The mist in Shan City was as thick as unredressed grievances.
Zhao Chen suddenly opened his eyes.
"Real estate still has at least twenty years of a golden age!"
On the podium, Chen Hao's voice was loud. His eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses swept across the entire class, carrying a sense of superiority.
Applause thundered.
Zhao Chen froze in his seat.
November 1, 2016.
Zhengfa University. Lecture hall.
Yet he should have been in—
Iron bars. Handcuffs. The prosecutor's cold voice: "Sentenced to twenty years in prison."
And that face.
Lin Wanqing, through the visitation glass, smiled maliciously: "Your father said he never had just one son."
"Oh, by the way," she leaned in, "Shen Zhiyi went abroad. Guess who saw her off? Your rival, Chen Hao."
"He said... when he took Shen Zhiyi for the first time, that woman cried and screamed your name."
"Zhao Chen?"
Someone pushed his shoulder.
Zhao Chen looked up, his chair scraping the floor with a harsh sound. The attention of the whole class focused on him.
Chen Hao stood in the aisle, a smile lingering at the corner of his mouth: "Professor Wang is asking you, what are your profound insights on 'Housing is for Living, Not Speculation'?"
Their gazes met.
Zhao Chen looked at this young, proud face that he hated to the bone.
In his previous life, he had been provoked to a flushed face by this taunt, making a complete fool of himself in front of the whole 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 pushed up his glasses.
Zhao Chen took a deep breath.
The air smelled of chalk dust and the mustiness of old books.
So real.
He had been reborn—returned to twenty-six, back to the starting point of all tragedies.
Father Zhao Jianguo was still the chairman of Henglong Group. 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 people who had framed him and sent him to prison—were all still alive.
Zhao Chen slowly stood up.
His heart hammered wildly, but it was not fear; it was something that had lain dormant for years boiling in his blood.
Hatred.
Cold, venomous hatred.
"I'm fine," he spoke, his voice hoarse yet clear. "What did the professor just ask?"
"About 'Housing is for Living, Not Speculation'." Professor Wang was very patient.
Low chuckles sounded in the classroom.
Chen Hao crossed his arms, preparing to watch a joke.
Zhao Chen walked toward the podium.
Passing Chen Hao's desk, he glanced at that research paper—Research on the Cyclical Fluctuations of China's Real Estate Market.
Naïve. Ridiculous.
This "young master" who relied on his father's construction company to secure projects had no idea that their family would eventually go bankrupt in his previous life.
And Zhao Chen would "help" them accelerate all of this.
Standing before the whiteboard, Zhao Chen picked up a black marker.
The pen twirled once around his fingertips.
He had done this action countless times—at Henglong board meetings, across negotiating tables deciding billions in investments.
"I think," Zhao Chen turned around, "Student Chen Hao is wrong."
The classroom fell silent.
Chen Hao's smile froze: "Oh? Where am I wrong?"
Zhao Chen ignored him and wrote on the whiteboard:
76%.
"This is the average asset-liability ratio of domestic listed real estate enterprises."
Zhao Chen's gaze was like a knife. "And in the 'golden twenty years' you speak of, this will break 85%."
Professor Wang leaned forward: "Source of data?"
"Third-quarter monetary policy implementation report of the Central Bank, page 47."
That report, he had flipped through a hundred times 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. "This is a terminal illness. At any sign of trouble, the castle will collapse."
He drew a steep curve on the whiteboard:
"It won't be long before financing channels tighten, banks pull loans, and bonds default."
The pen tip stopped abruptly.
"Students in the room whose families are in real estate,"
Zhao Chen's voice was low, "at least a third of you will watch with your own eyes as your families go bankrupt, your houses are auctioned off, and your parents' hair turns white overnight."
Gasps of shock rose everywhere.
"Alarmist!" Chen Hao slammed the desk and stood up.
"Zhao Chen, your dad 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 very faint, devoid of warmth.
"Precisely because it's my father's enterprise," he said, every word like a nail,
"I am clearer than anyone else—if we gallop wildly along the current path, it will die."
He paused. "And it will die very ugly."
Lies.
He said coldly in his heart.
Henglong wouldn't die.
He would make it "die" once—die at the hands of Zhao Jianguo and Lin Wanqing.
Then, upon the ruins, build the empire belonging to him, Zhao Chen.
Professor Wang frowned: "Zhao Chen, your view is too extreme. Real estate is a pillar industry—"
"That's all the more reason to prepare for a soft landing."
Zhao Chen put down the pen.
"Right now, lower debt, sell off assets, hoard cash. Or transform. Any direction is safer than continuing to scramble for land."
"Easy for you to say!" Chen Hao sneered.
"A student like you, who can't talk shop without empty theories? If you've got the ability, make your father listen to you!"
Zhao Chen did not answer.
He walked back to his seat and packed his schoolbag.
Let Zhao Jianguo listen to him?
Of course he would.
Only, not by speaking with words.
It would be with a knife, with blood, and with the memories he brought back from hell, forcing that forever-righteous father to kneel and listen.
The end-of-class bell rang.
Zhao Chen was the first to walk out of the classroom. The corridor window was open, and the damp, cold mist poured in.
He took a deep breath.
Alive.
He had truly returned.
His phone vibrated.
Three words pulsed on the screen:
Porcelain Azalea.
Su Wantang.
That woman who married a forty-nine-year-old father at twenty-three and would be swept out the door three years later.
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