Song Yuzhang: Chapter 171 - Timing
Fu Mian had not planned this case of swapping beams and pillars—the kidnapping—on his own. There’s an insider at his side. That thought had formed in Song Yuzhang’s mind not long after he fell into Fu Mian’s hands.
The idea lingered, circling in his thoughts for a long time, until at last, carried lightly yet decisively on the smell of tobacco, it settled on Shen Chengduo.
At the very least, those two knew each other.
Song Yuzhang was naturally wary of those around him. After all, there are thieves who steal for a thousand days, but no one can guard against thieves for a thousand days straight. He wasn’t a god—he couldn’t calculate everything to perfection. He had only decided to make the Guantu trip after careful consideration, even bringing along Liu Chu, a vicious little confidant. The worst he had anticipated was bandits blocking the road—and even then, the 23rd Division was escorting them. However useless those men might be, they were still soldiers. Bandits weren’t idiots; they wouldn’t openly clash with the army. What he hadn’t expected was that someone would come specifically for him.
If Fu Mian was the mastermind, then there had to be someone by his side—an insider of no low rank—who knew Song Yuzhang’s itinerary inside and out.
And if Fu Mian wasn’t the mastermind, then the implications ran even deeper.
Perhaps this trip itself had been bait from the very beginning.
“What’s wrong?” Song Yuzhang asked.
Fu Mian’s phoenix eyes were bright and intent as he stared at Song Yuzhang. Song Yuzhang was half-asleep, his gaze lazy and unguarded.
Fu Mian kissed his eyelids lightly. “Taking you out for a walk.”
Song Yuzhang smiled. “May I ask where?”
“No.”
“All right then.” Song Yuzhang stretched lazily. “I’ll just go with the flow.”
Fu Mian moved fast. That very night, he dealt with Song Jincheng. One bullet. No warning. Dragged out, Song Jincheng had thought he was about to endure another brutal beating. He never imagined Fu Mian would raise his hand and fire. Death came so cleanly, so abruptly. Before dying, Song Jincheng’s mind was nearly blank—pure white, blazing with a radiant emptiness. In that void, he seemed to glimpse a beautiful silhouette. And then, this world no longer had a Song Jincheng in it.
One burden disposed of—yet there was another. When Xiao Fengxian was dragged out, he wasn’t nearly as calm as Song Jincheng. During this time, he’d been treated with care and kindness. Being dragged out like this instantly threw him back into terror. He flailed and kicked wildly, trying to escape.
Xiao Fengxian had been well fed these days and now looked almost human—clean-cut, fair-skinned, a rather good-looking young man. At this moment, he stared at Fu Mian in utter terror. Fu Mian knew this was exactly the type Song Yuzhang liked; Meng Tingjing was much the same.
The gun was already aimed at that messy head. After a few breaths, Fu Mian shifted the muzzle away and said to his attendant, “Put him in a box.”
Song Yuzhang didn’t go into a box. He got into the carriage right there in the courtyard, boarded the ship without ever seeing daylight again. Once aboard, the first thing he asked about was Xiao Fengxian. Fu Mian didn’t fall out with him, only said calmly, “In the box. We’ll talk after we set sail.”
“He’s innocent,” Song Yuzhang emphasized.
Fu Mian glanced sideways at him. Song Yuzhang smiled. “You were innocent back then too.”
“I don’t need you trying to fool me.”
“I’m telling the truth. I haven’t lied to you since.”
Fu Mian took his hand and rubbed it lightly. “Take another look. We’re about to depart.”
Song Yuzhang turned back, gazing at Qingxi wrapped in layers of morning mist. It felt as though he had returned to the womb and passed through it once more. A pity he never got the chance to see Xuai Yingtao. But then again—dead was dead. What difference did it make whether he saw that stone engraved with a name or not?
After the ship set off, Song Yuzhang finally saw Xiao Fengxian. Stuffed into the box, he’d clearly been terrified again. He gestured wildly, hands flying. Song Yuzhang understood—Song Jincheng had been killed.
A useless burden had no reason to be kept. Xiao Fengxian, however, still had value. He could tether Song Yuzhang. That was why he lived.
Xiao Fengxian knew he’d fallen into the hands of evildoers. Still, that gunshot had truly shaken him. So human life could be that fragile—one sound, and it was gone. Born into extreme hardship, virtually an orphan, he’d endured for years before finally clawing his way up. Now everything was ruined. Yet if death truly came for him, he still wanted to live. He wanted to live—more than he wanted to die.
Song Yuzhang slipped an arm around his shoulders, gently stroking his still-messy hair. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here.”
Though Xiao Fengxian was just a small captive, he trusted Song Yuzhang—another captive—without reservation. Nestled against Song Yuzhang’s chest, he thought that life was like a play: there were rises and falls. He had to wait, endure, and clutch his life carefully so he wouldn’t tumble off the stage.
Even on the river, Fu Mian wouldn’t allow Song Yuzhang out of the cabin. Boats came and went along the waterway, and Song Yuzhang was far too conspicuous. If someone spotted him at a glance, the trouble would be enormous.
Song Yuzhang sat cross-legged on the bed, his gaze drifting to a particular wooden plank. That was the very board Meng Tingjing had pried open that day.
If he’d been just a little closer—or if Meng Tingjing hadn’t been in such a hurry—he might have been discovered.
And if he had been? Given Fu Mian’s temperament, Xiao Fengxian would have been killed on the spot. If that were the case, no one could really blame him. Song Yuzhang hadn’t made a sound; Meng Tingjing had simply been too sharp. He turned a page of his book, thinking that he didn’t know whether he’d felt more disappointment or more relief at the time. He wasn’t a saint—perhaps it had been both.
Since Xiao Fengxian was still alive, then he, too, had to survive and take Xiao Fengxian with him when he escaped.
Fu Mian’s decisiveness in abandoning Qingxi suggested he was under some kind of pressure. Perhaps someone was trying to force him to do something he didn’t want to do.
For instance—Take Song Yuzhang’s life.
He turned another page, his right index finger pressing lightly against his thumb. When alone, he could always think with chilling calm. His expression was frighteningly composed. Yet the moment there was movement at the door, even his posture and breathing grew languid again.
“Can you even focus on reading?” Fu Mian asked.
“Just killing time.”
Song Yuzhang closed the book. “When do we dock?”
Fu Mian sat down by the bed. “You want to disembark?”
“Being adrift on the water all the time…” Song Yuzhang said. “I survived a shipwreck once. Water makes me uneasy.”
Fu Mian knew everything about him—had investigated him thoroughly. He withdrew his hand from behind his back, clasped Song Yuzhang’s hand, and pressed something from his own palm into his.
Song Yuzhang opened his hand. It was a small orange, greenish-yellow.
“Where did this come from?”
Supplies and canned food were plentiful on board, but fresh food was scarce. Song Yuzhang had still had fresh fruit during the first two days after boarding, but it had been five or six days since he’d seen anything this fresh.
“Ran into a cargo ship. Traded with them.”
Song Yuzhang lifted the orange to his nose and inhaled. “How many did you trade for? A whole crate?”
“One.”
“One?”
Fu Mian laughed, a touch of spoiled-young-master about it. “That was the only one they had left.”
“Oh.” Song Yuzhang peeled it without the slightest care, plucked a segment, and popped it into his mouth. “Not bad. Pretty sweet.”
He ate the entire orange, leaving not a single segment for Fu Mian. Fu Mian watched him the whole time. Only after he finished did Fu Mian comment, “You really are cold-blooded to the extreme.”
After finishing the orange, Song Yuzhang was still inhaling the fragrance of the peel. “You gave it to me—wasn’t that the same as telling me to eat it?”
Fu Mian stared at him. “You didn’t think of me at all?”
Song Yuzhang smiled at him. “I did. I was thinking of teasing you to death.”
Fu Mian really had been stirred up—but not by the orange. It was by this selfish, seemingly heartless Song Yuzhang.
People really are hopeless once they turn cheap—no one can stop it. And Fu Mian happened to love exactly this tone of Song Yuzhang’s.
After a bout of tumbling entanglement, Fu Mian wrapped both arms around Song Yuzhang from behind. “We dock tomorrow.”
“Am I not allowed to ask where we’re going?”
“East City.”
“East City?” Song Yuzhang echoed.
Fu Mian said, “You were at least a little honest with Tang Jin. Ma Jiming kept photos of you and your mother. How were you so pretty as a child?”
“What—am I not pretty now?”
Fu Mian bit his earlobe lightly. “Pretty. Pretty enough to be infuriating.”
When they arrived in East City, Song Yuzhang was still tightly concealed as he went ashore, leaving not the slightest trace of himself. He had never actually been to East City before. He could only hear the clamor of voices outside—livelier, it seemed, even more prosperous than Qingxi.
Inside the carriage, Song Yuzhang suddenly asked, “What about Ma Jiming?”
Fu Mian answered succinctly. “Dead.”
Song Yuzhang drew in a breath and said nothing more.
When they reached their destination, it was another enormous residence. There were many guards in the courtyard—security even tighter than before.
They said a crafty rabbit had three burrows; East City was likely another of Fu Mian’s nests.
Song Yuzhang said he wanted to see Xiao Fengxian. Fu Mian neither approved nor objected. Watching coldly from the sidelines, he judged that the relationship between Xiao Fengxian and Song Yuzhang was still fairly simple.
It was good that Song Yuzhang had something to be attached to—it saved Fu Mian the trouble of extra vigilance.
Xiao Fengxian was transported in a box all the way in again, jumpy as a startled bird. His small room contained only a wooden plank bed and a wooden chamber pot, like a miniature prison cell. Song Yuzhang went over and put an arm around him, murmuring gentle words to comfort him. Then he whispered by his ear, “Is it still there?”
Xiao Fengxian nodded slightly in his arms and pointed to his own tangled hair.
Song Yuzhang reached into it and quickly found a small paper packet.
With Fu Mian, Song Yuzhang couldn’t keep clothes on his back, much less hide anything on his person—there was no way he could carry anything with him. Xiao Fengxian, on the other hand, was largely ignored. Hidden in plain sight, no one was on guard against him.
Inside the paper packet was powdered wound medicine. Song Yuzhang had tested it bit by bit and roughly knew the dosage. It wouldn’t kill anyone.
“Good boy.” Song Yuzhang kissed the center of his brow. “Keep it safe. I’ll come take it in a couple of days.”
Xiao Fengxian nodded again.
Zhang Changshan didn’t learn of Fu Mian’s movements until several days later—and the moment he did, anger flared.
He actually had several capable assassins under his command, but once those people were deployed, those above would inevitably notice. At that point, it would be a case of one move tugging the whole body, spawning endless complications. Fu Mian was useful and ruthless, but loyalty was something he simply didn’t possess.
Zhang Changshan took several hard drags on his cigarette, deeply conflicted. On one hand, Fu Mian didn’t seem to be making any moves right now. On the other, failing to uproot the weeds entirely was truly improper. The more Zhang Changshan thought about it, the more regret crept in. He never should have listened to Shen Chengduo in the first place—never should have insisted that Song Yuzhang die outside Haizhou. He should have sacrificed Shen Chengduo outright and had him kill Song Yuzhang in Haizhou. Puppets were easy to come by; just prop up another obedient one.
Then again—Shen Chengduo, that sly bastard, probably wouldn’t have agreed to such a thankless job anyway. Only Fu Mian would rush to do it.
Hardening his heart, Zhang Changshan thought: if you’re going to swallow one, you might as well swallow two. Fu Mian was just a kid—yet he controlled such a massive tobacco business. Why not take the whole thing in one bite? But his energy was limited; he didn’t have the time to juggle so many people and affairs.
He smoked cigarette after cigarette, his tightly furrowed brow never once relaxing.
Just when he hadn’t had his fill of frustration, news came again from Haizhou— The arm factory had caught fire!
Zhang Changshan wasn’t in Haizhou and could only order his eyes there—Shen Chengduo—to rush over and assess the situation.
Shen Chengduo hurried there in a panic. Flames soared sky-high; the scene was utter chaos. In his anxiety, Shen Chengduo nearly suffocated, quickly shouting for his men to charge in and fight the fire.
From a high vantage point, Meng Tingjing watched Shen Chengduo’s face—ashen, as if his father had just died—through binoculars. He sneered and thought to himself: He won’t make it back. And you’ll get nothing, either.
On the night the fire broke out in Haizhou, Song Yuzhang was eating alone in the small courtyard. After arriving in East City, Fu Mian was clearly very busy, spending much less time with him. Song Yuzhang understood—it was the pressure he was under.
He leisurely ladled himself a small bowl of chicken soup, took out the powder packet, and poured it in.
With a gentle stir, the powder dispersed into the clear broth.
Song Yuzhang stared at the bowl and thought, It won’t kill him.
Fu Mian was on the phone with someone when an attendant knocked urgently at the door.
Holding the receiver down with one hand, Fu Mian said, “Come in.”
Still listening to the voice on the other end, he watched as the attendant entered and reported directly, “That person is vomiting severely and has lost consciousness.”
Fu Mian’s grip tightened. His brows and eyes swept over like a sudden gale. The attendant said cautiously, “It looks like poisoning.”
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