The classroom was silent, but the silence was more deafening than any roar. Dozens of eyes were looking at the four girls who had just been verbally shredded by Li Ziqing's cutting words. The weight of collective gazes pressed down on them like a mountain.
Gong Xinyue's face flushed crimson, her pride torn to ribbons. Unable to endure the humiliation any longer, she snatched up her designer bag with trembling hands and stormed out with a sharp huff, her heels clicking angrily against the floor.
Meng Qianyi and Fan Yuelin exchanged uneasy glances. Their throats felt tight; the burning sting of humiliation was far worse than any physical slap. But for Fan Yuelin, it cut even deeper. She could hardly believe Li Ziqing had the audacity to expose her family's struggles in front of everyone. Her chest tightened with rage. The Fan family's company was in crisis, yes—but that was a wound she could barely face herself, let alone have someone else rip open for the world to see.
In truth, that was precisely why she had clung so desperately to Gong Xinyue recently—and now to Rong Ruxue after learning the girl hailed from a wealthy Beijing family.
While no one knew the exact scale of Rong Ruxue's family business, her head-to-toe designer ensembles spoke volumes. And everyone understood one truth: the wealth of Beijing operated on an entirely different level.
In Wuhan, being the city's top businessman meant standing on a modest hill. In Beijing, it meant kneeling at the base of a towering mountain. There, true influence wasn't measured solely in numbers on a bank statement—it came with something far more formidable: entrenched power, deep-rooted connections, and the kind of political and military influence that spanned generations. Beijing's elite were aristocracy; old money with old power.
Even if Rong Ruxue's family occupied the lower rungs of Beijing's social ladder, they still stood far above Wuhan's so-called "wealthy class." To Fan Yuelin, even a thread from such a family could become the lifeline that might save the Fans from their free fall.
By the time Rong Ruxue exited the classroom and saw the three girls waiting for her in the corridor, a strange heaviness settled in her chest. For a fleeting moment, she felt a pang of guilt; it was, after all, because of her that they had been humiliated so mercilessly. But the moment passed as quickly as it came.
Apologize? To these people? These lowly provincial girls who didn't even know their place? The thought was almost laughable.
Meng Qianyi was the first to erupt. "What the hell is wrong with Li Ziqing today? Has she completely lost her mind?" Her voice was shrill with indignation.
Fan Yuelin's face was pale, her hands balled into fists. "She dared to drag my family affairs into the open. That bitch is going to regret it." Her voice trembled—not just with anger, but with the sting of fear.
Meng Qianyi turned sharply toward Gong Xinyue, who had been silent, her eyes burning holes into the empty space ahead. "Gong Xinyue, why aren't you saying anything? We can't let her walk away after humiliating us like that. Right?"
Slowly, Gong Xinyue's gaze shifted, sharp as a blade, locking onto Meng Qianyi. Her lips curved into a cold smile. "You don't need to worry about me. I'm far more concerned about preserving my own reputation. And make no mistake—Li Ziqing will pay for this. I'll make sure of it."
Rong Ruxue's lashes fluttered, a faint gleam flickering in her eyes. The perfect opening had presented itself. She leaned in slightly, her tone deceptively casual.
"Yuelin," she drawled, "didn't you say Li Ziqing is poor? That she lives in the slums?" She paused, letting the hook dangle. "Because I just noticed something. I'm not sure if I should tell you…"
The other three immediately snapped their heads toward her, eyes narrowing with curiosity and anticipation. "What is it?" they demanded almost in unison.
Rong Ruxue let the silence hang for a heartbeat longer, her lips curling into a faint, knowing smile. "Her bag," she said softly. "If I'm not mistaken, she's carrying an Hermès Kelly. It's often nicknamed the casual Kelly—or the Hermès Evelyne, the kind of bag jet-setting heiresses carry to school. The retail price alone is around three hundred thousand yuan."
She tilted her head, voice dropping lower, almost conspiratorial. "But that's not the real kicker. To even buy a Kelly, you need a purchase quota. For Kelly, the ratio is three-to-one. Which means whoever bought that bag had to spend nearly 1.2 million yuan beforehand just to qualify. And that's not even counting the waiting list."
Her words hung in the air like smoke, thin but suffocating.
The other girls froze. The numbers hit like a thunderclap. 1.2 million yuan—the figure reverberated in their heads like a strike of lightning.
Although each of them came from a well-to-do family, that kind of money spent on a school bag? Unthinkable. The most they could ever beg their mothers for was a Dior or LV tote on birthdays. Even then, their mothers used luxury pieces sparingly, bringing them out only for major social events.
But Li Ziqing? A dirt-poor nobody who had Hermès casually slung over her shoulder for school?
Gong Xinyue immediately shook her head, her voice rising, "No, no… You must have seen wrong, Ruxue. It's impossible. It has to be a fake. There's no way Li Ziqing can own Hermès."
Fan Yuelin quickly echoed, almost tripping over her words, "Exactly! Ruxue, you might not know, but we do. Li Ziqing is dirt poor. Her mother runs that shabby breakfast stall in the Northern District.
Meng Qianyi snorted, chiming in with a cruel laugh, "And she doesn't even have a father. What does she rely on? Spare change from her mother's stall? How could she possibly afford a million-yuan bag?"
The crowd of girls nodded vigorously. The thought was simply too absurd otherwise.
But Rong Ruxue didn't speak immediately. Her almond-shaped eyes flickered, watching the trio as an inward wave of impatience crashed over her. Idiots, she thought. Do they really think money is the only way to get an Hermès? Can't they think beyond their bumpkin brains?
Still, outwardly, she smiled sweetly, keeping up her carefully cultivated image. "Maybe Li Ziqing is poor," she said softly, "but one thing I'm absolutely certain of… my eyes are never wrong when it comes to luxury brands. The bag she was carrying is a genuine Hermès Evelyne. I've even seen the same model on a friend's mother in Beijing."
Her words hung in the air.
Fan Yuelin faltered. "Are… are you sure?"
Meng Qianyi's brows knit. "But how? How can a poor girl like her…?"
Gong Xinyue bit her lip, whispering nervously, "Even my mom only has two Hermès, and she keeps them in a glass cabinet. Li Ziqing just uses one for school? That doesn't make sense."
The three looked at one another, their conviction beginning to waver. The more they tried to convince themselves it was fake, the more Rong Ruxue's calm certainty made their words sound hollow.
And Rong Ruxue's lips curled, striking precisely when their doubts were peaking. "Of course, the question isn't whether the bag is real. It's how Li Ziqing got it." She let her voice drop, silky and insinuating, drawing the girls closer like moths to a flame. "A million-yuan Hermès? Even her entire family's worth wouldn't cover it. So ask yourselves… who's giving it to her? Bags like that aren't free. Someone must want something in return."
Her words landed with a poisonous sweetness, completing the thought she wanted planted. She didn't have to spell it out; her sly glance did the rest.
Gong Xinyue's eyes widened. "You mean… she's being… kept?"
Meng Qianyi covered her mouth, half-gasping, half-giggling. "No wonder she struts around lately. Maybe some rich old man—"
Fan Yuelin leaned closer with an excited shiver. "Tsk, so that's how she's been acting like she's above us. I knew there was something off."
Rong Ruxue's lips curved ever so slightly, her heart doing a quiet little dance. Finally. About time these fools connected the dots.
Still, she knew better than to reveal her hand too soon. Instead, she widened her eyes in feigned shock, clasping her hands as if scandalized.
"No… no, I don't think Li Ziqing would do something like that. She's just a student, after all. How could she possibly…?" Her voice trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in delicious suspense.
Meng Qianyi gave a cynical laugh and patted Rong Ruxue's arm.
"Ruxue, you're too kind-hearted. You've been pampered all your life; you don't understand. We know how poor Li Ziqing truly is. There's no way she could afford Hermès on her own. If you ask me, there's only one explanation."
Gong Xinyue seized the moment, eyes glinting with malice.
"Exactly! People like her—those who've lived in poverty their entire lives—will go to any lengths for vanity. I wouldn't be surprised if she's done something utterly shameless for that bag."
Ruxue lowered her gaze, pretending to look troubled.
"I… I don't know who's right here," she said softly, her voice carrying a perfect note of innocence. "I just don't want to think so badly of anyone. After all… she is our classmate."
Fan Yuelin scoffed, crossing her arms with open disdain.
"And that's the most pathetic part—we actually have to share a roof with someone that disgusting. Hmph!"
Gong Xinyue's lips twisted into a cold sneer.
"She dared humiliate me in front of the entire class? Fine. I'll show her what real humiliation feels like."
Fan Yuelin and Meng Qianyi nodded in agreement, their faces hard with spite.
Rong Ruxue, on the other hand, maintained her calm facade, not a flicker of emotion betraying her inner delight. Perfect. If all went as planned, these stupid girls would spread the whispers by tomorrow. By than Li Ziqing would drown in scandal and embarrassment—forced to transfer or drop out altogether.
And when that happened, Rong Ruxue would finally stand unchallenged—the most beautiful and admired girl in the entire school. Her plan was falling into place.
---
The evening glow draped itself gently over the Southern District, painting the sky in hues of amber and indigo. The Mu family's courtyard house stood like a quiet poem amidst the bustling city—a piece of old-world Beijing transplanted into Wuhan. Built around a square courtyard, its whitewashed walls were accented with carved wooden lattice windows and curved eaves that whispered stories of dynasties past. A few pomegranate trees swayed lazily in the warm evening breeze, their shadows stretching across the flagstone ground. The faint scent of osmanthus drifted from the garden, blending with the earthy aroma of aged timber.
Inside one of the side rooms, its sliding doors slightly ajar to let in the dusk air, Shen Zeyan sat cross-legged on the polished wooden floor. Opposite him, Grandpa Mu adjusted the lid of a clay teapot with practiced grace. The steam curled upward in delicate spirals, carrying the soothing fragrance of freshly brewed Longjing tea.
Grandpa Mu's face, lined with age yet radiant with calm wisdom, softened as he looked at his grandson. "Zeyan," he began, his voice steady and unhurried, "do you know why your grandma and I chose to settle here, in this old-fashioned courtyard house? We could have lived anywhere in Wuhan."
Shen Zeyan shook his head silently, watching the amber liquid pour into the porcelain cups.
"It's because you were coming to live with us," Grandpa Mu continued with a faint smile. "After thirty years in Beijing, we longed for the peace of a courtyard like this. We wanted a place where the noise of the world couldn't reach you so easily—a place where you could breathe, and maybe, learn to tame that fire inside you."
Shen Zeyan lowered his gaze, his lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks. He said nothing, but his tense shoulders gave him away.
Grandpa Mu's hand lingered over the teapot, letting the steam warm his fingers. "Zeyan, I'm no professional counselor or doctor. I can't give you some magic cure for anger. But I can give you an environment where your heart can be still. And every day, after school, we'll spend just one hour together. One hour of activities that might teach you patience."
He paused, letting the evening silence settle around them. The distant chirp of cicadas filled the room.
"Do you know," Grandpa Mu went on, "how ancient emperors used to cultivate patience and clarity of mind? It wasn't by issuing decrees or leading wars. It was by practicing the art of slowness. They brewed tea, each movement deliberate and precise, until the chaos in their minds settled. They learned calligraphy, where every brushstroke demanded focus. They played the guqin, letting its soft strings teach them harmony. They painted, slowly layering oil and ink, learning that true beauty takes time."
As he spoke, his hands moved gracefully. He rinsed the teapot, swirled the water, poured it out; added the tea leaves, let them bloom; then filled the pot with fresh hot water. Each motion was measured, rhythmic. Shen Zeyan, who was already tea enthusiast, found himself truly captivated. The quiet ritual seemed to slow his racing thoughts.
Noticing his apprentice's softened expression, Grandpa Mu's lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. "You feel it, don't you? The stillness," he said gently.
Shen Zeyan blinked, almost startled that his grandfather had read his mind. He hesitated, then gave a faint nod.
Grandpa Mu chuckled warmly. "Good. That means we're off to a good start. The first thing we'll learn together," he said, lifting the teapot and filling a delicate cup, "is the art of brewing tea. Patience begins with small rituals, Zeyan. When you master them, your heart will follow."
He slid the cup across the low table. The steam curled upward like a blessing, and for the first time that day, Shen Zeyan felt a strange, unfamiliar calm settle over him.
Although Shen Zeyan said nothing, Grandpa Mu didn't mind. He had been warned by Shen Weiyuan that his son's temper was strange and unpredictable, that it had worsened with age. But Grandpa Mu, who had spent a lifetime observing people, noticed something deeper: the boy didn't just have anger; he had silence. A silence that pressed down like a stone, because he never spoke, never shared, never allowed even a crack for light to enter.
This child has seen too much for his age. He's been carrying everything alone, with no outlet. Before any advice or discipline, I need to calm his heart. Only then can he begin to heal, he thought.
When Shen Zeyan clumsily tried to imitate Grandpa Mu's tea-brewing gestures, it was almost endearing. His hand shook a little; he poured too fast, splashing some water; and he misjudged the amount of tea to place in the cup. Grandpa Mu watched quietly, not correcting him. Instead, he let the boy make mistakes, smiling faintly at the sight.
For the first time in his life, Shen Zeyan felt… different.
He didn't quite understand it. The ever-present tension in his chest had eased just a little. It wasn't gone—his anger still lurked, heavy and unspent—but here, in this quiet room with the scent of tea leaves and the patient figure across from him, he felt no need to lash out. No one was demanding anything from him. No one was criticizing him. Grandpa Mu wasn't telling him to "control himself" or "be better." He was just there, giving him space, accepting his silence.
A warmth crept into Shen Zeyan's chest, subtle and strange. It felt… safe. Almost comforting. Like there might be a corner in the world where he didn't have to fight.
Grandpa Mu's keen eyes softened at the boy's expression. He nodded in satisfaction, "You can keep practicing," he said kindly. "Your assistant is here. He wants to speak with you."
Rising slowly, Grandpa Mu patted his shoulder and stepped out, leaving him alone.
Almost immediately, Gao Shun appeared at the doorway. The moment his eyes landed on the scene inside, his steps faltered.
In all the years he had served the Shen family, he had watched his Young Master drink tea countless times. But brewing it himself? Never. The sight was so uncharacteristic that for an instant, Gao Shun wondered if he had stepped into the wrong room.
Shen Zeyan sat in unnerving stillness. His profile was cold and flawless, his long fingers clumsy yet oddly elegant as they tried to mimic Grandpa Mu's tea-brewing ritual. The serenity of the scene carried an almost deceptive calm.
Gao Shun swallowed and cleared his throat, his voice breaking the quiet like a stone tossed into still water. "Young Master, forgive me for disturbing you, but… there is an urgent matter."
The boy's head lifted slowly. His gaze—obsidian-dark, sharp enough to cut—locked onto Gao Shun. He gave a single, imperious nod, silently permitting him to continue.
Gao Shun hesitated for half a heartbeat before delivering the blow. "The smartphone prototype… it failed the SAR and RF compliance tests. The radio frequency emissions far exceeded the legal safety thresholds—hazardous levels. The testing committee has already issued an official rejection."
The movement of Shen Zeyan's hands stilled mid-pour. The amber liquid rippled in the porcelain cup, reflecting the storm igniting in his eyes. A moment ago, they had been calm pools; now, they blazed with a fury that could burn the world.
His voice, low and lethal, sliced through the room. "How high?"
"Above 2.2 watts per kilogram," Gao Shun answered cautiously. "The legal limit is 1.6 in most regions."
"And the RF leakage?" Shen Zeyan's tone was quiet, but the kind of quiet that made one's skin crawl—the calm before a hurricane.
"Significant," Gao Shun admitted. "The shielding near the antenna module failed completely. It's leaking well above IEEE permissible exposure limits."
A muscle in Shen Zeyan's jaw ticked. His voice dropped lower, each word honed to a blade. "Wasn't the design specified to incorporate a dual-layer shielding with graphene composite?"
"It was, Young Master, but during mass production—"
"Mass production?" Shen Zeyan's voice erupted like a thunderclap, making Gao Shun flinch. "You mean to tell me that after months of R&D, after countless design reviews, endless budgets poured into this project—my engineers still managed to botch basic RF compliance?!"
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. The air itself turned oppressive, charged with the raw violence of his fury.
"Do I employ engineers or imbeciles?!" Shen Zeyan's voice rose, sharp and merciless. "What have they been doing all this time? Warming their seats with my money?!"
Gao Shun opened his mouth, but not a single word dared escape.
"And the head of the department," Shen Zeyan continued, his voice dropping into a cold, venomous hiss that made Gao Shun's blood run cold. "Did no one think to flag this before the report reached my desk? Do I have to do everyone's job myself?"
The silence that followed was deafening. It wasn't mere quiet—it was suffocating, electric, the kind that made your heartbeat feel too loud in your own ears.
Then, Shen Zeyan laughed. It was not a laugh of amusement. It was sharp, icy, and cruel—the kind of sound that sent shivers crawling down spines.
"I want the entire engineering team in the conference room within an hour," he ordered, voice like the crack of a whip. "If they can't fix this, I'll find someone who can. And if anyone thinks I'm bluffing, they can take their incompetence and get the hell out of my company."
Crack.
The porcelain cup shattered violently in his grip. Shards splintered into his palm, slicing deep. A thin stream of blood dripped onto the pristine table, mingling with the spilled tea.
"Y-Young Master! Your hand—" Gao Shun rushed forward instinctively, but froze halfway. The aura emanating from Shen Zeyan was like a raging storm—violent, tyrannical, suffocating. One wrong move and you'd be caught in the hurricane's eye.
Shen Zeyan didn't even glance at the injury. His gaze burned like molten steel, his voice a guttural growl that made Gao Shun's spine stiffen. "Don't waste my time worrying about trivial things. Move. Now."
He rose sharply, the chair legs screeching against the floor. The serene atmosphere from moments ago had been obliterated; in its place surged a raw, destructive energy that could tear anyone apart who stood in his way.
Gao Shun followed hurriedly, his pulse racing as he silently prayed for the engineers about to face the Young Master's wrath.