Chapter 413: Who Could It Be?

Qiu Ce Yuan, Jia Deng Canteen.

It's called a Cafeteria, but it actually resembles a scaled‑down private club. Solid‑wood long tables, recessed ceiling lights, the tableware is a custom bone‑china set, and the dishes are handled by an externally hired three‑star chef team.

No more than twenty students can sit in this area.

Behind each name that's mentioned stands a whole office building or an entire industry chain.

Zhao Lingfei sits at the window seat, with a freshly served French pan‑seared foie gras in front of her. She cuts off a small piece with knife and fork, puts it in her mouth, chews leisurely, her expression hovering between enjoyment and boredom.

Opposite her sits double‑ponytail girl Zhou Lin, who is pecking at the salad in her plate.

"How many meters did you run in the afternoon PE class?" Zhao Lingfei asks casually.

"Three… three thousand two."

"I'm three thousand eight." Zhao Lingfei wipes the corner of her mouth with a napkin, "Tell the instructor later that next time the groups should separate me from that Chen Yao; I don't want to see her."

Zhou Lin nods as if pecking at rice.

Zhao Lingfei withdraws her gaze contentedly, reaches for the juice cup, and through the floor‑to‑ceiling window watches the regular‑class students training on the playground below.

The sunlight is just right.

Her privilege card lies securely in the pocket on the chest of her school uniform, the silver face reflecting a small glint. The card was specially approved by the Zhao Clan construction materials group in its capacity as a School Board Member, granting the holder eleven privileges such as access to Jia Deng Canteen, private dormitory, priority course selection, and so on.

Across the Gui Ce Yuan Elementary Department, only six cards of this tier were issued.

Zhao Lingfei feels today's foie gras is cooked to perfection.

At the same time.

Jiang Hai City CBD Core area, Zhao Clan Construction Materials Group headquarters, 47th‑floor banquet hall.

Crystal chandeliers illuminate the entire hall, a long conference table draped with dark‑red velvet cloth, laden with Maotai and Lafite.

Zhao Guoqiang stands at the head seat, his suit crisp, his face flushed with red light.

Today is the celebration banquet for Zhao Clan Construction Materials securing the general contracting contract for Qiu Ce Yuan's third‑phase project. Three branch institutes, a 40% share of construction materials, plus supporting infrastructure projects give a ledger turnover enough for him to live off for three years.

"Come on, everyone, fill 'em up, fill 'em up!"

Zhao Guoqiang raises his glass, his voice booming enough to pierce the entire floor.

"This drink is to the brothers here; without everyone's backing, old Zhao couldn't have gotten this juicy piece. From now on we'll earn money together, eat meat together—"

He doesn't finish the sentence.

His phone in his trouser pocket vibrated.

Zhao Guoqiang ignores it.

Second buzz. Third buzz. Fourth buzz.

It vibrated seven or eight times in a row, making the right side of his butt go numb.

Zhao Guoqiang furrows his brow, pulls out the phone; the screen shows a call from Finance Director Li Minghui.

"Lao Li? I'm in the middle of a banquet, what's up—"

"Zhao Zong!" Li Minghui's voice bursts from the handset, trembling, "Huan Yu Heavy Industry just sent a lawyer's letter! Unilaterally terminating all contracts under execution! They'll pay the full liquidated damages, not a cent less— but Zhao Zong, they're done playing with us!"

Zhao Guoqiang's smile freezes on his face.

"What did you say?"

"Not just Huan Yu! Ding Sheng Capital, Yong Tai Xin Investment, Jia He Fund, all financial institutions that have credit lines with us have, in the past thirty minutes— completely frozen the Zhao Clan's loan quotas!"

"All?" Zhao Guoqiang's tone shifts.

"All." Li Minghui's panting comes through the handset, heavy and rapid, "Zhao Zong, it's Shen Wanshan. Shen Wanshan called personally. Not only him, at least twelve top‑tier conglomerate heads moved as well. Their timing was synchronized, the gap no more than five minutes. This isn't coincidence; it's a hunt."

Zhao Guoqiang's hand holding the glass hangs suspended in mid‑air.

The clinking of cups in the banquet hall continues, some are playing rock‑paper‑scissors, others bragging, laughter rising and falling. No one notices the host's complexion at the head seat draining, inch by inch, to pallor.

"Lao Zhao? Zhao Zong?" a few partners across raise their glasses and shout at him.

Zhao Guoqiang doesn't respond.

He turns toward the floor‑to‑ceiling window, backs to everyone, lowers his voice: "Investigate, immediately. Why did Shen Wanshan target me? I have no profit conflict with him—"

"Can't investigate." Li Minghui's voice is hoarse and bitter, "Zhao Zong, our stock on the Federation Industry Exchange hit the circuit‑breaker three minutes after opening. Someone is Short Selling. Not ordinary Short Selling— they're using financial data precise to two decimal places to smash the market. Our record of cutting corners on the Songjiang project last year, the tax gap of the Lingshui branch the year before, and the three off‑book entries you had me process—all have been dug up."

Zhao Guoqiang's pupils contract to needle points.

Those items are hidden in a third‑level encrypted hard drive, even his wife doesn't know the password.

"Who?"

"Don't know." But the data's accuracy is one hundred percent, it leaked from the inside. Zhao Zong— someone stripped us clean.

The phone screen lit up, a new message popped in.

Market Supervision Administration, joint tax inspection notice.

Zhao Guoqiang's knees went weak for a moment.

He steadies himself on the window frame, looking through the glass at the bustling street below. The view from the 47th floor is excellent, clear enough to see the entrance of the tax bureau building three streets away, where two black business cars with special plates are parked.

The phone vibrated again.

This time it isn't a call, but a message from the partners' group chat.

—"Zhao Zong, the Wanshan Group informed us that all projects linked to the Zhao Clan must complete transfer and handover within 24 hours, or our qualification will be revoked as well. Sorry, Lao Zhao, I'm also powerless here."

—"Zhao Zong, the steel order on our side needs to be paused. The higher‑ups gave the signal."

—"Lao Zhao, it's not that I'm unwilling to help, it's just… you know."

One after another.

Zhao Guoqiang scrolls back; the earliest message was sent— forty‑six minutes ago.

He looks up at the guests still raising glasses in the banquet hall.

These people sip his Maotai while cutting him off on their phones.

Zhao Guoqiang suddenly feels like laughing.

His phone rang for the ninth time.

"President Zhao—"

This time it was his lawyer.

"No need to say more," Zhao Guoqiang's throat sounded as if sandpaper had filed it, "Get to the point."

"The bank has already initiated the loan recall procedure. The Zhao Clan's liquid capital shortfall..." the lawyer paused, "At the current rate of loss, at most two hours."

Two hours.

Zhao Guoqiang leaned his hand on the window frame, his fingers curling, his nail digging into his palm.

He had run a business in Jiang Hai City's commercial district for nineteen years. He thought he was a big shot.

Twelve conglomerates were reeling in at the same time.

From the first call until now, a total of fifty‑three minutes had passed.

Fifty‑three minutes, and nineteen years fell apart.

Qiu Ce Yuan, Jia Deng Canteen.

Zhao Lingfei was eating her second piece of goose liver.

Her phone rang. The caller ID showed "Mom".

"Hello?"

On the other end was Mrs. Zhao's scream, so loud that Zhao Lingfei had to pull the phone away from her ear.

"Mom, what are you doing? Lower your voice—"

"Your dad's in trouble! The company was... was messed with! Bank people came to the door! You hurry—"

Zhao Lingfei was stunned.

Bang.

Footsteps came from behind.

The on‑duty manager of the Jia Deng Canteen walked to her table, carrying a small tray. On the tray lay an envelope.

"Zhao, the Student Affairs Office has a notice,"

Zhao Lingfei opened the envelope.

Inside was a form stamped with the red seal of the Qiu Ce Institute Student Affairs Office. It contained only one line of bold text:

"In view of the change in your School Board Member guarantor qualification, Privilege Card No. S-009 is frozen effective immediately, and related benefits are simultaneously revoked. Please vacate the independent dormitory within three days."

Zhao Lingfei's gaze fixed on the word "frozen."

Zhou Lin's phone also rang. She glanced at it, her complexion changed instantly. She rose from her seat, carrying her salad tray, and walked silently toward the regular dining area.

Zhao Lingfei looked up, "Zhou Lin?"

Zhou Lin quickened her pace.

The other two girls who usually stayed by Zhao Lingfei also stood up almost simultaneously; one even deliberately took a detour while passing, keeping at least two meters away from Zhao Lingfei's table.

Zhao Lingfei's mouth opened slightly.

Students at other tables in the Jia Deng Canteen began whispering. Someone pulled out a phone, apparently scrolling news, and after a glance, their gaze toward Zhao Lingfei changed in tone.

It wasn't reverence, it wasn't flattery.

It was merely watching the spectacle.

Zhao Lingfei fished the silver privilege card from her wallet. She tried swiping it on the tabletop reader.

Beep—red light. Invalid.

She swiped again.

Beep—red light.

Her fingers began to tremble.

The canteen manager still stood nearby, expressionless, waiting.

"Zhao, the Jia Deng area requires a valid privilege card for entry. If your card has been frozen, please move to the regular dining area."

Zhao Lingfei clutched the silver card, her knuckles whitening.

She looked around.

No one looked at her. To be precise, everyone was looking at her, but none met her gaze.

Fourteen minutes earlier, Zhou Lin, who had called her "Sister Fei," was now sitting in the regular area near a corner, hunched over her rice, chatting with the person beside her, and laughing midway.

Zhao Lingfei's goose liver cooled.

When the goose liver cools, a grayish layer of fat separates, looking disgusting.

Qiu Ce Institute Faculty Building, an office without a nameplate.

The tea on the table cooled twice.

A subordinate rotated the laptop, aligning the screen toward Su Ming, who sat opposite.

"Su Team, take a look at this."

Su Ming's eyes landed on the screen.

It was the K‑line chart of the Federation Industry Exchange for the past two hours. Zhao Clan Building Materials' stock price traced an almost vertical red line from left to right—opening at 17.6, and as of just now, 0.32.

A decline of ninety‑eight percent.

But Su Ming wasn't looking at the price; he was examining the transaction details.

The short‑selling capital passed through at least four layers of shell companies, a path so convoluted that any audit firm would need half a year to trace. Yet they shared one trait—each sell order's timestamp was precise to the millisecond, and the order flow resembled control by a single brain.

"Shen Wanshan's Huan Yu Heavy Industry was the first to pull out?" Su Ming asked.

"Yes. Then the other twelve followed within five minutes," the subordinate produced a relationship chart. "The issue is, the equity structures, legal person backgrounds, and business domains of these thirteen firms are completely non‑overlapping. Under normal circumstances, there is no commercial logic for synchronized action."

Su Ming's gaze lingered on the screen for three seconds.

He lifted the teacup and took a sip of the chilled tea.

What does the Zhao family have that's worth such a large‑scale encirclement?

None." The subordinate shook his head. "Zhao Clan's building materials don't even rank in the top three hundred of the Federation's entire commercial landscape; at most they're a second‑tier contractor feeding off Qiu Ce Yuan's infrastructure boom.

Su Ming set down the teacup.

The avalanche‑style short‑selling data on the screen kept refreshing, each line of numbers bearing an overly neat, inhumanly cold rhythm.

He said nothing.

But his brows were already knit together.

Thirteen unrelated first‑tier conglomerates launched a targeted strangling of the same insignificant target within the same hour—the logic behind this does not lie in the marketplace.

Someone pressed a button, and the thirteen chains tightened simultaneously.

The one who can press that button holds something far more terrifying than money.

Su Ming's fingers tapped twice on the tabletop.

"Who could it be?"