Chapter 11: The Ruse of Self-Sacrifice

One o’clock in the morning.

“Damn it! Why isn’t Wen Zhou out yet?” Gu Bai crouched on the hospital steps, his face full of worry. “It’s been over an hour. No, I have to go in and check.”

He rose to dash inside, only to be stopped by Xu Zezhan. “The entrance is guarded by the military. Do you really think you can get in?”

Gu Bai snapped, “Then what do you suggest? That brat Zhang is mouthy—could Wen Zhou have roughed him up? Is Zhang Song seriously expecting Wen Zhou to compensate his son with an egg?”

“I’ll call my uncle,” Liang Muchuan said, frowning. He hadn’t intervened earlier, hoping Wen Zhou could vent his emotions, but who could have guessed he’d actually cripple someone.

Xu Zezhan cursed, “Damn it, isn’t this all because Wen Zhou’s grandfather died young, his parents passed away early, and he has no one left behind? That Zhang Song, even though he’s been out of power for years, still acts all high and mighty.”

Liang Muchuan dialed his phone, muttering, “Zhang Song doesn’t have the guts to actually do anything to Wen Zhou. Don’t worry.”

Gu Bai was about to speak when he suddenly saw a figure limping out the door. The person was drenched in blood, shirt and trousers torn in several places, exposing chilling wounds.

“Wen Zhou!” Gu Bai ran forward, supporting him, almost speechless with rage at the sight of his battered body. “Just for disabling his son? Did they have to beat you up like this?!”

Xu Zezhan spat, “You didn’t fight back? Just let them have at you? Where’s that underground boxing prowess you had back in M Country?”

Liang Muchuan stepped forward, glancing at Wen Zhou’s injuries. “Back to the hospital.”

Wen Zhou’s black hair was soaked in blood. He wiped it away, tugging at a wound on his arm and hissing, “No need. I won’t die.”

Gu Bai, seeing his stubborn, nonchalant attitude, was furious. “Fine, keep being stubborn. If you die, none of us will bother with your corpse!”

Zhang Song’s men had chosen their targets well, aiming for the most painful yet non-lethal spots. Wen Zhou remained silent throughout, enduring until the clock struck the hour and the attackers left. Only then did he force himself to walk out.

He stretched, blood seeping from his wounds with every movement. “Enough, you all can go. I’ve got something to do.”

“At this hour? With those injuries, shouldn’t you be resting?” Gu Bai retorted.

Wen Zhou pulled car keys from his pocket, his voice lazy, “This is nothing compared to back in M Country.”

Xu Zezhan tried to grab him, but his hands hovered helplessly—there was nowhere on Wen Zhou’s battered body to touch. He could only watch as Wen Zhou started the car.

The three were left in a haze of exhaust fumes.

Liang Muchuan remarked, “He’s probably off to see Song Qingyou again.”

Gu Bai scoffed, “Injured like that and still going to her? Is he playing the martyr?”

Xu Zezhan observed, “Looks like all superficial wounds. Zhang Song didn’t go for the kill, just made it look nasty.”

The night deepened. Street lamps cast their dim glow along the quiet path, a gentle breeze bringing a hint of chill.

Wen Zhou parked by the roadside, limping forward step by step. The corridor lights were voice-activated; his footsteps were light, and darkness enveloped him. Fortunately, his vision was good and he’d been here countless times, always at odd hours, so he found Song Qingyou’s door easily.

His jacket hung loosely over his shoulder, the white shirt stained red with blood, unrecognizable.

Wen Zhou slowly sat against the door, the bruise on his waist pulling sharply. He grunted, his exposed chest covered in bruises, the firm muscles beneath crying out in the night. Despite his current disarray, the rebellious air about him was undiminished.

He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, trembling as he struck the lighter twice before it caught.

A drop of blood traced down his sharp brow, spun at his collarbone, and reluctantly slid away.

Leaning on the doorframe, cigarette dangling from his lips, Wen Zhou exuded a careless, untamed aura.

He didn’t know how long he sat there. As dawn crept across the sky, the ground was littered with cigarette butts. Wen Zhou finally pushed himself up, gathered the butts, and tossed them into the bin at the end of the corridor.

Turning, he noticed a smear of blood on the doorframe. He frowned deeply, searched himself for a clean corner of fabric, and vigorously wiped the stain until it was gone.

Wen Zhou drove to Xu’s Delicacies for breakfast, then returned. As he got out, he ran into Song Chang.

Song Chang was startled by Wen Zhou’s battered appearance. “Young Master Fu, who did you fight with this time?”

“No one. Just got bitten by a dog,” Wen Zhou replied lightly.

Song Chang was suspicious but knew better than to press. “Why not drive inside?”

Song Qingyou’s apartment was in the last building; parking at the entrance meant a ten-minute walk.

“She’s a light sleeper. If I drove past her window, it might wake her,” Wen Zhou’s voice was low and steady. He handed over the food box. “Xu’s Delicacies—her favorite. Please bring it to her, say it’s from you, and don’t mention I was here.”

“Uh…” Song Chang was momentarily at a loss. Even injured, Young Master Fu was concerned about his lady’s breakfast.

Doing good deeds without seeking recognition—truly a modern-day hero.

Song Chang watched the silver Maybach disappear, his impression of Wen Zhou rising yet again.

Song Qingyou was reclining on the balcony chair, basking in the gentle warmth of morning sun.

Song Chang entered, “Miss, breakfast is ready.”

Song Qingyou slowly rose, dressed in ordinary loungewear, but even so, her beauty was impossible to hide.

Song Chang laid out the dishes and utensils from the box.

“Xu’s Delicacies?” Song Qingyou sat down, a smile in her eyes. “How did you know I was craving this?”

Song Chang grinned, “Miss, eat while it’s hot.”

“Uncle Chang, sit with me,” Song Qingyou’s mood lifted when eating her favorite food, her usually cool tone lightening.

Song Chang replied, “I ate before coming.”

After breakfast, Song Qingyou received a call from Yan Shaoqin.

She sat on the lounge chair, flipping through her book, her tone indifferent. “Has the approval for the Hesheng Building come through?”

Yan Shaoqin replied, “Not that fast. I estimate another three or four days.”

Song Qingyou raised her lashes, puzzled. “Then why are you calling me?”

“…” Yan Shaoqin’s eyelid twitched, then he chuckled slyly. “I heard last night someone went wild for a beauty and beat up the youngest son of the Zhang family, sending him to the hospital. Old Master Zhang threw quite a tantrum over it.”

Song Qingyou rubbed her brow in annoyance. “You called just to gossip?”

Yan Shaoqin said, “The one who did it was Wen Zhou.”