Chapter 4: The Veil of Maya (4)

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Wen Mingwei was the one whom Tan Zhao had just kicked out of the car.

The young master, who had not been called “darling” since adulthood, snapped the car door shut like a hedgehog poked in the belly, claws out, almost catching Wen Mingwei’s hair.

Wen Mingwei watched him speed away until the car’s sound faded into silence. Only then did the smile on his face slowly dissipate, and the brief liveliness of the summer night returned to stillness.

The residential area was called “Seaside Garden,” an unremarkable yet widely known name.

Eight years ago, Wen Mingwei had moved here from Long City in Xinzhou Province and was relatively satisfied with his living situation. Objectively speaking, he didn’t care much about the quality of his environment; his sole demand was quietness, undisturbed peace.

If Tan Zhao understood Wen Mingwei’s daily routine, he wouldn’t have been so surprised at never having encountered him nearby before.

— Wen Mingwei hardly ever left his home. Unless it was something special, he went out no more than two or three times a month.

He did own a pharmaceutical company, but it was run by his subordinates; he never went to work.

This company was less a source of profit and more a money pit: maintaining a research team, a private lab, developing various new drugs that never hit the market, catering to Wen Mingwei’s secret needs.

Perhaps because he had overdosed on medication before going out tonight, after parting pleasantly with Tan Zhao, Wen Mingwei strolled home when suddenly a sharp stomach cramp hit—side effects kicking in.

Wen Mingwei was used to this; his expression remained unchanged. Even amid the intense pain, he found himself savoring Tan Zhao’s recent reactions, feeling somehow uplifted.

Until he entered the gate, crossed the garden, and saw a car parked in front of the villa—one that did not belong to him.

The car itself was unremarkable, an ordinary brand worth about two million yuan.

But the license plate read “ua00002.”

At last, Wen Mingwei’s expression changed, as if the stomach pain had just surged. Yet it was only for a moment. The next second, he returned to calm, even smiling slightly as he entered, ignoring the butler who approached him, and said to Gu Jing in the living room, “Marshal is here. Why didn’t you inform me?”

Gu Jing stood upright, a clear trace of nervousness in his eyes.

Two meters away, sitting on the sofa at the center of the room with his back to the door, a man with gray-white hair turned and smiled upon hearing this: “I told Xiao Gu not to say anything. You rarely go out to relax; why should I disturb you?”

Though his hair was white, the man’s face bore no obvious wrinkles; he looked no older than forty-seven or forty-eight, with no trace of age. His appearance was plain, unremarkable, but his eyes were extraordinarily deep, giving the impression of great scheming.

— This was none other than Zheng He, the Alliance’s Grand Marshal, often seen in the news.

Wen Mingwei did not press further, waved his hand to dismiss Gu Jing and the butler, then picked up a hairband from the cabinet, casually tied his hair, sat down before Zheng He, poured himself some tea, and said, “Long time no see. Marshal, what urgent matter brings you here so late?”

Zheng He replied, “Don’t call me ‘Marshal’ all the time; it feels so distant.”

“Alright,” Wen Mingwei changed his tone, returning to the old title, “Teacher.”

Unfortunately, the smile at his lips did not reach his eyes, as if an unbridgeable rift lay between him and this man, making closeness impossible.

Zheng He stared at him steadily, sighed after a moment of silence, then suddenly said, “Mingwei, you still blame me.”

“It’s been almost nine years. How can you not believe me? I did my best back then, everyone did, but Qing Zheng… his fate with you had run its course.”

Zheng He’s expression showed grief with a hint of theatricality—exactly like when he spoke to the media—sentimentally adding, “If Qing Zheng were still alive and saw you now, he would be heartbroken. After all, he did it all for you…”

“Teacher,” Wen Mingwei interrupted, “If you have something to say tonight, just say it.”

Zheng He took a sip of tea, took half a minute to compose himself, then slowly got to the point in a deliberately relaxed yet still serious tone: “Just now, my people intercepted a shipment of smuggled arms in the South Pacific. Does this have anything to do with you?”

Wen Mingwei paused, answering directly, “No. You know I stopped getting involved in those things long ago.”

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Zheng He stared at him, as if trying to discern the truth behind his words. After a long moment, he said, “The ship bore the ‘Black Iris’ insignia.”

“Then it’s even less likely to be me,” Wen Mingwei replied. “You might as well suspect my second brother, who’s not quite dead yet—unwilling to remain a corpse, trying to stir trouble in the land of the living for some sense of existence.”

Zheng He fell silent.

After a while, perhaps realizing further questioning would reveal nothing more, he changed the subject abruptly: “I heard you were drinking with Tan Yingzhuo’s grandson tonight?”

“…”

Wen Mingwei said nothing.

“Is playing with children fun?” Zheng He asked, seeming somewhat sympathetic. He stood, patted Wen Mingwei’s shoulder, and said, “You really should let go, Mingwei. Being too obsessed with love and family makes people weak—you know that well.”

Though slightly sincere, the remark was far from heartfelt, more like a detached observer’s condescending pity for a sufferer trapped inside the game.

After speaking, Zheng He turned to leave, but stopped at the door and looked back: “Next month is Qing Zheng’s ninth anniversary of passing. I’ll accompany you back to Xinzhou, alright?”

“No need.”

In Zheng He’s gaze, Wen Mingwei lowered his head, as though he still could not escape the devastating heartbreak from years ago: “Take care. I won’t see you out.”

Zheng He waved and strode out.

**

At four a.m., Wen Mingwei was still in the living room.

He did not sleep, and Gu Jing could not sleep either. Worried the air conditioning was too cold, Gu Jing took a blanket from the cabinet and draped it over him, softly persuading, “Mingwei, you should rest. Tomorrow you have an appointment with Dr. Oda to test the new drug…”

“Postpone it.” Wen Mingwei showed no sign of sleepiness, having only drunk a shallow cup of tea.

But his face bore no sorrow; that extreme emotion had long since been extracted from his soul years ago and could no longer command his body or coax a single tear.

Gu Jing could do no more but quietly keep him company.

After an unknown length of time, Wen Mingwei suddenly remembered something, his gaze scanning the living room as he asked, “What about the painting the Religious Council gave me last time? Why hasn’t it been hung up?”

Gu Jing thought for a moment: “It’s hung in the study. You said before the study wall needed something…”

Wen Mingwei pushed aside the blanket and headed to the study.

Gu Jing did not understand why he suddenly recalled that painting but followed him upstairs.

The painting was a gift from the Religious Council—the Alliance Religious Council, to be precise.

As the name suggests, the Council governs all legal religions within the Alliance. “Legal” had no real threshold; any sect leader willing to pay fifty yuan to register made their faith legal.

People nowadays were contradictory: living in an age of immense scientific advancement yet increasingly devout in religion. Probably because science’s progress only laid bare its limits—it could not explain everything nor offer spiritual salvation.

Thus, in recent years, a myriad of religious sects of all kinds sprouted like mushrooms across the Alliance. Proper ones included traditional Buddhism and Christianity; the less orthodox were countless, such as the “Steak Religion,” the “Gaming Faith,” or “I Wear What I Want, You Mind Your Own Business” sects, to name a few. They often held public events, preaching their doctrines beneath skyscrapers and holographic ads on commercial streets, some even singing openly, turning gatherings into music festival scenes.

Wen Mingwei belonged to none of these, but dabbled in all.

The Council’s chairman was one of the few who truly knew Wen Mingwei’s identity. Catering to his tastes, he often presented religious artworks to win his favor, securing large donations for the Council.

The painting hung on the blankest wall in the study, just behind and to the left of the desk.

Gu Jing had personally hung it a few days ago and had clearly seen it. Yet even after seeing it once, he still felt a little uneasy upon looking again.

Wen Mingwei, however, felt nothing.

It was an oil painting depicting a ritual scene:

A dense crowd knelt in a long line at night, clad in chains and worshiping the heavens. At the front stood a massive burning pyre, its twisted flames illuminating the faces of the devotees—some crying, some laughing, others trembling in fear.

Far above, in the distant sky, a vague-faced celestial deity looked down on the mortals, its hands casting an endless veil, enveloping all living things.

— “The Veil of Maya” (2120).

Any painting that caught Wen Mingwei’s eye naturally displayed superb technique. Yet the artist’s masterful portrayal of the religious scene lacked any sanctity, instead exuding a cold, eerie atmosphere that lingered uneasily in the viewer’s heart, as if entwined by some indescribable force, impossible to shake free.

Gu Jing could understand the allegory.

“The Veil of Maya” was a concept from ancient Indian Brahmanism. “Maya,” from Sanskrit, means illusion or deception. It refers to mortals living under a veil of deception woven by the gods’ illusions, unable to see the reality beyond the curtain or attain true self-awareness—the “Brahman.”

This idea had been philosophically interpreted by some thinkers and artistically expressed in various works—not a new notion.

But Gu Jing did not know what Wen Mingwei saw in the painting.

He was one of the people who knew Wen Mingwei best—but knowing and understanding were worlds apart.

Wen Mingwei gazed at the painting; Gu Jing gazed at him. After about ten minutes, Wen Mingwei finally stepped away from the wall and sat down at the desk.

Yet he said nothing about the painting. After a long silence, Gu Jing guessed he might want to take medication, but he did not.

Wen Mingwei said, “You should rest. I’ll be fine on my own.”

Gu Jing replied, “You should rest too.”

“I know. You go ahead.”

“…”

Gu Jing left the study, closing the door behind him.

Around 4:30 a.m., Wen Mingwei still refused to sleep. He took out his phone and sent Tan Zhao a message:

“When are you free? I want to take you somewhere.”

As expected, there was no reply. Tan Zhao was probably asleep at this hour.

But Wen Mingwei did not stop there. He called.

Three rings, then the call was disconnected.

He called again. One ring, then disconnected.

He dialed a third time—and before even hearing Tan Zhao’s voice, his mood lifted as if in anticipation. He could almost imagine Tan Zhao lying half asleep, reaching for the phone, hitting hang-up with a face full of impatience and anger, wanting to punch someone.

The third call connected.

“Hello?” Tan Zhao was indeed still asleep; his voice was low and groggy but cold as he said, “Wen Mingwei, you’d better give me a reason not to kill you.”