Chapter 8: The Rich Family's Mad Dog Bites Only for Its Feeder

A chill shot up Chi Xingran's spine, but the moment his eyes landed on that handsome face inches away, he froze all over again.

The heavy bruise-dark circles under Zong Wen's eyes had faded by more than half.

The living King of Hell, who hadn't slept a proper night in three years, now had clear, bright eyes—rested and glowing with the vigor of a man who had finally slept his fill.

"Mr. Zong, you can eat whatever you like, but you can't say whatever you like."

Chi Xingran showed not a shred of guilt at being caught out. He gave the wrist clamped in Zong Wen's grip a righteous little shake:

"A thousand yuan a minute. I worked three hours as your human pillow—one hundred and eighty minutes in full! Plus a detective's fee for intercepting Butler Xu's doctored ginseng soup on your behalf last night. One hundred eighty thousand yuan in labor fees, no credit, no IOUs. Cash or bank transfer?"

Last night, when Butler Xu had sneaked in that bowl of ginseng soup laced with a potent hallucinogenic neurotoxin, Chi Xingran had smelled something off on the spot, pinned the man where he stood, and handed him over to Assistant Zhou, who had been lying in wait.

Zong Wen let go and unhurriedly tugged at the collar of his robe.

He fished a card out of his pocket—black all over, edged with a dark-gold pattern—and flicked it. The card landed flat against Chi Xingran's chest with a slap.

"An unlimited supplementary card."

Zong Wen's voice still carried the rasp of early morning as he looked down at him:

"Your food budget. From now on, you cook at that standard every midnight. Short me so much as one scallion, and I'll throw you off this floor myself."

"You got it, Sugar Daddy! You want scallions, you'll never get garlic greens—I'll fatten you up till you shine!"

Chi Xingran's eyes lit up. He stuffed the black card into the deep pocket of his flower-print shorts and even gave the pocket an affectionate pat.

Just then, a clutter of heavy footsteps sounded outside the front door.

Then came the shrill alarm of the security system being forcibly overridden!

"Cousin! I heard you fell violently ill last night—your mania acting up again? Your big cousin was so worried he couldn't sleep, so he invited over several of the Group's core shareholders overnight!"

Zong Zeyu's phony wailing carried in through the entryway.

Behind him trailed five or six reporters toting cameras of every size, and even two board elders.

Zong Zeyu, scheming written all over his face and too impatient to hide it, hurried into the living room, his thumb quietly resting on the shutter of a miniature hidden camera.

According to Butler Xu's last secret report before he'd gone dark, by now Zong Wen should have gulped down that potent hallucinogen, lost his mind entirely, and smashed the whole apartment to pieces in a frenzy.

One ironclad clip of Zong Wen raging and hurting people, and the chairman's seat of the Zong Group would change hands today!

But when Zong Zeyu got a clear look at the living room, the vicious grin on his face died stiff on the spot.

Morning light spilled over the marble floor through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Zong Wen sat immaculately dressed at the head of the rosewood dining table, a freshly brewed cup of Pu'er in hand, fresh and composed—not a trace of frenzy anywhere on his brow.

And across from him sat Chi Xingran in his hopelessly unfashionable flower-print shorts, eating with heartless abandon—youtiao in his left hand, a big meat bun in his right, oil dripping from the corners of his mouth.

"Cousin, did you bring all these people to raid my home?"

Zong Wen didn't so much as lift an eyelid. He sipped his hot tea unhurriedly, his tone as flat as if he were saying good morning.

Zong Zeyu's face alternated between green and white. His throat felt packed with cement as he squeezed out, dry-mouthed:

"Wen... y-you're all right? Where's Butler Xu? Isn't he usually the one attending you?"

Chi Xingran swallowed his mouthful of bun, pulled a napkin, and wiped his lips:

"Butler Xu? He tried poisoning the soup last night and got caught red-handed, evidence and all. He's pursuing advanced studies in the basement now, and he asked me specially to play you gentlemen a morning broadcast."

Before the words had even settled, Chi Xingran pulled out his battered secondhand phone and jabbed hard at the screen.

The recording, piped into the high-powered Bluetooth speaker in the living room, exploded through the entire penthouse!

"...The Second Master ordered me to do it! The Second Master supplied the hallucinogen! All I had to do was get the Young Master to drink it and lose his mind... The Second Master promised me five million yuan to leave the country once it was done..."

Butler Xu's confession, delivered through snot and tears, drilled itself with perfect clarity into every ear in the room.

The board members at the back exchanged looks, and the way they eyed Zong Zeyu changed in an instant.

Cold sweat flooded down Zong Zeyu's back; his face went white as paper.

He glared murder at Chi Xingran, humiliation curdling into rage as he jabbed a finger at the young man and cursed:

"Where did this beggar's mongrel come from! This is internal Zong family business—what right does gutter trash like you have to open your mouth? The elders are speaking—what are you, that you dare stir up trouble here!"

Zong Zeyu lunged forward a step, palm raised to slap Chi Xingran across the face!

Crack—!

A piercing sharp report exploded out of nowhere!

The white porcelain teacup in Zong Wen's hand turned into a blur, skimmed past Zong Zeyu's ear, and smashed to pieces right in front of his leather shoes!

Scalding tea and razor-sharp porcelain shards sprayed everywhere, splitting a gash in Zong Zeyu's trouser cuff; he shrieked like a stuck pig and staggered back several steps.

"What is he, you ask?"

Zong Wen rose slowly, his tall, straight frame carrying the pressure of an avalanche as he stepped, one measured pace at a time, in front of Chi Xingran—blocking the young man firmly behind him.

Violence churned in those long, jet-black eyes, like some primordial beast whose reverse scale had just been touched.

"He is my personal, plenipotentiary representative. Touch him, and you are digging up my ancestors' graves."

Zong Wen looked down from on high at Zong Zeyu, whose legs had gone weak with terror, his voice cold as ice-water tempering:

"Assistant Zhou. You've been waiting outside quite a while, haven't you? Throw this trash that broke into a private residence out on the street. Notify the legal department: revoke every dividend authorization under Zong Zeyu's name, and audit every project he has ever touched."

"Yes, Mr. Zong!"

Assistant Zhou, who had long since sealed off every exit with his team, broke in with a squad of burly bodyguards in black, hauled up the death-pale Zong Zeyu and his stunned entourage, and dragged them out the door like dead dogs.

"Zong Wen! You dare lay hands on me for some gutter lover! The board will not let this go! Just you wait!"

Zong Zeyu's shrieking was cut off clean as the security door swung shut.

Quiet returned to the living room.

Chi Xingran bit off the last of his bun and gave Zong Wen a glowing thumbs-up:

"Boss Zong, mighty and magnificent! That teacup throw just now was so cool it's worth ten or twenty million in appearance fees at least?"

Assistant Zhou stepped forward quickly, holding out a thick kraft envelope with both hands, deferential:

"Mr. Zong, this is the ledger we turned up overnight after interrogating Butler Xu—the complete transaction records of Zong Zeyu laundering money through shell companies these past few years."

Zong Wen didn't spare it a glance. He tossed it with a flick of his wrist, and the heavy kraft envelope landed with a slap in Chi Xingran's arms.

"Don't you like doing livestreams?"

The corner of Zong Wen's mouth curled, unquestionable authority and something deeper in his eyes:

"Take it and tear it up for fun. Consider it your livestream material."

Chi Xingran arched a brow and unzipped the envelope, just about to leaf through the dense columns of transactions.

Tap.

A yellowed, brittle old photograph slipped out from between the pages, spinning down onto Chi Xingran's knee.

Chi Xingran glanced down carelessly—but the moment his fingertip touched the back of the photograph, he froze completely.

On the back, in dried, blackened dark-red ink, stroke by stroke, was a line of birth characters—his birth date and hour, precise down to the very hour of the day.

It was his real birth record, which he had never told a single soul.