Chapter 36: Soul (6)

September in Xijing already held a chill, but here in Xinzhou, the air remained as sweltering and humid as midsummer.

Twilight descended heavily, casting a bleak and desolate shadow over the suburban cemetery, which was nearly devoid of people.

After hearing those words, Tan Zhao fell into a long silence. His resentment and agony were replaced by a hollow despair. He felt as if today were a nightmare—that he hadn't just destroyed Jian Qingzheng’s grave, but everything that had once been salvageable between him and Wen Mingwei: his first love, the only person he had ever truly trusted.

He fell into a sudden hallucination: if he closed his eyes and opened them again, he would wake up from this nightmare. He would be back in Xijing, enjoying a sweet dinner with Wen Mingwei. Or perhaps further back, in his own home, with his grandfather still alive, about to be invited by his wild friends to go clubbing or spend the night at the arcade, with one annoying admirer after another sending him gifts and confessions to win his favor.

But Tan Zhao closed his eyes, waited for a few seconds, and opened them to find the silent cemetery still before him.

Wen Mingwei was no longer looking at him. He had begun picking up the broken stones himself, using them to temporarily cover the exposed coffin. As he bent over, his long hair fell forward, brushing against the dirt.

From this silhouette alone, one could tell how brokenhearted he must have been when Jian Qingzheng was first buried.

Tan Zhao fought back tears and mocked, "If you loved him so much, why didn't you just die with him?"

Wen Mingwei paused slightly.

"What is this nonsense about souls? Are you delusional? How disgusting."

"..."

"Since you won't bring up breaking up, I will."

If words could pierce Wen Mingwei, Tan Zhao would say anything. But despite his best efforts, he found himself at a loss for words.

Wen Mingwei turned, facing him in profile, and slowly took a breath, as if he could suppress even the collapse of the heavens within that single inhalation. Then, he walked up to Tan Zhao and glanced at him coldly. "Are you incapable of understanding?"

"Whether or not we break up is my decision to make. You have no say in the matter."

Fearing that Tan Zhao might fail to grasp even this, Wen Mingwei spoke without pretense: "I haven't brought up a breakup because I don't want to break up. If I wanted to, I could lock you away for a year or two and no one would ever find out. Do you understand?"

"..." Tan Zhao froze. "You wouldn't dare!"

"What wouldn't I dare to do?" Wen Mingwei gestured, and Gu Jing and the driver immediately rushed forward to pin Tan Zhao down, handcuffing his hands like a common criminal.

Tan Zhao’s resistance was crushed by force. In the struggle, he managed to land a few punches on Gu Jing, who did not retaliate, nor did he give him any chance to break free. Together with the driver, they shoved him to the car door, waiting for Wen Mingwei’s orders.

These two subordinates were well-trained, professional thugs. Tan Zhao’s struggles were futile—never in his life had anyone dared to treat him this way. He was being treated worse than a stray cat or dog, humiliated and oppressed by Wen Mingwei as if he were nothing.

Tan Zhao’s eyes were bloodshot, the whites of his eyes nearly bursting. As Wen Mingwei approached, he tried to break free from his captors and ram into him, a desperate attempt to drag him down together. But before he could make contact, Gu Jing reflexively pulled him back and slammed him hard against the car door.

*Thud!* The car window rattled.

With his hands cuffed, Tan Zhao’s body arched, and it was his head that struck the door.

The impact was enough to cause a concussion. Physical pain overwhelmed his psychological distress, and Tan Zhao went rigid for a few seconds. As soon as he recovered, he fought back again, as if he would never yield even in death.

His sudden burst of strength was so powerful that the two thugs almost couldn't hold him down, and it took their full effort to throw him back against the car door once more.

After another impact that made the very wheels of the car tremble, Tan Zhao finally went still.

Wen Mingwei watched in silence for a long moment before ordering his men to step back. He suddenly pulled Tan Zhao into his arms, touching his bruised forehead and the face he had just swollen with his own hands, as if he were not without regret, and worried about his injuries.

"I keep my word, Tan Zhao. I forgive you for today. Let’s call it even."

Wen Mingwei was still suffering from his delusions, but he was calmer than before. "Isn't it good to be with me? Now you only have me, and I only have you. No one is more perfectly suited for the other than we are."

"..."

If this could be called "suited," then who in this world wouldn't be?

Tan Zhao quickly lost the strength to resist. He was locked in the backseat, his handcuffs secured to the car door.

Wen Mingwei sat on the other side, instructing Gu Jing on the arrangements for the night: send men to guard the cemetery overnight to prevent any accidents. Later, they would pick a date to hire someone to perform a ritual, after which they could replace the coffin and rebury him.

Hearing him mention the "ritual," Tan Zhao let out a scoff. "Isn't his soul already inside me? Who are you performing the ritual for?"

Wen Mingwei acted as if he hadn't heard him, continuing to talk to Gu Jing before shifting the subject. "Call the laboratory and have them send some medicine over."

In the past, when he had his episodes and wanted medication, he would subconsciously hide it from Tan Zhao. Now, there was no need for such caution. He recited the codes for several medications in front of him, and Gu Jing noted them down, saying they would be delivered to Longdu tonight.

Tan Zhao might truly have had a concussion; he leaned against the car door, retching occasionally. He glanced at Wen Mingwei from the corner of his eye, wanting to ask what kind of medicine it was, but in the end, he kept his mouth shut.

The rest of the journey was silent. Wen Mingwei did not want to argue; he wanted to give Tan Zhao time to cool off, to think clearly about his current situation, and to accept reality.

Wen Mingwei did not care about who was right or wrong, who owed whom, or who was willing or unwilling. He only cared about what he needed.

For him, there were few things—and even fewer people—that could be termed "necessary."

"Go to the hospital first," Wen Mingwei said suddenly. "Check his head, then go home."

The driver replied, "Yes," and changed the route at the next intersection, heading toward the nearest hospital.

***

Their base for the night was the old Wen family residence.

Years ago, when Wen Mingwei played his part by turning over his armed forces to the Marshal, the Wen residence was confiscated and auctioned off by the authorities. After many twists and turns, it had returned to Wen Mingwei’s hands, becoming a massive, empty souvenir that was rarely inhabited.

It was an architectural blend of traditional gardens and modern design, with an abundance of lighting. The interconnected corridors were filled with wiring and tubes, and shrines and Buddhist statues were scattered everywhere.

Wen Mingwei led Tan Zhao through layers of corridors, searching for his old bedroom.

He walked in front, and Tan Zhao was forced to follow behind. Every time Tan Zhao stopped, Wen Mingwei would glance back, a silent intimidation warning him that he must be obedient.

Tan Zhao had just taken painkillers, and the bruise on his temple had been simply treated with a "rapid healing patch." He remained expressionless, his spirit unyielding.

Aside from his eyes, which were still slightly red, there was no sign that he had just suffered a breakdown.

Wen Mingwei liked him this way; it was a manifestation of vitality—no matter how much he was tormented, he would rather break than bend.

Therefore, Wen Mingwei didn't really want to torture him. If they could communicate, he preferred not to use force. He didn't believe they were beyond redemption. As long as Tan Zhao came to his senses, everything could return to how it was before—each taking what they needed, both satisfied.

"I used to live here," Wen Mingwei said, pushing the door open and turning on the lights.

His room wasn't luxurious because his status had been too low at the time. But bearing the Wen surname, the conditions weren't exactly poor either.

No one else had lived here. The room’s furnishings were exactly the same as when he had left, with only the bedding having been replaced. Although Wen Mingwei rarely stayed here, the cleaning staff had to be prepared for his arrival at any time.

Cleaning his room was simple; he didn't own much. It was concise, orderly, and well-organized.

Unlike the Wen Mingwei of today, who frequently toyed with calligraphy, paintings, and collections, the man he was then had been completely insulated from such things. Every day, aside from eating and sleeping, he spent almost all his time figuring out how to become stronger so he could achieve his goals.

Wen Mingwei sat down by the bed and looked at Tan Zhao, who refused to show even a hint of interest since entering. He suddenly said to him, "Do you know what life is made of?"

Tan Zhao glanced up but didn't respond.

"It is made of many points and the lines that connect them."

Wen Mingwei said, "These points mean that once we reach one, we have finished a stage, and there is no turning back."

He seemed to be implying something, or perhaps it was just the sentiment of revisiting an old place, unrelated to Tan Zhao.

"Some points can perhaps be avoided, such as marriage or having children. But some points are unavoidable, such as the place your firmest beliefs push you toward, and death."

"Don't talk to me about this," Tan Zhao said stiffly. "My firmest belief is that I have my own name, and I am not a substitute for anyone."

"And then what?"

Wen Mingwei’s anger had subsided, and he didn't want to say anything too harsh. "You break up with me and move out? We live the rest of our lives as strangers?"

"..."

Perhaps the painkillers weren't very effective; Tan Zhao’s eyes still stung with pain, and his throat felt constricted. "That would be for the best."

Wen Mingwei nodded. "You still don't understand the situation."

He reached out from the edge of the bed and pulled Tan Zhao’s collar down. "Did you think I was joking when I said you have no choice?"

Tan Zhao’s expression stiffened.

"I could choose not to work with you and find another ally. I could settle for less money, or give up on that bridge—it’s not a dead end. But you?"

Wen Mingwei said with cold, calm precision: "If I throw you out of my gate, tomorrow—no, it wouldn't even take a day—you would be torn apart until not even your bones remained."

"..."

"You are successful in the company only because I am backing you. The board of directors doesn't fear your methods; they fear the person behind you. Do you understand?"

Wen Mingwei wasn't mocking him, but the objective facts he revealed were crueler than any mockery. Tan Zhao’s face drained of color, then flushed. He wanted to retort but couldn't find the words. It was as if, after his heart had been broken, his very bones were being shattered, too. He could not retain his dignity.

Yet he still held his head high, refusing to bow.

How desperate does one have to be to reach the end of the road?

Wen Mingwei understood all too well.

Years ago, in this very room, on this very bed, a young Wen Mingwei had sat covered in wounds, agonizing over why it had to be him, why he had to be pushed to such extremes.

Even with Jian Qingzheng’s help, he had had no way out.

Jian Qingzheng could shield him from the wind and rain for a while, but he could not save him from the thread of fate. He had no one to rely on but himself; he had to fight, to risk his life.

He rarely saw Jian Qingzheng in Tan Zhao; instead, he often saw his own reflection.

He could even guess Tan Zhao’s next move—

The thought had barely crossed his mind when Tan Zhao launched a surprise attack, pushing him onto the bed.

"...Why must you force me?"

Wen Mingwei’s pale, slender neck was gripped, and he was thrown heavily into the pillows. But his expression didn't change at all. With composure, he pulled a gun from under the pillow, cocked it with one hand, and pressed it against Tan Zhao’s head.

"Because I need you."

Wen Mingwei pressed the muzzle harder against him. "Your appearance is also an irreversible point in my life. Accept your fate, Tan Zhao."