Song Yuzhang: Chapter 174 - To Gather Together
Li Xiaotian washed the rank, bloody stench from his face by the river and changed out of his blood-soaked clothes. He was an opera performer, exceptionally sensitive to sound—there was no way he had heard wrong. He would never forget Song Yuzhang’s voice for as long as he lived.
The one in that carriage had to be Song Yuzhang.
Since returning to his hometown, Li Xiaotian had nearly forgotten the bustling, floating world of Haizhou. He neither missed it nor felt nostalgic for it; the only person he still remembered was Song Yuzhang.
Cold water splashed over his face. Li Xiaotian hesitated, looking in the direction where the caravan had disappeared.
That dark-faced young man just now had looked unfamiliar; his accent didn’t sound like someone from Haizhou either, and he’d been frighteningly vicious… The lingering fear made Li Xiaotian’s heart pound. That man had indeed saved them, but for one brief instant, Li Xiaotian had felt that he had also wanted to kill them all. How could Song Yuzhang be with someone like that?
“Xiaotian, you done changing yet?”
“Yeah—coming.”
Li Xiaotian hurried back. Everyone else had already finished resting and was preparing to continue on the road. He tightened the bundle on his back and kept looking over his shoulder as he walked, wondering whether he should chase after them and greet Song Yuzhang.
He had no doubt that Song Yuzhang would remember him, too.
“What’s with you? You look totally out of it.”
Li Xiaotian snapped back to himself. “N-no, nothing.”
Being an opera performer wasn’t exactly something to be proud of. After returning to Yeyang, Li Xiaotian had buried that chapter of his life deep inside himself and told no one—not even mentioning Haizhou at all.
After thinking it over, he decided that since the caravan seemed to be headed toward Haizhou, he would wait until he reached East City and settled down, then write a letter to the bank to let Song Yuzhang know.
Fu Mian’s group pressed on steadily—traveling by day, stopping at night, not in much of a hurry. The scouts he’d sent out returned with reports that they hadn’t discovered anyone suspicious.
Fu Mian felt slightly reassured. It wasn’t that he was being overly paranoid; he simply had a gut feeling that there was an opponent lurking in the shadows, quietly testing him. The sensation was cold and unpleasant, hard to pin down.
The rest of the journey passed without incident. The caravan slipped into Haizhou without attracting attention.
Fu Mian had already sold tobacco in Haizhou before, though he hadn’t come in person back then, nor had he known that Song Yuzhang was in Haizhou. He did have a place to stay—a medium-sized courtyard with high walls and a quiet, secluded perimeter.
The carriage entered the courtyard. Song Yuzhang stepped down. The square walls carved out a narrow patch of sky. He lifted his head to look at it, then gently closed his eyes. Sunlight fell warmly across his face.
He was finally back.
Fu Mian stood to the side watching, a faint smile on his lips. “In a good mood?”
Song Yuzhang turned to him. “Pretty good.”
Fu Mian went over and wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close as though making him an accessory of his own body. As they walked inside, he said, “Feeling like reliving old dreams?”
“A dream of yellow millet,” Song Yuzhang replied. “Nothing worth reliving.” He slid an arm around Fu Mian’s waist. “But you and I—we could count as reliving old dreams, couldn’t we?”
Fu Mian smiled and glanced at him sideways. “So to you, am I a beautiful dream, or a nightmare?”
Song Yuzhang kicked the door open and answered breezily, “A spring dream!”
They had been traveling nonstop, covered in dust and road grime. Fu Mian liked the way Song Yuzhang smelled; no matter when, his scent was always good.
Shen Chengduo was at home waiting for his confidant to report back. Instead, what he received was news that Fu Mian had entered Haizhou.
Shen Chengduo had once had business dealings with Fu Mian. Naturally, he knew where the Fu family’s foothold in Haizhou was. He sprang to his feet at once, brows drawn tight. “He really came?!”
“He really did. I saw it with my own eyes. There’s still a carriage parked outside the house on East–West Alley.”
For a long while, Shen Chengduo couldn’t speak. Slowly, he sank back onto the sofa. His arm twitched as if shocked, and he pointed forward. “No one moves. Don’t alert them.”
Fu Mian was in Haizhou—then what about Song Yuzhang?
Shen Chengduo paced restlessly for a long time. Unable to make up his mind, he finally called South City again.
Zhang Changshan didn’t answer.
Shen Chengduo’s heart thundered in his chest. He held the receiver, his expression strained and miserable.
Zhang Changshan was at headquarters, slamming tables and shouting at someone.
“Why haven’t the stipends been issued?!”
“Stipends, stipends—everyone opens their mouth demanding stipends. Where are they supposed to come from?!”
“Li Zifeng, don’t think I don’t know what you’re planning. Yeyang is on the verge of victory, and you’re dragging your feet—this is sabotaging the war effort! I’ll report you to the higher-ups!”
“Go ahead, Zhang Changshan. I know you’re worried about your younger brother, but open your eyes and take a look—” Li Zifeng jabbed hard at the map. “A mere Yeyang—compared to all these other territories, how important can it possibly be?!”
Zhang Changshan slammed the table. “Bastard! These places have already been won!”
“Won?” Li Zifeng sneered. “You think driving the Japanese out counts as victory?! Zhang Changshan, put a hand on your chest and think carefully—who are you really loyal to?”
He continued slowly, “Old Zhang, low political awareness gets people killed.”
Zhang Changshan’s chest heaved violently. At last, he ground his teeth and said, “The stipends must be issued. Winter’s coming—people die in Yeyang winters.”
“If the higher-ups won’t issue them,” Zhang Changshan pressed a palm to the table, his eyes bloodshot as he stared at Li Zifeng, “then I will!”
Seething with rage, Zhang Changshan stormed back to his office. Just then, the phone rang. He undid the buttons of his jacket, grabbed the receiver, and barked, “Hello!”
Shen Chengduo jumped at the fury in his voice.
“Speak!”
Steadying himself, Shen Chengduo said softly, “Fu Mian has come to Haizhou.”
“Hm?”
That single “hm” made Shen Chengduo curse inwardly. Gritting his teeth, he blurted it out: “The people we sent never came back. Fu Mian is in Haizhou—with men and goods. We just don’t know whether Song Yuzhang is with him.”
Zhang Changshan said nothing for a long time. To keep himself from losing control, he abruptly slammed the phone down with a bang.
On the other end, Shen Chengduo lowered the receiver as well, realizing just how thorny the situation was. His brow knotted tightly.
Forget it. He was the one who carried out orders, not the one who made plans. If things went wrong, they went wrong—what to do next was for Zhang Changshan to figure out.
Zhang Changshan slumped back into his chair, overcome by a sense of growing powerlessness. His younger brother refused to listen to him and insisted on rushing off to the battlefield to risk his life. The situation within the bureau was becoming more chaotic by the day—everyone was scrambling to carve up territory and skim off military funds. He, too, wanted to keep Haizhou, that enormous piece of fat meat, firmly in his grasp, but obstacles cropped up at every turn. Everyone seemed determined to oppose him.
Zhang Changshan took several deep breaths. Little by little, his eyes filled with bloodshot red. He slammed his fist hard against the tabletop. Since they were all forcing his hand, then he would be ruthless just this once—he would let them see what he was capable of.
Early the next morning, Meng Tingjing was shaving. He paused, listened intently, wiped the foam from his face with a towel, and turned his head. “Zhang Changshan is here?”
“Yes. He just got off the plane.”
“Who went to receive him?”
“Liao Tiandong.”
Meng Tingjing pondered for a moment, then waved his hand. “You may go.”
Zhang Changshan has arrived… Meng Tingjing glanced at himself in the mirror. A glimmer of light flickered in his eyes. He felt an unusually strong intuition, as though opportunity were right in front of him, waiting only for him to leap forward and seize it.
Zhang Changshan was not an easy man to keep under surveillance. Not easy to watch—but easy enough to “run into by chance.”
That very day, Meng Tingjing “happened to run into” Zhang Changshan, who was dining with Liao Tiandong, at the International Hotel.
Zhang Changshan had heard of Meng Tingjing’s bout of madness in the Twenty-Third Division—how he had stubbornly insisted that the dead man was not Song Yuzhang. Even though a body had ultimately been brought back and buried, Zhang Changshan still regarded Meng Tingjing with a degree of caution. “Chairman Meng, long time no see.”
Meng Tingjing replied mildly, “Director Zhang, what wind has blown you here?”
Zhang Changshan smiled. “Me? I don’t really have any other hobbies—just flowers. I heard that this year’s famous flower exhibition in Haizhou has quite a few rare varieties, so I came to admire them.”
“I see,” Meng Tingjing said with a smile. “Director Liao should have mentioned it earlier. If he had told me, and if I’d known which flowers Director Zhang likes, I would certainly have had them reserved in advance.”
“Oh no, no, no—no special treatment,” Zhang Changshan said affably. “Enjoying things together with the people, enjoying things together with the people.”
After a few more polite exchanges, Meng Tingjing took his leave and went up to the hotel’s rooftop terrace. Sitting at the edge, he looked down over the International Hotel below, waiting to see when Zhang Changshan and Liao Tiandong would come out.
“Still can’t get it open?” Zhang Changshan asked, suppressing his anger, inside the private dining room.
“Yes,” Liao Tiandong replied. “All the masters say the lock is far too complicated. Without the specially matched key, it’s impossible to open. The only option would be to blow it open.”
“Blow it open?” Zhang Changshan snapped. “Blow up a vault? You really dare to think of such a thing?!”
The Song Bank had been taken over by the government for some time now. Unfortunately, the key to the bank vault had vanished without a trace.
According to the bank staff, the vault key was either kept by President Song—or by Manager Liu.
President Song was dead.
And Manager Liu?
Manager Liu had disappeared.
An enormous vault, yet impossible to open. Zhang Changshan had a guilty conscience and kept this news tightly under wraps. Liao Tiandong, Shen Chengduo, and Fu Mian—all three were his chess pieces. He had arranged their roles carefully, ensuring that none of them knew the full picture of the others.
In truth, Liao Tiandong had no idea that Song Yuzhang was still alive, nor that Song Yuzhang’s “death” had been his own handiwork. All Liao Tiandong knew was that Zhang Changshan was taking advantage of the chaos to swallow the bank whole—and that he himself would get a share of the spoils.
But now the vault could not be opened. The bank’s daily expenses were being covered by the government, making it feel like a scalding-hot potato—creating trouble for himself at every turn.
Liao Tiandong said, “Since Liu Chuanzong has gone missing, we can simply say he absconded with the funds and stole the vault key. Blowing open the vault would be perfectly justified.”
“Justified, my ass!” Zhang Changshan snapped. “If that happens, the bank will be packed solid with people demanding withdrawals!”
Liao Tiandong immediately offered another suggestion. “Then we can take all the money out of the vault and pile it up in front of everyone to reassure them. That way, there won’t be a run on the bank.”
Zhang Changshan let out a cold laugh. “A poor imitation.”
Exposed like that, Liao Tiandong flushed slightly. “Then… there really is no other way.”
“These masters here are useless. A mere bank vault…” Zhang Changshan pondered for a moment. “We have an unparalleled lock-picking expert over there. I’ll think of a way—see if I can invite him over.”
After more chattering back and forth, Liao Tiandong asked what flowers Zhang Changshan liked, offering to reserve them in advance.
Zhang Changshan shot him a sidelong glance, finding it hard to believe that the people he was working with were all this stupid. He said coldly, “I like trumpet flowers—ones like you! That was just something I said to fool him, and you took it seriously?”
Liao Tiandong’s face stiffened. He forced a smile, cursing inwardly: Damn it, you just take the flattery and be done with it—why make such a fuss, you old bastard?
Zhang Changshan had no appetite. After eating only a few perfunctory bites, he got up to leave. Liao Tiandong was more than happy to see him go and eagerly escorted him out. Upstairs, Meng Tingjing was drinking tea and saw everything clearly.
Just then, someone got out of a car across the street—a figure in a black long robe, wearing a hat, head lowered as he hurried forward. As Liao Tiandong and Zhang Changshan were saying their goodbyes at the hotel entrance, the man walked quickly with his head down and collided squarely with Zhang Changshan’s shoulder.
“Watch where you’re going!” Liao Tiandong barked.
“Sorry, sorry—I was in too much of a hurry,” the man said.
Zhang Changshan, who had been bumped into, waved it off. “It’s fine, it’s fine—just a little collision.”
“Thank you for your understanding.” Fu Mian lifted his face, his gaze shooting out from beneath the brim of his hat. He flashed Zhang Changshan a quietly malicious smile. “I was blind and didn’t see the road clearly.”
“Young man, that’s a bit strong,” Zhang Changshan said with a smile.
Fu Mian smiled back. “You’re magnanimous, sir. I fall far short.”
Liao Tiandong was no fool. He sensed something slightly off about the atmosphere between the two. At that moment, laughter sounded from behind them. “Director Zhang, Director Liao—finished eating so quickly?”
Hearing the voice, Fu Mian lowered the brim of his hat and sidestepped past them, hurrying into the hotel. Meng Tingjing was just coming out at that moment. A gust of wind brushed past him. He turned his head, feeling that the figure looked strangely familiar—yet for the moment, he couldn’t recall where he had seen him before.
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