Chapter 948: Shared Suffering, Shared Joy

“He’s right here with us—thankfully, we never let go.”

Coming out of the meeting room, Lai Shanchuan said with relief, “Thank goodness we didn’t let go.”

Li Xuewu shook the cigarette off his hand, pulled out one and stuck it between his lips, then gestured toward Lai Shanchuan.

“Oh! Premium stuff!”

Lai Shanchuan laughed as he took the cigarette Li Xuewu offered, muttered something under his breath, and lit it up.

After drawing in a puff, he sighed, “You guys really have it better~”

“It’s just a pack of cigarettes—why make such a big deal?”

Li Xuewu exhaled a plume of smoke and sidestepped at the corner to let the detective coming down the stairs pass.

With today’s meeting over, they’d still split into several teams; Li Xuewu wouldn’t go out on field duty—he’d only support interrogations and analysis.

Lai Shanchuan invited him to re-interrogate Yu Lanfang, while the head of the Criminal Unit would lead the team to investigate Zhao Ziliang.

Zhao Ziliang’s joint venture factory, his home, the train station, the Zhili Guesthouse—all needed to be reviewed again.

At the very least, they needed to confirm whether Zhao Ziliang was dead or alive: if dead, the killer might still be free, or he might have committed suicide out of guilt.

If alive, his disappearance was the biggest red flag—both the fraud and murder cases would center on him.

Either way, this case was finally showing light—once a suspect was identified, it wasn’t a dead end.

So both the Criminal and Public Order heads were rushing out—they were the ones on the front lines doing the hard work.

As they came down the stairs, several team leaders greeted Li Xuewu and Lai Shanchuan as they passed.

Lai Shanchuan watched them leave with hopeful eyes, hoping this time they’d bring back new leads.

But he knew in his heart that the case had reached its final stage—it was nearly over.

It wasn’t that all evidence confirmed Zhao Ziliang as the killer; it was that he had no hope of finding Zhao Ziliang.

If they couldn’t break through with Yu Lanfang—or if they confirmed Yu Lanfang had nothing to do with this—

Then the only conclusion left would be that Zhao Ziliang and Zhang Shuqin conspired in fraud, then killed each other over a dispute over the loot.

Two months of investigation had drained not just manpower and resources from the bureau, but also the detectives’ mental stamina.

They couldn’t keep pouring energy into this case forever—fifty thousand yuan wasn’t worth it, and two people—one dead, one vanished—weren’t worth it either.

Right after the meeting, he’d already spoken privately with Director Zheng: if this round yielded no results, they’d temporarily close the case by issuing a warrant for Zhao Ziliang’s arrest.

If anything changed later, they’d still have room to act—and it would free up current investigative resources.

Li Xuewu, sitting close, had heard their discussion but stayed silent—his opinion wasn’t needed now.

The afternoon interrogation would still be led by Li Xuewu; though new issues had emerged, they had past interrogation records, and Lai Shanchuan wanted to observe Yu Lanfang from the side.

Yu Lanfang looked exactly as he had two days ago when Li Xuewu last saw him—except his eyes now held more despair and gloom.

Li Xuewu didn’t care about that—if judging truthfulness relied solely on facial expressions, how stupid would that be?

“We’ve got a new development.”

After sitting down, Li Xuewu moved his teacup aside and looked at Yu Lanfang: “You hit your wife on the night of the 28th, right?”

Yu Lanfang froze at the question, then turned pale: “You suspect me…!”

Thump. Thump.

Lai Shanchuan tapped the table and warned him: “Calm down—we’re asking you questions.”

Yu Lanfang glanced at him, clenched his fists, and fell silent, lips pressed tight.

Li Xuewu studied him, then asked: “First there was an argument, then you hit her—correct?”

“Tell us: what was your relationship with Zhang Shuqin? What you’ve told us and how you’ve acted doesn’t match what our investigators found.”

“I didn’t…”

Yu Lanfang bowed his head, slumped in his seat, and after a long silence, whispered: “I didn’t kill her… I didn’t…”

“Whether you say it or I say it doesn’t matter—right?”

Li Xuewu paused, then said: “There was clearly tension between you two—you know whether you laid hands on her.”

He glanced at Lai Shanchuan, then back at Yu Lanfang: “If you don’t want to talk, fine—but we now have grounds to suspect you had motive to kill.”

“Especially your hesitation right now!”

Lai Shanchuan’s face hardened as he pointed at him: “Every second you waste increases your suspicion. Think carefully—cooperate fully.”

“You don’t have to speak—we can guess.”

With Lai Shanchuan playing the stern one, Li Xuewu took the softer role: “No one’s found, no money’s found—how you end up handling this, you know best.”

“Even if the money’s truly gone, leaving behind a lingering suspicion means you’ll never walk free.”

“That’s not even the worst of it.”

Li Xuewu looked at him: “Do you want your wife to rest in peace? Are you willing to take the blame for the real killer?”

“It… it… it was her…”

Yu Lanfang’s body collapsed inward, shoulders hunched, voice muffled: “She… Shuqin… had someone outside.”

“Who?”

“When?”

“How did you find out?”

Lai Shanchuan and Li Xuewu exchanged a glance, then Lai Shanchuan snapped: “Why didn’t you say this during earlier questioning?”

“It’s…”

Yu Lanfang spread his trembling hands on the table and slowly explained: “I don’t know who. It’s been going on a long time.”

“I… I knew, but… sigh~”

He sighed deeply, speaking in fragments: “On the 29th, I thought she’d leave—she’d run off with him.”

“With whom?”

Lai Shanchuan frowned: “You don’t know?”

“I don’t. I really don’t.”

Yu Lanfang slowly lifted his head, eyes filled with tears: “On the 30th, when the Supply and Marketing Cooperative came to say she was missing, I had a feeling.”

“Because you hit her? Right?”

Li Xuewu raised an eyebrow: “What really happened between you two? Why did you feel she’d leave? Tell us.”

“I… I injured myself… from practicing…”

Yu Lanfang’s face flushed with shame: “I… I’m impotent. She said she’d go find someone else—I… I let her.”

“When did this start?”

Li Xuewu tapped the table: “How long after your injury? How many years ago?”

“Five or six years—five or six years ago.”

Yu Lanfang took a deep breath: “For the first two years, she was good—she cared for my feelings. But later, resentment built up—small fights daily, big fights constantly—sigh~”

“It’s all my fault—I ruined her.”

Yu Lanfang’s face twisted with grief: “I should’ve let her go long ago—I shouldn’t have cared about face, shouldn’t have held her back—it’s all my fault~”

This reason surprised Li Xuewu—but the situation itself was exactly what he’d expected.

He knew opera performers trained hard—he just didn’t know how training could destroy one’s sexual ability.

Is there a “Kuihua Manual” in opera?

Yu Lanfang had been orphaned as a child, picked up by a troupe, and by chance became a disciple, learning the craft.

Even after marriage, the couple had been harmonious and deeply affectionate—until this sudden disaster struck.

At first, he’d been generous—he urged his wife to divorce and remarry a good man, not to stay with him.

But back then, they were enduring hardship together; Zhang Shuqin told him: “Better to marry a woman who’s mended her ways than one who’s strayed. If I leave now, where would I go but suffer?”

A marriage begun young, no matter how hard, was deeper than one formed mid-life.

Zhang Shuqin refused to leave—afraid both would regret it and suffer. So they carried on.

Love, without nourishment, slowly fades.

At first, their shared hardship outweighed the emptiness—but over time, hearts changed.

Before two years passed, Zhang Shuqin couldn’t bear it anymore. Once her job stabilized, she demanded a separation.

At that point, Yu Lanfang refused—he’d mustered courage to let her go, but her resistance had shaken him; now he lacked the strength to face life alone amid gossip.

One wanted to leave, the other wouldn’t let go—how could such a life be bearable?

Small fights, big fights—until Zhang Shuqin threatened divorce. Yu Lanfang went straight to the Supply and Marketing Cooperative.

Back then, work units were different—they controlled everything: marriage, divorce, even your private life.

If a worker abandoned her husband, everyone in the unit would feel ashamed—the leadership would be humiliated.

So the organization took turns persuading Zhang Shuqin, offering support, and applying pressure.

Faced with this, what could Zhang Shuqin do? The organization’s message was clear—if she pushed for divorce, she’d be driven out of the unit.

She had no choice but to swallow her pride and endure this hollow, miserable marriage.

But at some point, Yu Lanfang noticed Zhang Shuqin’s temper had softened considerably.

At first, he thought his persistence had paid off—she was finally accepting and understanding him.

But later, he sensed something was wrong—from neighbors’ whispers and his own observations—he realized she had a lover.

He’d asked her before—but each time, she either denied it outright, stayed silent, or flew into a rage.

When the fights got bad, she’d hurl every insult imaginable—he endured it all, afraid of the scandal.

He couldn’t perform those duties, and they weren’t even in the same unit—he couldn’t watch her, couldn’t guard her. Her heart wasn’t with him—what good was watching her body?

Filled with guilt and regret, he stopped caring about it, pouring all his energy into his performance career.

I wonder if heaven was playing a joke on him—his marriage fell apart, yet his career took off.

He gradually became a pillar of the troupe and gained some fame.

At this point, even if he wanted to cause trouble, he dared not. The couple lived separate lives, and for a while, things settled down.

Just as his fame grew and his progress accelerated, when he heard his wife bring another man home, all his suppressed concern erupted.

He demanded to know why she treated him so cruelly, why she left him not even a shred of dignity.

Zhang Shuqin was also seething with anger—she endured in silence, while Yulanfang rose to success and became even more illustrious.

What should have been her husband’s triumph became a burden she could not escape.

More and more people learned she was Yulanfang’s wife; the reputation she had once ignored now turned against her.

Outsiders looked at her with contempt and disdain, believing she had betrayed Yulanfang, and all criticism fell upon her.

How could Zhang Shuqin endure this humiliation? Like a broken pot she no longer cared about, she began deliberately bringing men home.

What neighbors saw was mostly what Zhang Shuqin wanted them to see—intentionally so Yulanfang would know.

According to Yulanfang, he proposed divorce at the end of last year, granting Zhang Shuqin her freedom.

But Zhang Shuqin refused—partly because his salary had risen, partly out of revenge and unwillingness to let go.

Yulanfang now understood his wife’s meaning: it was hatred for him, hatred born of love—how deeply he had once loved her, now she hated him just as deeply.

He admitted he had struck Zhang Shuqin more than once; the last time was on the 28th, when he found a man’s clothes in the house.

“But I swear, I did not kill her.”

Yulanfang looked at Li Xuewu and said seriously: “Ever since she threatened to expose my situation and kept bringing men home to punish me, I knew I had to let go.”

“What about the threats?”

Li Xuewu glanced at him and asked: “Don’t you think her threats carried weight? Didn’t they affect your career?”

“Hehe~”

Yulanfang gave a bitter laugh, took a deep breath, and said: “Even if she hadn’t spoken, how could anyone truly hide it? It’s all about face.”

Then he looked at Li Xuewu and said: “Actors are bottom-tier; it was the new era that gave us status, let us live like human beings.”

“But in our line, how many have truly broken free, truly escaped the chains within?”

“This half-dead body”

He looked down at himself and said: “Compared to others, I’m nothing—yet at least I’m still a man.”

Li Xuewu had never understood this mindset; he turned to look at Lai Shanchuan, who nodded slightly.

It seemed this circle was truly chaotic—not just in recent times, but from its very roots.

“In my situation, my illness isn’t shameful—it can even earn sympathy.”

Yulanfang spoke frankly: “If I divorce Zhang Shuqin, I won’t lose anything. If she causes trouble, in the end, she’s the one who suffers.”

Li Xuewu agreed—Zhang Shuqin had ruined her own reputation; if she kept causing scenes with Yulanfang, she was only digging her own grave.

“On the night of the 28th, she suddenly broke her silence and said we should find a convenient time to divorce.”

Yulanfang closed his eyes slightly and said: “She said she was at peace, that she no longer wanted to live with me. I understood what she meant.”

He opened his eyes again and looked at Li Xuewu: “People like us are now rats crossing the street—her resentment naturally vanished.”

“So you didn’t want to divorce anymore?”

Li Xuewu listened to his story like watching a Korean drama—was marriage really this complicated?

Neither spouse was generous; after their hearts drifted apart, neither wished the other well, and so they ended up like this.

Yulanfang paused, then said: “I was willing. I agreed. I was tired. Divorce would be better for both.”

“And then?”

Lai Shanchuan narrowed his eyes and asked: “Did Zhang Shuqin plan to run away? Or did she intend to take that money and disappear?”

“Let me remind you”

Li Xuewu tapped the table and said to Yulanfang: “If you’re certain you’re innocent, then someone must have appeared between you and your wife.”

“Think carefully—did Zhang Shuqin plan to leave you, leave Jingcheng? Did that person threaten or urge her to flee?”

“I don’t know.”

Yulanfang frowned in pain, straining to recall that final night with her.

“There must have been signs.”

Li Xuewu prompted him: “According to our investigation, Zhang Shuqin’s documents, clothes, and belongings hadn’t been moved. She showed no intention to leave to anyone at her workplace.”

“Leave? Impossible.”

Yulanfang thought and said: “I have no parents, but she does. Her two younger brothers are useless—she supports them entirely.”

“Mm, go on.”

Lai Shanchuan felt he had grasped the key point—there was more to dig up.

“Her documents… were all there. On the 29th, she showed no unusual behavior.”

Yulanfang recalled: “The slap you mentioned—I didn’t really hit her. How could I truly strike her?”

“The clothes”

Li Xuewu reminded him: “You said you saw a man’s clothes—where are they now?”

“Gone.”

Yulanfang shook his head: “They disappeared the next day. She must have hidden them.”

“They weren’t.”

Lai Shanchuan said: “We searched your home. All items were registered and confirmed by you. Every single one.”

“I truly don’t know where she put them.”

Yulanfang said: “If she threw them in the stove, I wouldn’t have known.”

It was possible. Lai Shanchuan glanced at him but dropped the line of questioning, gesturing for him to continue.

“The divorce was agreed upon, but not so urgently. Afterward, she’d need to find a new place—she wouldn’t leave Jingcheng.”

Yulanfang hesitated: “She wouldn’t give up her job at the supply and marketing cooperative, and she’d never abandon her parents.”

“As for the fraud, the money, whether someone forced her…”

Yulanfang thought and said: “My salary has always been with her. Our household never lacked money.”

“Even if we divorced, she wouldn’t worry about finances. So I simply don’t believe she committed fraud.”

He said earnestly: “And coercion? Impossible. She’s the strongest-willed person I know—she’d never yield.”

“The only possibility is deception.”

Yulanfang thought and said: “We were both simple-minded. Neither of us had cunning or scheming thoughts—that’s why we ended up like this.”

“If you say she was deceived, I can’t rule it out…”

“Any suspects?”

Lai Shanchuan asked: “Relatives? Friends? Even that person you heard about?”

“Hehe, nearly two months now.”

Yulanfang sighed helplessly: “Here, I’ve told you everyone I know, everyone I can think of.”

“Except, of course, this matter.”

He nodded, admitting: “I find it hard to speak of this—and I have nothing to hide.”

“I hope so.”

Lai Shanchuan glanced at Li Xuewu, stood up, and said: “Don’t try to deceive us. If you do, you won’t just be wasting your own time.”

“That~!”

As the two rose to leave, Yulanfang raised his hand: “What about Shuqin’s funeral…?”

“Wait.”

Lai Shanchuan watched Li Xuewu leave first, then turned back to Yulanfang: “The forensic team is still searching for clues. We’ll decide once we have something.”

Without caring about Yulanfang’s expression, he followed Li Xuewu out of the interrogation room.

In the lobby lounge, Li Xuewu sat smoking. Lai Shanchuan glanced at him, then sat in the row ahead.

“What’s the likelihood it was Yulanfang?”

Lai Shanchuan lit his own cigarette, turned, leaned back, and looked at Li Xuewu.

Li Xuewu exhaled smoke and said: “I can’t think of any motive for him to strike.”

“Betrayal? Threats? Or something else?”

Lai Shanchuan drew on his cigarette: “He might be too good at pretending. Is he hiding something from us?”

“Like what?”

Li Xuewu’s gaze shifted to Lai Shanchuan’s face: “Is he concealing this fact—or does he know who came to his house?”

“Hard to say.”

Lai Shanchuan narrowed his eyes, thinking: “Especially that piece of clothing—it might not have been hidden by Zhang Shuqin.”

“If he’s hiding that, does it cut off the link to Zhao Ziliang’s murder?”

Li Xuewu tapped his chin: “The train station might not yield anything—not even in Zhili.”

“Indeed~”

Lai Shanchuan sighed deeply: “Too much time has passed. Zhao Ziliang was planning to flee to the countryside—if he was killed in some remote valley, we’d never find him in eight lifetimes.”

“That’s good, then?”

Li Xuewu smiled at Lai Shanchuan: “If Yulanfang’s cleared, you can close the case.”

Lai Shanchuan eyed Li Xuewu without speaking—he felt there was more behind his words.

Of course, he understood Li Xuewu’s personality, and knew full well that Li had overheard his discussion with Director Zheng about closing the case.

It didn’t matter—there was no way he’d let one man’s pride drag the whole team down with him.

If problems arose later, whatever blame fell on him, he’d bear it; whatever punishment came, he’d take it. Over the years, how many problematic cases had there been?

In this line of work, no one gets to avoid disciplinary action. Frontline teams, especially his position, weren’t jobs for good people.

Don’t be fooled by Li Xuewu sitting there making sarcastic remarks—if he were in that chair, he’d be just as desperate.

Back then, Li Xuewu was Deputy Director of Public Security—why didn’t he ever show up for work?

Do you think he really withheld work from Li Xuewu? This wasn’t some plum assignment—he was the top man; the benefits always went to him anyway.

Li Xuewu is cunning. When he couldn’t get anything out of Yu Lanfang, did you see him even listen when you talked about handling Zhang Shuqin’s funeral?

Lai Shanchuan knew clearly: the fact that Li Xuewu gave no answer to his question was itself the answer.

Yu Lanfang had no motive to commit the crime.

Don’t talk about betrayal or threats—this whole affair between them had been common knowledge since the moment he tacitly accepted it.

If they truly cared, they’d have settled it long ago—why wait until Zhao Ziliang was about to travel?

Compared to Zhao Ziliang’s sudden disappearance, Yu Lanfang’s suspicion had dropped dramatically.

Lai Shanchuan’s silence in reply to Li Xuewu was the answer—he’d already made up his mind.

Li Xuewu saw it too: his support had amounted to nothing, but the outcome was still acceptable—at least they now had a reason to close the case.

He sat in the lobby waiting, hoping to see Lai Shanchuan’s stance—if there was nothing more, he’d head home.

A botched operation?

Not at all. From the start, this case had been twisted like a rope—everyone involved was exhausted and wanted it closed as soon as possible.

Was this case difficult?

Li Xuewu didn’t think his support had helped them much; his only role was to give them a reason to close the case.

If Lai Shanchuan alone had come up with this reason, he’d struggle to explain it to superiors.

Even if they brought in an expert from above, that person might not be willing to back them.

He, as a rising star in his department, had a bit of reputation, and Lai Shanchuan was considerate—he’d been actively promoting him.

That’s why the investigators rushed out that afternoon—they all wanted to run the evidence through a sieve, then sign off.

Even without finding the money, the murder weapon, or the primary crime scene, the combined evidence was enough to justify a conclusion.

Because the perpetrator had fled and kept misleading them, the designated killer had sufficient motive.

Zhao Ziliang had an affair with Zhang Shuqin, learned the credit union’s procedures through his wife Du Xiaoyan, frequently traveled, and had ample experience away from base…

With all these facts laid out, the credit union would be satisfied, the supply and marketing cooperative would be satisfied, and superiors would be satisfied too.

As for Yu Lanfang, he’d already saved his life and ended an unhappy marriage—what more could he want?

Du Xiaoyan herself was at fault; with her husband missing, what grounds did she have to protest?

Everyone tacitly accepted it and was satisfied—wasn’t that a perfect case closure?

Li Xuewu sat with the silent Lai Shanchuan, smoked the last puff of his cigarette, crushed the butt, and stood to leave.

Just as he took two steps, Lai Shanchuan’s voice came from behind: “I’m not a good police officer, am I?”

How could Li Xuewu answer that?

Should he say Lai was a good leader?

Li Xuewu couldn’t say something untrue—after all, that knife Lai had once plunged into him wasn’t the act of a good leader.

As for sarcastic remarks, that wasn’t necessary—he wasn’t that petty.

He kept walking, turned his head slightly, waved his hand, and gave a faint smile—his farewell.

Good and bad were never terms meant to describe people—at least in his heart, there were no good or bad people in this world.

Doing good deeds didn’t make someone good; doing wrong didn’t make someone bad—but someone who did wrong and refused to repent? That person was certainly no good.

After Thursday, when he left the branch, Li Xuewu never again involved himself in the case.

He didn’t need to sign anything, nor did he need to give any speech to superiors to endorse it.

The branch would certainly include his name on the case closure report.

But he was no longer part of that system—not directly, at least. As a temporary support officer, he bore no responsibility.

Though some doubts still lingered in his mind, the case was no longer his concern.

Early Sunday morning, Li Xuewu woke on the guesthouse bed, stretched wide, then yawned.

Zhang Songying nearly passed out from his elbow swing and kicked him hard under the covers.

“You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you!”

“Ow~ Be gentle!”

Li Xuewu winced and complained: “I wasn’t even wearing pants!”

“Did I hurt you?!”

Zhang Songying froze—she hadn’t really used any force.

She knew this rascal liked to tease her, but still worried—she pulled back the covers and crawled in, asking: “Here?”

“Sssss~”

Li Xuewu suddenly widened his eyes, unable to suppress a smirk.

“Down~ Up~ Right there! Yes~ Yes~”

“This?”

Zhang Songying’s muffled voice came from under the covers, tinged with doubt: “Could I even kick here?”

“Yes, exactly!”

Li Xuewu grinned wickedly: “See? Swollen yet?”

“...”

Zhang Songying knew this man was no good—he’d tricked her again.

But she was kind-hearted; even if it wasn’t her fault, could she ignore someone in pain?

After washing up, Zhang Songying went to apply makeup—same routine, but after her trip to Yangcheng, she’d added a few new essentials.

“Who won last night?”

Zhang Songying glanced at Li Xuewu in the mirror and asked: “Why does Deputy Shi look so upset? Lose too badly?”

“Really? I didn’t notice~”

Li Xuewu adjusted his leather jacket, glanced at himself sideways in the mirror, and said casually: “I only won less than twenty—didn’t you take it all back?”

“Director Li won more—probably close to fifty.”

He picked up the wooden comb on the table, combed his hair, and restored his lightning-strike hairstyle.

Zhang Songying looked up at Li Xuewu, pouting: “You had no money in your pocket—how did you win twenty?”

“Of course!”

Li Xuewu didn’t blush in the least, speaking seriously: “Don’t you know I’m famous for winning without stakes?”

“Now I know~”

Zhang Songying smiled and asked: “If you won, everyone was happy—but what if you lost?”

“Play with them? I’d lose?”

Li Xuewu raised an eyebrow, dismissive: “Last night was clearly a charity game—anyone who lost was a fool!”

“Hmph~~~”

Zhang Songying sneered: “They gave the leader a chance to win—you stole it. Aren’t you afraid he’ll resent you?”

“If I didn’t steal it, he’d be the one angry!”

Li Xuewu tossed the comb aside and explained to Zhang Songying: “Deputy Shi’s never played with Director Li—he doesn’t know Director Li’s temperament.”

As he spoke, he grabbed his bag from the cabinet and slipped on his leather shoes.

“Director Li is all show—but he hates pretense at the table. Last night, I saved Deputy Shi’s life.”

“Just nonsense~”

Zhang Songying stood, picked up the money on the bedside table, and called out to Li Xuewu as he headed for the door: “You haven’t taken your money yet~”

“You took it—it’s yours now.”

Li Xuewu turned back with a grin: “Wish me luck—I’ll win more next time, so you can steal even more.”

“So this is illegal income then~”

Zhang Songying smiled: “Perfect—I’ve got a date with Qin Huaiju for a haircut. We’ll eat well outside, then go shopping for fabric to make clothes.”

“So you’re going to spend it all, huh?”

Li Xuewu nodded: “Fine, do as you please—you’re a spendthrift.”

“Who are you calling that?!”

Zhang Songying chased after him, but Li Xuewu was already out the door—and had locked her inside.

“Hmph~”

She pouted angrily, tucked the money away, and went back to drawing her eyebrows.

Last night, Director Li hosted several cadres from branch factories for a meeting and invited Li Xuewu to join.

They drank plenty, then went upstairs after the party to play cards and chat.

Zhang Songying, busy preparing for the opening of the Six Nations Hotel, no longer took shifts here.

But knowing Li Xuewu wouldn’t be home, she stayed over—this had become routine.

Qin Huaiju was on duty last night but didn’t come upstairs—partly because it was inconvenient and she didn’t like the crowd, partly because she didn’t want to be a nuisance.

Li Xuewu is no longer the little brother he used to be; unlike Zhang Songying, he doesn’t have the luxury to play around anymore.

Watching Li Xuewu descend the stairs, Qin Huaiju stepped out of her office and invited him to the canteen for breakfast.

Li Xuewu glanced at his watch, waved his hand, and said he was in a hurry.

Qin Huaiju didn’t know what Li Xuewu was busy with all day—he couldn’t even spare time for breakfast on a weekend.

If he was rushing home, wasn’t it already too late at this hour?

Li Xuewu wasn’t going home; he’d called his family last night, and Han Jiankun hadn’t returned either, so Qin Jingru was staying overnight at the Maritime Warehouse.

Last week Yu Li had complained to him, calling him a hands-off shopkeeper, growing more and more like a capitalist who now needed to be visited for work reports.

He understood Yu Li’s discomfort—he wasn’t blind; Qin Jingru’s cautious glances were obvious even to Han Jiankun.

When dropping Yu Li off, Han Jiankun had even initiated a few words with her, attempting to ease tensions—an unusual act of initiative for him, given his practice of the Closed-Mouth Chan.

So don’t wait until Yu Li grows tired and starts nagging him again; he’s already arranged to meet Lou Yu and her husband—better to go early, before something else comes up and he can’t avoid it.

The command vehicle left the guesthouse and drove out, just as it reached the gate encountering the second group of young visitors come to observe and learn at the factory.

Li Xuewu looked at these progressive students with innocent, clueless eyes and wondered how many more batches the Foreign Affairs Office’s reception station could handle.

Pushing them to work so hard like this will eventually make them despised by everyone!

“The heated brick bed is awful!”

“This house is broken—no air conditioning at all!”

“I don’t want steamed buns—I want bread!”

…

As soon as Li Xuewu stepped out of the car, he saw Lou Yu soothing a little brat.

It wasn’t that he was rude—he just couldn’t ignore that the child’s hat had two rabbit ears.

Lou Yu had already spotted his car entering the courtyard and was now waiting for him.

“Hey! That hat’s really cute!”

Li Xuewu smiled, sizing up the little rabbit, and instead of greeting Lou Yu, he teased the child first.

Lou Ting had also noticed the car entering the yard; now seeing a tall, fearsome-looking man step out, he immediately hid behind his grandfather.

He’d heard from family and seen in photo albums that men dressed like this were usually called “Big Boss.”

“Big Boss”—a noun, not an adjective.

His grandmother told him these Big Bosses were mostly bandits, just like the man standing before him.

Wearing a tall hat, scars on their faces, wool overcoats, leather gloves in hand, and heavy boots on their feet.

Since childhood, he’d known that bandits ate children.

Lou Yu held his grandson, who cowered behind him, and looked at Li Xuewu with a complex expression—both grandfather and grandson bore the same trace of fear.

“When did you arrive?”

Li Xuewu grinned, making Lou Ting dare not look at him at all; he teased the child again: “Was the journey smooth?”

“It was fine.”

Lou Yu glanced down at his grandson, tugged his hand, and coached him: “Say… say ‘Uncle.’”

“I won’t!”

Lou Ting wouldn’t even look at Li Xuewu—he yanked his hand free and sprinted toward the room he’d stayed in yesterday.

From the port city, he’d been locked in the ship’s hold like a piglet, too scared to cry or shout.

He ate whatever was given without protest, dared not call out even when hungry—finally showing some discipline after all these years.

As soon as he disembarked, he was shoved into a car, his mouth even gagged, tears held back until he saw his grandfather.

He was truly among kin—he cried five or six times, devoured three large steamed buns, and finally calmed down.

“No manners.”

Lou Yu watched his grandson run off and scolded helplessly: “He’s badly raised—spoiled rotten by his father.”

“Kids—you teach them slowly.”

Li Xuewu raised his hand slightly and gestured: “You go ahead—I’ll eat at the canteen, then come find you.”

“Come home to eat.”

Lou Yu gently patted Li Xuewu’s arm and sighed: “Spoiled and soft—he can’t handle coarse food. His mother made him breakfast.”

“That’s perfect.”

Li Xuewu smiled, unbothered by formality, and followed him into the courtyard.

These days, Lou Yu had lived alone in one room here; after the port city’s upheaval, Tan Yali, uneasy, came down from the mountains to keep him company.

She’d heard of her daughter’s actions in the port city and feared for the old man’s safety—so they both waited here for Li Xuewu, sharing hardship as one unit.

In his small talk, Lou Yu expressed no resentment toward his wife, his daughter, or even Li Xuewu—only complained about his grandson’s lack of promise.

Li Xuewu didn’t take the bait—he listened, murmured “uh-huh” and “yeah,” playing the straight man.

As soon as they entered their courtyard, he saw Lou’s mother waiting at the door and greeted her with a smile.

“Mom, you’re waiting for me?”

“Ah… I just heard Lou Ting say you’d arrived. Haven’t eaten yet, right? Quick, I’ve already served it up.”

Tan Yali froze at being called “Mom,” then glanced awkwardly at her husband, inviting Li Xuewu inside.

Lou Yu didn’t mind the term—it was meant for him, loaded with meaning.

Boasting? Threatening? Or soothing?

The deed was done; what could he say now?