Chapter 11: The Veil of Maya (11)

Tan Zhao left in a hurry. When they parted, Wen Mingwei had not yet fully recovered from the dizzy spell; he only felt his hand suddenly empty. Tan Zhao, wearing that jade pendant, flew down the stairs like the wind, leaving behind a single sentence: “I’ll contact you later,” and then he was gone.

Several minutes passed before Wen Mingwei realized: Grandfather Tan had met with an accident and had gone to the hospital.

—Apart from his beloved grandfather, no one else in the world could make the young master this anxious.

Wen Mingwei paused for a moment, then rummaged through a cabinet and found a bottle labeled “No. 19c.” He swallowed a pill with water, then sat on the edge of the bed and removed his glasses.

His vision blurred even more, but his mind grew clearer.

He sent a message to Tan Zhao, asking, “Have you arrived at the hospital? What illness does your grandfather have? Is he alright?”

No reply came from Tan Zhao.

Wen Mingwei paid it no mind.

No one understood better than he how advanced medicine had become. Except for natural aging, almost no disease was fatal anymore. The Tan family lacked neither wealth nor connections; there was no need to worry excessively.

He waited for the medicine to take effect, his mind temporarily empty.

Suddenly, he recalled that he had once met Tan Zhao’s grandfather, Tan Yingzhuo.

It was a long time ago, about fifteen years prior, in the year 2140.

At that time, Wen Mingwei was sixteen and not yet an adult. Had he grown up in an ordinary family, he would have been at the age of loving games, playing football, skipping classes, and first loves. But he was a Wen; at sixteen, he was already handling family affairs and had blood on his hands.

Once, accompanied by his bodyguard Jian Qingzheng, Wen Mingwei traveled on a business trip to Xijing to negotiate a small arms deal—not a major one.

Though minor, the deal was crucial to Wen Mingwei then. His status in the family was rising year by year, but he was still no match for his second brother Wen Mingzhe. Managing to snatch a little profit and connections from Wen Mingzhe’s indifference was already a feat.

Many outside knew he was a marginal figure in the Wen family. Unlike the respect given to Wen Mingzhe, Wen Mingwei was often met with disdain, mockery, and teasing.

The negotiation went as expected—it was tough.

Though young and capable, he endured much overt and covert scorn because of his identity. He barely restrained himself from losing his temper and rushed off to find Jian Qingzheng for a drink to vent his frustration.

They were in the city center of Xijing and passed by the Tan Group headquarters.

The building was strikingly futuristic, towering over a hundred floors, the most imposing among the capital’s skyscrapers. Yet, back then, Xinzhou was even more prosperous; Longdu City was nearly the world’s center. The Wen family was supreme, looking down on Xijing’s wealthy elite—who dared not provoke them. Wen Mingwei paid no attention to the shape of the skyscrapers, not even looking up, but inadvertently caught sight of a man exiting the building.

It was Tan Yingzhuo.

At that moment, Tan Yingzhuo was holding the hand of a boy about eight or nine years old. The child was fair-skinned, carried a small backpack, had a huge blue balloon slung over his shoulder as if it were a toy, and kept blowing bubbles from chewing gum—a silly, endearing sight.

Wen Mingwei, in a foul mood, was annoyed by everything, especially this kind of obviously happy child. He immediately grumbled to Jian Qingzheng, “He’s not that young anymore, but he looks kind of slow.”

Jian Qingzheng laughed, “Why are you insulting a kid?”

Wen Mingwei said nothing and walked past the building to find a place to drink.

Jian Qingzheng said, “I know those two—Tan Yingzhuo is the elder, and the boy is Tan Zhao.”

Wen Mingwei was curious, “How do you know them?”

“Just from some news.”

Knowing Wen Mingwei’s mood, Jian Qingzheng deliberately entertained him with local gossip from Xijing, including some Tan family scandals. He mentioned the precious diamond worth 468 million that Tan Zhao possessed, but the main topic was Tan Yingzhuo, with Tan Zhao only briefly referenced.

It was said Tan Yingzhuo was a business prodigy of extraordinary intelligence.

At that time, with gangs rampant and a feeble government, major financial magnates often had gang ties—the difference lay in how deep those ties were; otherwise, they couldn’t survive.

Tan Yingzhuo, however, was a clean man with his own principles—knowing what should and shouldn’t be done and never crossing the line.

Of course, principles must be defended by capability; the powerless have no right to uphold them.

Jian Qingzheng recounted Tan Yingzhuo’s famous exploits one by one, praising him as “a remarkable man.” Then he clasped Wen Mingwei’s hand, full of trust and admiration, saying, “Mingwei, you’ll be even more formidable someday.”

“Maybe,” Wen Mingwei replied.

As he matured, his thoughts deepened, and he was no longer so easily placated. He drained his cup that night and left Xijing with Jian Qingzheng, returning to Longdu.

After that, life became busier. Neither Tan Yingzhuo nor Tan Zhao left a mark in his daily existence. Years later, when he recalled the incident, the world had changed utterly; all was different.

Lying in bed, the medicine’s effect took hold. He set everyone aside and slept soundly.

The next morning, he found no reply from Tan Zhao throughout the night.

Wen Mingwei had a bad feeling and was about to call in Gu Jing to inquire when Gu Jing, having heard him get up, knocked and entered.

“Come in,” Wen Mingwei said, pulling on his robe and heading to the bathroom to wash up.

Gu Jing followed two meters behind, reporting succinctly as usual: “Mingwei, Tan Yingzhuo is dead.”

“…”

Wen Mingwei paused mid-brush, stunned.

He saw Gu Jing’s grave face in the mirror and confirmed he’d heard correctly. “How did he die?”

“Sudden heart attack, and rescue efforts were too late,” Gu Jing added, “Autopsy found no abnormalities.”

Wen Mingwei was silent for a moment, his voice cold: “If they gave him my medicine, they wouldn’t find anything either.”

Gu Jing remained silent, watching Wen Mingwei tie back his hair with a headband impatiently, then asked, “What about Tan Zhao?”

“Still in the hospital,” Gu Jing said. “The Tan family has issued an obituary, but with little detail—only that he passed away from illness. But nowadays, fatal diseases are rare. The media doesn’t believe it; rumors are rampant, saying Tan Yingzhuo’s death is suspicious, possibly murder. The Tan family’s stock dropped five points in just a few hours…”

Wen Mingwei lowered his head to splash his face with cold water. His pale skin betrayed no color.

The media’s suspicion was understandable. No one could believe a powerful figure would die so suddenly and merely from an ordinary illness.

—In this age, cancer had already been conquered; heart disease was insignificant.

Tan Yingzhuo had been hospitalized for months. If it were just heart disease, he would have recovered long ago.

Wen Mingwei finished preparing and left the bathroom to call Tan Zhao.

As expected, Tan Zhao didn’t answer—likely overwhelmed with grief or chaos.

But knowing Tan Zhao probably wouldn’t pick up, Wen Mingwei still made five or six calls.

He sat by the window, quietly staring at the phone screen, hearing the call tones ring one after another in a heavy, silent atmosphere. Gu Jing stood nearby, feeling a slight chill crawl up his scalp.

Wen Mingwei dialed while lost in thought.

Finally, on the seventh call, he hung up and dialed a different number.

The screen displayed the character “Zheng.”

Gu Jing’s eyelids twitched.

The call connected quickly, and Marshal Zheng He’s voice came through.

“Mingwei? What a surprise today,” Zheng He laughed happily. “If I recall correctly, the last time you contacted me on your own was two years ago, wasn’t it?”

Wen Mingwei smiled. “Is that so? You remember well, teacher.”

Zheng He said, “Speak up, what’s the matter?”

He asked directly, and Wen Mingwei didn’t beat around the bush: “How did Tan Yingzhuo die?”

“…”

There was a pause on the other side, as if he instinctively wanted to deny or say, “I don’t know.”

But Zheng He and Wen Mingwei had worked together for years and shared a mode of communication where truth was scarce but falsehoods were pointless.

Zheng He changed his tone and sighed, “Mingwei, this has nothing to do with you.”

Before Wen Mingwei could respond, he continued, “I know why you’re contacting me—for Tan Zhao, the one who looks like Qingzheng but isn’t Qingzheng?”

“…”

“Have you not learned from your last emotional mistake? Are you trying to cause me trouble a second time?”