processor reached performance that was five years behind the international mainstream. Yaozong will watch the schedule, and none of the funding you need will be withheld."

Zhang Wei adjusted his glasses.

"It's not a funding issue."

"I know," Li Ping'an said. "It's a talent issue, an ecosystem issue, a time issue. These problems, Yaozong will shoulder together with you."

He paused.

"I'm old, I can't run anymore. But you can still run."

Zhang Wei was silent for a few seconds.

"Can."

Xu Jiaming never looked up.

Li Ping'an looked at him.

"Jiaming, the operating system?"

Xu Jiaming lifted his head, his eye sockets slightly red.

"Pangu 4.0 kernel… ran successfully last month."

His voice trembled a little.

"Boot time is twenty‑five seconds. Ten seconds slower than Windows 98, but twelve seconds faster than last year. The graphical interface is still crude, and there are only sixteen self‑written applications. Yet… it works."

Li Ping'an nodded.

"If it works, that's victory."

He paused.

"From now on, it will get better and better."

Xu Jiaming said nothing. He simply took off his glasses and wiped them repeatedly.

He Xiao finally could no longer hold back.

"Boss, the automobile side…"

"You're only thirty," Li Ping'an cut in, "what are you telling me?"

He Xiao was startled.

" I retired at sixty‑eight; you want to retire at thirty?" Li Ping'an joked, unusually. "Work another thirty years and then we'll talk."

A few suppressed laughs rang in the conference room, tinged with a slight sourness in the nasal cavity.

He Xiao scratched his head and laughed naively.

"Alright, another thirty years then."

Chen Anbang sat quietly in the corner all along.

He was the youngest and the most silent among those present today. Thirty‑one years old, a Peking University law graduate, he had worked seven years in the Group's legal department, rising from assistant to director.

During the financial defense battle, the acquisition structure for British assets was designed by him together with three lawyers over forty‑nine days.

Li Ping'an looked at him.

"Anbang, there's something I want to say in front of everyone."

Chen Anbang sat up straight.

"You are my nephew, and also Yaozong's cousin. Yet you reached this position not because of those ties."

Li Ping'an's voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear.

"It was you who earned it yourself."

Chen Anbang's Adam's apple moved slightly, and he said nothing.

"From now on, when the group goes overseas, legal affairs will be your main battlefield," Li Ping'an said, "Cross‑border mergers and acquisitions, intellectual property, international arbitration… Wanshang must go out and must not be tripped up by others' rules."

"I've noted it," Chen Anbang said.

Outside the window, the sun rose to the roof.

March sunlight streamed through the floor‑to‑ceiling window, spreading a warm golden hue across the rosewood desk. The teacups, notebook, and fountain pen each caught a faint rim of light.

Li Ping'an lifted the chilled Longjing Tea Tea tea and took a sip.

Bitter at first, then a lingering sweetness.

"This conference room," he surveyed the surroundings, "I've used it for decades. From now on, Yaozong will use it."

He stood up.

"These years, thank you all for your hard work."

He bowed to everyone.

It wasn't a ninety‑degree bow, but a slow, forceful one, like an old tree bending in the wind.

Zheng Guodong's tears finally fell.

Zhou Wenbin turned his face away, pretending to look at the scenery outside.

He Xiao clenched his fist until the knuckles turned white.

Zhang Wei didn't wipe his glasses. He took them off, placed them on the desk, and lowered his head.

No one spoke.

Only Shenzhen outside the window kept growing, kept bustling, kept racing toward the new century they had built together, in the March morning light.

After the meeting adjourned, Li Ping'an did not leave immediately.

He stood alone by the window, watching Shen Nan Avenue below.

He watched this artery, once a yellow‑dirt road now a two‑way eight‑lane thoroughfare, its traffic flowing like a river. Red Wanshang buses weaved through, like the flocks of sheep he once herded in his youth.

Footsteps sounded behind him.

Lin Xueqing didn't knock, but walked straight in.

She stood beside her husband, following his gaze toward the window.

"Everything all set?"

"All set," Li Ping'an said.

"Willing to let go?"

Li Ping'an gave no answer.

After a long silence, he said, "When my mother passed, she told me two things. One was to find my sister; the other was to live well."

He paused.

"I've found my sister. Lived well for over sixty years. Now—"

He turned his head, looking at his wife.

"It's time to grow old properly."

Lin Xueqing said nothing, just clasped his hand.

That hand bore age spots, old calluses from youthful martial training, and a warmth learned to release only after sixty‑eight years of holding.

"Where do you want to go?" she asked.

Li Ping'an thought for a moment.

"First back to Henan. Light incense again for my parents."

"And then?"

"Then wherever we end up, we go there," he said, looking out the window. "Huashan, Emei, Dongting Lake, Li River… you said you wanted to see them all, so we'll see each one."

Lin Xueqing smiled.

The woman in her sixties smiled, fine lines at the corners of her eyes, yet she was still the Dr. Lin who had stood at the Union Hospital operating table for twenty years.

"That will cost a lot."

"We can afford it," Li Ping'an also laughed. "The group now doesn't lack this old geezer of mine."

March 11, 1999, Shenzhen.

An ordinary Thursday.

Wanshang buses on Shen Nan Avenue ran as usual, engineers at the Nanshan R&D Center worked overtime as usual, and prototype cars at the Bao'an test track were tested as usual.

No one noticed that in the office on the 38th floor of Wanxiang Dasha, an elderly man had been standing for a long time.

He looked at the city outside, one he had helped build with his own hands, at the buildings, roads, and parks bearing his name, and at the endless stream of strangers' youthful faces in the crowds.

He had toiled here for a full twenty years.

From a trade firm of a few hundred people, he rose to a multinational group with 120,000 employees and annual revenue of 20 billion.

From a boxy van, he built a full industry chain covering chips, systems, automobiles, finance, real estate, and hotels.

From a "town‑level enterprise" scorned by others, he became a benchmark national company that could compete side‑by‑side with international giants without lagging.

Here, he saw off his forties, fifties, and sixties.

Now, he is sixty‑eight.

He should go now.

In the evening, Li Ping'an entered that office for the last time.

The desk was empty. He took away the purple‑clay tea set he had used for twenty years, and the row of *Zizhi Tongjian* on the shelf had been moved by Li Yaozong to his own bookcase.

Only the orchid on the windowsill remained, quietly green in the dusk.

He watered the orchid for the last time.

Then he turned off the light and closed the door.

The hallway was quiet. The on‑duty guard saw him, stood at attention and saluted. He nodded and stepped into the elevator.

The numbers jumped from 38 down to 1.

The door opened.

Lin Xueqing waited for him in the lobby, holding the black briefcase that had been with him for twenty years.

He took the briefcase, took his wife's hand, and walked toward the exit.

The March evening wind blew in, carrying the unique, salty‑moist, vibrant air of Shenzhen Bay.

He stopped, turned back, and glanced once.

The glass curtain wall of Wanxiang Dasha reflected the last glow of the setting sun, the whole building like a piece of burning golden amber.

"Let's go," he said.

Then he turned around.

He walked toward the black car parked at the entrance.

He walked toward the trip he had long planned but never managed to start.

He walked toward the twilight years that belonged to him and Lin Xueqing—no longer needing to calculate time, weigh pros and cons, or be responsible for anyone.

March 11, 1999.

Li Ping'an retired.

Wanxiang Group, from then on entered the Li Yaozong era.

And that boy who left Henan in 1942, after enduring fifty‑seven years of wind and rain, could finally——

return home.