The past

Chen Jingshen stood before the floor-to-ceiling window in his second-floor bedroom, holding his phone. Its screen had already gone dark.

Outside lay Sea City's nightscape.

His villa stood halfway up a mountain, with a view of the lights across most of the city.

In the distance was the sea, pitch-black except for the lights of a few boats drifting slowly across the water. Closer by were the mountains, their overlapping silhouettes of trees rustling whenever the wind blew.

Chen Jingshen had been standing there for a long time.

When the phone screen went dark, he lit it up again and glanced at the call log.

Zhao Jianguo. Call duration: forty-seven minutes.

He hadn't had a proper conversation with Zhao Jianguo in nearly twenty years.

They had grown up together from the time they ran around naked as little boys. Later, after he left Deep City, they lost touch. Occasionally, they sent a message at New Year, but it was only "Happy New Year," without even bothering with punctuation.

Yet today, they had talked for forty-seven minutes.

Zhao Jianguo's last few remarks kept circling in his head.

"Your dad's getting old."

"Seeing him sitting there all alone... it really hurt."

"How many years does he have left?"

Chen Jingshen set his phone on the windowsill, slipped both hands into his trouser pockets, and looked outside.

The streetlights had come on, stretching the shadow of the Osmanthus Tree in the courtyard.

He had planted that tree the year he moved in. Now it stood taller than the house. Every autumn, its fragrance filled the courtyard, sweet enough to be cloying.

He often sat alone in the courtyard drinking tea and breathing in the scent of osmanthus. Sometimes, it reminded him of the Osmanthus Tree they had had at home when he was little.

That tree was probably long gone.

Just like his mother. Just like his sister.

Chen Jingshen closed his eyes.

He didn't want to think about those things. More than thirty years had passed, and he still didn't want to.

But Zhao Jianguo's call had been like a key, unlocking everything he had kept sealed away for over thirty years.

He had been seven that year.

That evening, his father was out, having taken some men with him to discuss business. His mother was cooking in the kitchen, and his sister was doing her homework in the living room.

He had been playing with marbles in his room, one red and one blue. He remembered them vividly. His sister had given him the red one.

Then the door was kicked open.

Several men charged in with knives. Some were long, some short. One man carried a machete with rust on its blade.

His mother ran out of the kitchen, pushed his sister into the room, then blocked the doorway.

His sister stuffed him into the wardrobe.

It was an old-fashioned wardrobe with wooden doors and a narrow gap between them.

He crouched inside, peering through that gap.

His mother fell to the floor. Blood poured from her body and spread across the floor, so red it looked black. She was still shouting, "Shenshen, run! Run!"

His sister fell too. A fifteen-year-old girl with a ponytail, still wearing her school uniform. She lay in the doorway, blood pooling beneath her, her fingers still moving.

Her eyes turned toward the wardrobe.

He crouched inside, trembling all over, his mouth open but unable to make a sound.

His sister's eyes were wide. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Still, he understood.

She was saying, "Don't come out. Don't make a sound."

The men rummaged through the room, smashing cabinets and overturning bed boards. One walked up to the wardrobe and put his hand on the door handle.

His sister suddenly cried out, drawing him away.

The man kicked her, and she stopped moving altogether.

Eventually, they all left.

He crawled out of the wardrobe. Blood covered the floor. His mother lay facedown, her eyes still open, looking at him. His sister lay in the doorway, her ponytail undone, her hair soaking in blood.

He knelt on the floor and called, "Mom." No one answered. Then he called, "Sis." Still, no one answered.

He crouched there, shaking all over. He wanted to cry, but no tears would come.

Later, his father returned. He stood in the doorway, staring into the house without saying a word.

Chen Jingshen still remembered the expression on his father's face—not grief, not rage, but something he couldn't describe. Like a blade, yet like fire.

From then on, his father changed. He became more ruthless, colder, more brutal!

Hung Hing's influence in Deep City grew stronger and stronger. No one dared cross them. But Chen Jingshen knew his father couldn't sleep at night. He sat in the living room, smoking one cigarette after another.

The living room lights stayed on all night, night after night.

He hated his father.

Hated who he was, hated his business, hated the enemies he had made.

Yet his father had never said no to him.

Chen Jingshen opened his eyes. The lights outside were still on, and the shadow of the Osmanthus Tree was still swaying.

He remembered what Zhao Jianguo had said.

"What did that have to do with your dad? When did he ever say no?"

That's right. Dad never said no.

Back when he and Lin Nianwei were together, only Lin Zhengye had opposed them. When his father found out, he was silent for a long time before finally saying just one thing: "As long as you love her."

But he had still decided to leave Hung Hing.

Chen Desheng had slammed the table in anger, shouting that he would disown him.

He didn't care. He was determined to leave!

Because he didn't want Lin Nianwei or their soon-to-be-born child to suffer the same fate as his mother and sister.

But in the end, he and Lin Nianwei hadn't stayed together anyway.

After they lost the child, he was utterly disheartened. When Lin Zhengye forced him to leave Deep City, he hadn't resisted. There was nothing worth staying for anymore.

So he came to Sea City.

Eighteen years!

He had fought to make his way in Sea City for eighteen years.

When he first arrived, he had only a few tens of thousands of yuan. He lived in a rented room in an urban village, worked at a securities firm during the day, and studied for professional qualifications at night, earning one after another. CFA, CPA, FRM—he took every exam he could.

Three years later, he moved to an investment firm as an analyst. Two years after that, he became the company's youngest investment director.

In his eighth year, he resigned.

He put up all his savings, borrowed more money, and founded Nianwei Capital.

He had thought long and hard about that name.

Nianwei!

The name he could never let go of for as long as he lived.

Nianwei Capital had enjoyed smooth sailing from the start. He had a sharp eye and made ruthless moves. Of the three projects he invested in during the first year, two doubled in value.

Later, he invested in healthcare, technology, and new energy. Every investment succeeded. People in the industry called him "the investment prodigy of Sea City," claiming he could tell whether a project would make money with a single glance.

Only he knew he was no prodigy. He simply didn't dare fail. He had to prove himself. He had to show Lin Zhengye that he could still make something of himself without relying on his father or Hung Hing.

Ten years.

Nianwei Capital had grown from three people to a team of more than three hundred. Its assets under management had risen from tens of millions to tens of billions. It occupied three entire floors in the finest office building in Sea City's central business district.

Everyone in the industry knew Nianwei Capital was one of Sea City's top investment firms.

It was still a long way from matching the Yuanda Group. But his father hadn't given him this. Hung Hing hadn't given him this. He had earned it himself.

But what did that matter?

No matter how much money he made or how big a house he lived in, when he came home at night, he was still alone.

Sometimes, he would sit in his study. On the top shelf of the bookcase was a rusty tin box he had never thrown away. Inside were a few photographs.

One showed his mother when she was young, wearing a floral dress and smiling in front of a tree. Another was his sister's graduation photo, her hair in a ponytail and a bow tied at the collar of her school uniform. There was one more, of Lin Nianwei.

That photo had been taken at Shenzhen University. Lin Nianwei sat on the grass with a book in her hands, looking up at him, her eyes curving as she smiled. The sunlight had been lovely that day. The breeze lifted her hair, leaving a few stray strands against her face.

Once a year, he opened the tin box and looked at those photographs. Then he closed it and put it back.

In fact, Chen Jingshen returned to Deep City every year.

Around the Qingming Festival, he went alone, taking the earliest high-speed train. Once he arrived in Deep City, he took a taxi straight to Fu'an Cemetery.

He had chosen the headstone himself. It was white, engraved with the words: Grave of our beloved son, Chen Nianzhi.

There was no photograph, no birth or death date.

He always stood there for a long time, talking to his son. He told him about his mother, about his own business, about how much he missed him...

It was the same every year.

But he had never gone home or visited Lin Nianwei.

Still, he had always kept track of her.

Nianwei Capital had a dedicated research team that monitored developments at the Yuanda Group. A report landed on his desk every month, and he read every one.

Chen Jingshen knew the Yuanda Group's market value had multiplied several times since she took over. He also knew people called her the "Ice Queen," that she was tough and ruthless, and that no one in the business world dared challenge her.

He also knew she had remained alone.

No marriage, no relationships, not even a romantic rumor.

But between them lay the child they had lost. Neither could get past that.

Chen Jingshen stood by the window, pulled his hands out of his pockets, and rubbed his face.

Zhao Jianguo had told him to go back.

Chen Jingshen began to waver.

It wasn't that he didn't want to go back. He just didn't know how.

What would I say when we met? Dad, I'm back? I'm sorry I left you alone for all these years?

He couldn't say it.

But Zhao Jianguo was right. His father was over seventy. At that age, how many more years could he wait for him?