Song Yuzhang: Chapter 62 - With Utmost Benevolence and Righteousness
Chapter 62: With Utmost Benevolence and Righteousness
In the afternoon, after the bank closed, the case of pounds was exchanged back into legal tender. Liu Chuanzong stacked the bills neatly on the shelf, bundle by bundle.
Four days remained.
Just four more days of peace.
With a shortfall of three hundred million US dollars, not even a deity could conjure up that kind of money. Two thousand pounds wasn’t even a drop in the bucket.
Song Yuzhang leaned half against the wall and asked, “How much money did Song Zhenqiao leave for Song Qiyuan?”
Liu Chuanzong finished stacking the last bundle, turned around, and said, “Thirty million US dollars.”
Song Yuzhang let out a soft laugh. “Quite capable, isn’t he? At his age, he managed to create a tenfold deficit.”
Ever since being bought into the Song family, Liu Chuanzong had been highly valued by Song Zhenqiao—not just as a figurehead, but as a true confidant. He had been trained into a heartless but loyal servant. However, with Song Zhenqiao’s death, that loyalty completely dissipated. Now, only the heartlessness remained. Song Yuzhang’s mockery stirred no ripple in his heart.
“Bring me the bank’s ledgers. The real ones—I don’t want to see the doctored numbers.” Song Yuzhang paused, then added suspiciously, “Do they exist?”
“They do.”
The real ledgers were all handwritten by Liu Chuanzong himself. As Song Yuzhang flipped through them, he thought Liu Chuanzong was truly no ordinary man—to know the bank was riddled with holes and still go about his business every day as if nothing were wrong.
Song Yuzhang skimmed through several pages at a glance. His eyes soon began to ache from the strain, so he closed the ledger and asked directly, “If that thirty million dollars were still here, how long could the bank hold out?”
“Only until the end of the year. The year-end’s hard to survive. It likely wouldn’t make it.”
Song Yuzhang lightly stroked the smooth surface of the ledger. “Any large deposits coming due soon?”
“Yes. Gehua Company has a deposit of one hundred thousand US dollars, maturing at the end of this month.”
One hundred thousand dollars normally wouldn’t be a huge sum for a bank, but to the Song Bank—now left with only two thousand pounds in reserves—it was more than it could possibly cover.
“What about next month?”
“The largest maturing amount next month is two million US dollars.”
“Two million?”
“Yes, it belongs to Director Liao of the Transport Bureau.”
Song Yuzhang let out a laugh of disbelief. “Why didn’t he deposit it in Citibank?”
“We offered higher interest.”
Song Yuzhang was speechless. He flipped back and forth through the ledger again, finding that the interest rates had indeed been climbing. The reason was easy to guess: with the massive deficit, the bank had to attract deposits with high interest rates. This was like drinking poison to quench thirst—each day bought was just another day delayed. But when the poison finally took hold, death would be certain.
“Did he never try to save it?”
“In all of Haizhou, only the Nie and Meng families have the power to pull the bank through. The old master had tried many times to cooperate with them, but it never succeeded.”
Song Yuzhang said nothing, gazing at the empty vault. He truly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
He stood there for a long time, then handed the ledger back to Liu Chuanzong.
“Come pick me up at the bank tomorrow morning at eight.”
At 8:00 a.m., Tian Guangyao finished grooming himself and said goodbye to his wife and daughter. The Nie family’s car had already arrived to pick him up. Tian Guangyao said, “Please take me to the Song Bank first.”
He didn’t live far from the bank and aimed to arrive before the 8:30 opening, hoping to be the first in line and avoid the wait.
A few people were already scattered outside the bank, likely with the same idea.
At 8:30 sharp, the bank doors opened. Tian Guangyao rushed in and made a withdrawal of 1,000 dollars—he was planning to buy a gold bracelet for his wife’s upcoming birthday. As he was about to leave, the bank’s guards ushered someone in at the door.
The newcomer was tall and lean, his tailored trousers perfectly fitted, his silhouette shining golden in the sunlight. His face was so strikingly handsome and refined that it was beyond description. Tian Guangyao, who had sketched countless portraits, stared in amazement—this man’s every feature was worthy of being painted.
On the way to the Nie residence, Tian Guangyao kept thinking about that face. He marveled that Haizhou had such a dashing figure and couldn’t resist asking in the car, “There was a stunning gentleman at the Song Bank today.”
The Nie family’s well-informed driver laughed. “You must mean Fifth Young Master Song.”
Tian Guangyao nodded. “I’d heard the Song family’s fifth son was extraordinarily handsome. I didn’t expect him to be that extraordinary.”
“Haha,” the driver said cheerfully, “Hasn’t the young master mentioned him to you?”
“Young master?”
“He and Fifth Master Song are very close. He adores him for his looks.”
“Oh,” Tian Guangyao suddenly understood. “You mean the ‘Brother Yuzhang’ the young master’s always talking about?”
“That’s the one.”
Tian Guangyao arrived at the Nie residence chatting happily.
The Nie household was well-run—the servants were disciplined but not stiff, the master of the house as warm and gentle as a spring breeze, and the wages generous. Nie Bonian was sweet and well-behaved. Tian Guangyao was very fond of this part-time job. Although some of his peers thought he was currying favor with the powerful, he didn’t care. After finishing lessons with Nie Bonian, he followed Nie Mao to meet the legendary Second Master Nie.
Tian Guangyao hadn’t been tutoring Nie Bonian for long—just over three months—and had only heard of Nie Yinbing without ever seeing him. When Nie Mao introduced him, he instinctively sized the man up from bone to flesh in his mind, concluding that Nie Yinbing was strikingly handsome, with sharp brows and a heroic air—a textbook gentleman.
“Mr. Tian, please have a seat.”
Nie Yinbing gestured for Tian Guangyao to sit, then got straight to the point: he wanted Tian Guangyao to draw a portrait based on a verbal description alone.
Tian Guangyao was momentarily stunned and replied, “That… I might not be able to manage.”
“Just give it a try.”
Nie Yinbing’s tone left no room for refusal. Tian Guangyao, no stranger to all kinds of characters, could tell this wasn’t someone easily reasoned with, so he retrieved his sketchpad and tools, ready to oblige.
“He has a face that’s neither too long nor too short, neither too wide nor too narrow. From the front, his cheeks seem slightly sunken. Thick eyebrows—thick but not coarse. Long eyes, double eyelids, curled eyelashes—very long and very thick. A high nose bridge; from the side, the nose is very straight. Lips are medium thickness, with a slight point on the upper lip. Not a single mark on his face.”
Tian Guangyao was getting dizzy just listening. He asked cautiously, “May I ask—is this a man or a woman?”
“A man.”
Following the description, Tian Guangyao began sketching. But after just a few strokes, Nie Yinbing stopped him. “The face is a bit too long.”
Never in his life had Tian Guangyao found drawing so difficult. Under Nie Yinbing’s relentless nitpicking, he finally lost patience. “Second Master Nie, maybe let me finish first before you judge whether it looks like him or not.”
Nie Yinbing felt Tian Guangyao was being unreasonable.
If the initial strokes were already off, how could the final drawing be right?
Though he stopped speaking, he continued to shake his head after almost every stroke, much to Tian Guangyao’s frustration.
Once finished, Nie Yinbing dismissed the portrait entirely, picking apart every detail as wrong. Tian Guangyao was nearly ready to throw down his pencil and storm out.
Just then, Nie Mao arrived in time, suggesting that Tian Guangyao must be tired and should take a break and have something to eat before continuing.
Nie Yinbing merely commented, “Useless.”
Tian Guangyao was so angry he nearly fainted.
After Nie Yinbing left, Nie Mao quietly handed Tian Guangyao an envelope and said many kind words to smooth things over. The gist was: Second Master isn’t a bad person; he just tends to think and act a bit differently from others.
Tian Guangyao, swayed by the money, didn’t argue further and only said, “The eldest master and the young master both have such gentle tempers. The second master truly is... unique.”
Nie Mao chuckled. “That’s just how Second Master is.”
After settling Tian Guangyao, Nie Mao went to find Nie Yinbing, who was standing beneath a flowering tree.
“Second Master, Mister Tian Guangyao is the top portrait artist in Haizhou. If you’re patient, he’ll definitely manage to get it right.”
Nie Yinbing said nothing, clearly unimpressed with Tian Guangyao’s skills. His gaze was fixed on a nearby pomegranate tree beginning to bear fruit.
“He likes pomegranates.”
After hearing this sentence, Nie Mao blinked. “Who?”
Nie Yinbing didn’t answer.
Nie Xueping had warned that his words could cause misunderstanding, and Nie Yinbing had lain awake all night, tossing and turning, afraid Zhao Jianfang might already be dead because of what he said.
If Zhao Jianfang truly were dead—what then?
But really, it still came down to just one thing:
“If he’s alive, I want to see him. If he’s dead, I want to see the body.”
Meanwhile, Song Yuzhang was still standing on the second floor, watching the comings and goings at the bank. The crowd hadn’t changed much from the day before—still bustling, still oblivious. But no matter how many people came, their modest deposits couldn’t solve anything. Even if no one withdrew funds, the bank might still not be able to pay out the 100,000 dollars due at the end of the month.
Shen Chengduo had visited the Song residence last night. Seeing his anxiety, Song Yuzhang knew exactly what it meant—pushing Shen Chengduo away only made the man more certain he was hiding something good and wanted to keep it for himself.
With both hands gripping the railing, Song Yuzhang bowed his head deeply.
Shen Chengduo was willing to offer 10 million dollars.
Ten million dollars…
Even thirty million couldn’t save Song Zhenqiao’s life. What good would ten million do?
And Shen Chengduo was no fool. If Song accepted the money, Haizhou would surely swarm with eyes watching every move between him and the Song Bank. By then, escape would be almost impossible.
And yet… ten million dollars… Who knew how long the bank could last with that?
Maybe Shen Chengduo would lower his guard over time, and then…
Song Yuzhang furrowed his brow tightly.
Even in such a desperate situation, he still had more than one path to escape. If all went well, he might even walk away with a fortune.
But if he escaped—what would happen to everyone left behind?
His gaze fell to the bank’s main hall.
The crowd was just as it had been yesterday—busy, unaware.
Song Yuzhang gripped the railing tightly, resting his forehead on the cold wood.
Beside him, Liu Chuanzong stood silently, quietly accompanying him.
By midday, Song Yuzhang said, “Let’s go eat.”
Liu Chuanzong accompanied him to a French restaurant near the bank. Song Yuzhang ordered two set meals. Each set came with eight glasses of wine. When the waiter began pouring, Song Yuzhang instructed, “Fill them up.”
The waiter looked slightly surprised and explained that the wine was meant to complement the meal, only to be tasted lightly.
“Fill them up,” Song Yuzhang repeated.
He drank all eight glasses.
He wasn’t particularly good at gambling, but when it came to alcohol, he could really hold his liquor.
After downing eight glasses of Western liquor, his expression didn’t change, though his stomach was uncomfortably full and he barely touched the food.
Tian Guangyao couldn’t eat either.
That morning, he had produced three portraits at an astonishing speed, only to be met with the same evaluation from Nie Yinbing every time—“Ugly”—along with a subtly disdainful expression that basically called him a good-for-nothing.
Already annoyed, Tian Guangyao found it even more aggravating that Nie Yinbing had no concept of not speaking while eating. Throughout the meal, he continued nitpicking the drawings. The more he went on, the more Tian Guangyao realized that Nie Yinbing was a complete amateur—his criticisms weren’t about the technique but simply that the person drawn wasn’t good-looking enough.
Nie Yinbing’s descriptions had been vague and all over the place, so Tian Guangyao had been sketching based on gut feeling. But if all Nie Yinbing wanted was someone “good-looking,” then fine—he’d give him that.
Tian Guangyao barely touched his food before retreating to the guest room, determined to draw the most handsome man imaginable.
He had a near-photographic memory for faces and instantly recalled a fleeting glimpse of someone at the bank earlier that morning.
The image in his mind was crystal clear.
Someone standing bathed in sunlight, radiant from head to toe—even the scarf and tie the man wore were vividly remembered.
Until now, Tian Guangyao had only drawn faces, but this time, he decided to do a full-body portrait. Drawing someone beautiful, inside and out, would lift his mood.
With a few swift strokes, he outlined the general shape, beginning at the shoulders.
He planned to save the face—Fifth Young Master Song’s exceptionally striking face—for last.
Because he was now painting freely and from inspiration, his mood soon calmed, and he became completely immersed. Nie Yinbing entered the room, but he didn’t even notice.
Nie Yinbing saw that he hadn’t started the face yet and had only sketched the framework, but since the outline looked pretty good, he refrained from making rude remarks.
After all, Zhao Jianfang had this kind of tall, dashing frame.
Nie Yinbing thought to himself, ‘His portraits are bad, but the body isn’t half bad.’
Song Yuzhang had drunk a lot at lunch, and after returning to the bank, the alcohol hit him. He lay down on the office couch to nap, but was woken up by a commotion downstairs. He called Liu Chuanzong in and asked what was going on. “A group of people are making a scene downstairs,” Liu Chuanzong said.
“You try to cash fake promissory notes at our bank and aren’t afraid of being arrested?” a bank employee was shouting.
“Don’t try to scare us!” someone retorted. “Seventh Miss of the Sun family said these notes are real! Your bank manager confirmed it himself and gave her the cash. Now you want to back out?!”
“Exactly! Our notes are the same as hers—why give her money and not us?!”
“Yeah! Why?!”
“Bring out your bank manager! Let him explain!”
Hands in his pockets and slightly tipsy, Song Yuzhang watched the rowdy crowd from the upper floor. After a moment, he turned to Liu Chuanzong and said, “Invite them up. If they won’t come, have them brought up by force.”
The crowd was a mix of men and women, some as young as seventeen or eighteen, others in their fifties or sixties—more than a dozen people altogether.
Song Yuzhang sat on the couch, one hand pressed to his temple, his eyes scanning the group coldly. He lowered his hand and pointed to a man around forty. “Take him out and shoot him.”
The man stared in disbelief, dumbfounded.
Liu Chuanzong responded without emotion, ordering the bodyguards to restrain the man from behind.
Suddenly aware of the danger, the man shouted, “Murder! They’re going to kill me—in broad daylight! Where is the law?!”
Song Yuzhang raised his hand. “Gag him.”
Liu Chuanzong took out his own handkerchief and stuffed it in the man’s mouth, then signaled the guards to pin him to the floor.
“This is Haizhou,” Song Yuzhang said. “The law? The law is written with three words: Nie, Meng, Song. You didn’t know that?” He stood up and walked into the group, suddenly grabbing a man in his thirties. With a loud smack, he slapped the man hard across the face, then pushed him toward the bodyguards. He turned to the remaining few, now scared stiff, and said slowly, “You came here looking for trouble? You want to die that badly?”
None of them had expected that the kindly and handsome bank manager Miss Sun had praised would be so ruthless. They immediately dropped to their knees, begging for mercy.
Song Yuzhang glanced at Liu Chuanzong. “Take these two away first.”
“Yes, sir.”
Liu Chuanzong responded, signaling the guards to drag the two men out.
The kneeling group huddled together, trembling, as they watched the two be taken away.
“Speak,” Song Yuzhang said as he sat back down on the couch. “Who sent you?”
One boy, about seventeen or eighteen, stepped forward hesitantly, shaking with fear.
It turned out that among the dozen or so people, three of them were indeed victims deceived by that Qian Laosan—some were swindled out of money, others out of belongings. One, like Seventh Miss Sun, had even been tricked into giving up a child.
“Qian Laosan told me this was a bank note, and that when the time came, I could get an extra ten yuan. I had someone look at it, and they all said it was real. I figured it would only be a few more days, and I’d get ten extra yuan, so I believed him…”
“Qian Laosan was generous and friendly—we truly couldn’t tell he was a conman.”
“Sir, please… have mercy. Altogether, it’s only about seven hundred yuan. Please, do us a kindness and let us have it.”
Song Yuzhang pressed a hand to his forehead and fell silent for a moment before asking, “What about the others?”
The same young man answered, “They were just here to help. There weren’t enough of us to make a scene. They said if they helped us get the money, we’d give them ten percent.”
Song Yuzhang nodded slightly and looked again at the remaining few. Their faces were filled with pleading and hope.
“If these notes are fake, then there’s no way our bank can cash them.”
The few people’s faces immediately turned ashen.
Song Yuzhang continued, “Every debt has a debtor. If someone owes you, go to that person. This wasn’t the bank’s mistake, so we can’t be held responsible. If things worked that way, anyone could bring in fake notes and demand money—how could a bank possibly function?”
They knew he was right, and so one by one, they silently left.
Once the group had gone, Liu Chuanzong returned.
“You didn’t really have those two shot, did you?”
“No. I just gave them a good scare and let them go.”
The alcohol still lingered in Song Yuzhang’s system. He inhaled deeply, then slowly exhaled.
Every debt has a debtor.
He wasn’t the one who committed the wrongdoing, and no matter how much those people wailed and begged, the blame ultimately wasn’t his.
Being willing to wait until the very last moment to leave—that alone was already... more mercy than most would show.
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