The First Second of Rebirth, I Just Want to Kill Them

The fog in Shan City was as thick as an unshakable grievance.

Zhao Chen snapped his eyes open.

"Real estate still has at least twenty years of a golden era ahead!"

On the podium, Chen Hao's voice was resonant. His eyes, hidden behind gold wire glasses, swept across the classroom with a sense of superiority.

Applause thundered.

Zhao Chen froze in his seat.

November 1, 2016.

Zhengfa University. The lecture hall.

But he should have been in—

Iron bars. Handcuffs. The prosecutor's cold voice: "Sentenced to twenty years in prison."

And that face.

Lin Wanqing, separated by the visitation glass, smiled viciously: "Your father said he never had only one son."

"Oh, right," she leaned in, "Shen Zhiyi went abroad. Guess who sent her off? Your rival, Chen Hao."

"He said... when he took Shen Zhiyi for the first time, the woman cried out your name."

"Zhao Chen?"

Someone pushed his shoulder.

Zhao Chen looked up, his chair scraping against the floor with a harsh sound. The entire class focused their gaze on him.

Chen Hao stood in the aisle, a smirk playing on his lips: "Professor Wang is asking you, what are your profound insights on 'Housing is for Living, Not Speculation'?"

Their eyes met.

Zhao Chen looked at this young, arrogant face that he hated to his very core.

In his previous life, he had been goaded into a red-faced rage by this provocation, losing all face in front of the class and Shen Zhiyi.

Only later did he realize this was a humiliation carefully designed by Chen Hao.

"Student Zhao Chen?" Professor Wang on the podium adjusted his glasses.

Zhao Chen took a deep breath.

The air smelled of chalk dust and the mustiness of old books.

It was so real.

He had been reborn—back to twenty-six, back to the starting point of every tragedy.

His father, Zhao Jianguo, was still the chairman of Henglong Group. His stepmother, Lin Wanqing, was still the gentle and considerate "Mrs. Zhao."

And he was still a student at Zhengfa University, with the 10% of Henglong Shares left by his mother still in his account.

Most importantly, those who had sent him to prison—they were all still alive.

Zhao Chen slowly stood up.

His heart hammered, but not with fear; it was something that had been dormant for years boiling in his blood.

Hatred.

Cold, venomous hatred.

"I'm fine," he said, his voice hoarse but clear. "What did the professor just ask?"

"Regarding 'Housing is for Living, Not Speculation'," Professor Wang said with great patience.

Low laughter rippled through the classroom.

Chen Hao crossed his arms, ready to watch the joke unfold.

Zhao Chen walked toward the podium.

Passing by Chen Hao's desk, he caught a glimpse of the paper: Research on the Cyclical Fluctuations of the Chinese Real Estate Market.

Naive. Ridiculous.

This "Young Master," who relied on his father's construction company to secure projects, had no idea that in his previous life, their family had eventually gone bankrupt too.

And Zhao Chen would "help" them accelerate that process.

Standing before the whiteboard, Zhao Chen picked up a black marker.

He spun the pen once between his fingers.

He had done this movement countless times—at Henglong Board of Directors meetings, at negotiation tables deciding billions in investments.

"I believe," Zhao Chen turned around, "that Student Chen Hao is wrong."

The classroom fell silent.

Chen Hao's smile stiffened: "Oh? And where am I wrong?"

Zhao Chen ignored him and wrote on the whiteboard:

76%.

"This is the average debt-to-asset ratio of domestic listed real estate companies."

Zhao Chen's gaze was like a blade. "And in the 'twenty golden years' you speak of, this will break through 85%."

Professor Wang leaned forward. "Source of the data?"

"The Central Bank's third-quarter monetary policy implementation report, page 47."

That report, he had flipped through a hundred times while in prison in his previous life.

Every number was carved into his memory.

Chen Hao sneered. "High Leverage is an industry characteristic—"

"Characteristic?" Zhao Chen interrupted. "It's a terminal illness. At the slightest disturbance, the castle will collapse."

He drew a steep curve on the whiteboard:

"It won't be long before financing channels tighten, banks Withdraw Loan, and bonds default."

The pen tip stopped abruptly.

"For those students here whose families are in Real Estate,"

Zhao Chen's voice was low, "at least one-third of you will watch with your own eyes as your families go bankrupt, your houses are auctioned off, and your Parents turn gray overnight."

Gasps of cold air rose from the room.

"Alarmist!" Chen Hao slammed the table and stood up.

"Zhao Chen, your father is the boss of Henglong! Saying things like this, are you cursing your own family?"

Zhao Chen turned his head to look at Chen Hao.

He suddenly smiled.

The smile was faint, devoid of warmth.

"Precisely because it is my father's company," he said, each word like a nail, "I know better than anyone—if it continues to sprint down the current path, it will die."

He paused. "And it will die a very ugly death."

Lies.

He said coldly in his heart.

Henglong would not die.

He would make it "die" once—die at the hands of Zhao Jianguo and Lin Wanqing.

Then, upon the ruins, he would build an empire that belonged to him, Zhao Chen.

Professor Wang frowned. "Zhao Chen, your viewpoint is too extreme. Real Estate is a pillar industry—"

"Which is why we must prepare for a soft landing."

Zhao Chen put down the pen.

"Right now, lower debt, sell off assets, and hoard cash. Or pivot. Any direction is safer than continuing to scramble for land."

"Easy for you to say!" Chen Hao mocked.

"You're just a student, who can't be an Armchair Strategist? If you're so capable, make your father listen to you!"

Zhao Chen did not answer.

He walked back to his seat and packed his bag.

Make Zhao Jianguo listen to him?

Of course he would.

But not by using words.

He would use knives, use blood, and use the memories he brought back from hell to force that forever-correct father to kneel and listen.

The bell rang for the end of class.

Zhao Chen was the first to walk out of the classroom. The hallway window was open, and damp, cold mist surged in.

He took a Deep Breath.

Alive.

He had truly returned.

His phone vibrated.

Three characters Jumped on the screen:

Porcelain Azalea.

Su Wantang.

The woman who married his forty-nine-year-old father at twenty-three, only to be kicked out of the house three years later.