Chapter 18: Hidden Wounds and a New Path

At breakfast, Er Bai Wu slid over with freshly ground coffee.

Since Shen Zheming had kept his hand away from water while showering last night, the band-aid was already curling at the edges this morning.

He tore it off, ready to replace it.

Er Bai Wu saw this. “Such a tiny wound and you need a band-aid? Any later and it would’ve healed on its own.”

Ever since it had recorded Lu Shi’s voice and mimicked his way of speaking, it had become much more active—no longer spitting out words one at a time.

But Shen Zheming still found it annoyingly cheeky.

“Switch back to the original mode,” he said coldly.

Er Bai Wu blinked. “Why? Don’t you like me?”

After being stared down in silence for a few seconds, several beads of sweat appeared on its screen again.

Then, with a “beep,” it reverted to its ice-cold expression.

Shen Zheming picked up his coffee and took a sip.

Er Bai Wu displayed a line of text.

[You have a voice call. Answer?]

Shen Zheming reached out and tapped it.

His men sent to Ning County had news.

“Young Master, I’ve made discreet inquiries around the area as you requested. The complete files on Lu Jinguo and Wang Xiuzhi have been compiled and sent to your email.”

“Good. Thank you.”

The call ended.

Shen Zheming ordered Er Bai Wu to bring the tablet, then leaned back into his chair.

Everything searchable online about the Chen family had been whitewashed. They didn’t want a scandal, didn’t want it to affect the company’s image and stock price, so they had spent heavily to suppress the darker, crueler parts.

Lu Jinguo was not the hardworking, responsible man with a few bad habits that the reports portrayed.

He was in his forties, with sagging skin, puffy, bloodshot eyes, a collapsed nose bridge, and a face etched with violence and alcohol fumes—a wife-beater.

His wife, Wang Xiuzhi, had a sallow complexion. In photos, she looked several years older than her actual age. Deep creases hung from the corners of her eyes and mouth, her gaze always timidly lowered, her hair pulled back in a dry, frizzy bun.

Shen Zheming’s eyes didn’t linger on them. Instead, he opened a video clip below—recorded by his men during their covert investigation.

According to what they’d learned, Lu Jinguo had been brought to the police station for domestic mediation five times, each prompted by neighbors who couldn’t bear to watch any longer.

“It was terrifying. Once I tried to film evidence on my phone, and it nearly got knocked out of my hand,” said a neighbor who lived across the street.

She scrolled through her phone album to find old photos and videos.

In one, Lu Shi, about thirteen or fourteen, was being dragged by his hair by Lu Jinguo.

Blood streamed from his forehead, but he didn’t make a sound. His eyes blazed with stubborn, fierce light as he twisted Lu Jinguo’s wrist with all his might.

Lu Jinguo cursed in pain, let go, and kicked him.

Seizing the moment, Lu Shi grabbed a nearby stick and fought back.

The video was chaotic, the resolution fuzzy, but the shouts of bystanders, the thuds of the stick and fists hitting flesh—still clear despite the years.

Wang Xiuzhi cowered behind the door, too scared to come out.

Back then, Lu Shi was young and short. No matter how he fought, he was at a disadvantage.

But even if he lost a thousand to wound the enemy eight hundred, even if his head split open, he’d still tear a layer of skin off his opponent.

Suddenly, a slipper flew into the frame, knocking the recording phone to the ground.

Lu Jinguo’s enraged roar followed: “Keep filming, you son of a b*tch!”

The video cut off.

“That Lu kid’s skinny, but he can take a beating.”

“A few times we were scared Lu Jinguo would beat him to death. Blood everywhere, really terrifying.”

“But the kid’s stubborn—never shed a single tear in front of anyone.”

“I told my husband back then: Lu Shi can’t be their biological son. How could a cowardly bastard like Lu Jinguo and that timid Wang Xiuzhi produce such a gutsy kid?”

People gossiped and sighed. When they learned the visitors were from the capital, they heaped praise on Lu Shi.

The more Shen Zheming read, the darker his expression became.

The Chen family had to know all this. They knew better than anyone.

Yet they still chose to sweep it under the rug, to forgive the past on Lu Shi’s behalf.

Er Bai Wu’s eyes darted nervously as it edged away from the dining table as far as possible.

It felt that if it didn’t retreat, it would freeze from the icy aura around Shen Zheming.

Chen Youxuan’s “clown,” Lu Shi, had suddenly stopped sleeping in class.

The teachers were shocked.

But he didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the lessons either, instead busying himself with his own things.

The annual Aoqiao Cup never leaked its past papers, so Lu Shi could only buy several math competition collections from the bookstore, trying to guess what might be tested.

One day, claiming a stomachache, he ditched his two least favorite English classes and found an empty study room to work on problems.

Unexpectedly, as he worked, the sky outside turned overcast and a light drizzle began—perfect nap weather.

He slumped over and fell asleep.

By the time Shen Zheming found him, he was sound asleep.

Lu Shi’s arms lay loosely on the desk, his head buried to one side, enveloped in a relaxed, lazy posture.

His breathing was soft, his short but dense eyelashes lowered, his soft hair tousled and messy. Even his brow was smoothed out in sleep.

Shen Zheming picked up the scattered materials and scratch paper on the table, scanning them briefly.

As if sensing something, Lu Shi opened his hazy eyes.

In his blurry vision, Shen Zheming first appeared as a vague silhouette, then gradually sharpened against the sound of the rain.

Thinking Shen Zheming had come to supervise him again, Lu Shi lazily ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. “Just sneaking a break for once. Don’t nag me.”

Shen Zheming glanced aside. “You’re entering the Aoqiao Cup?”

Lu Shi then realized his desk was covered with materials.

It felt like being caught with a secret.

Though he hadn’t tried to hide it, he knew anyone who learned of his plan would think he was overreaching.

Hunching his shoulders, Lu Shi twirled his pen nonchalantly. “Yeah, just for fun.”

He expected Shen Zheming to tell him to give up, not to waste time.

He hated people meddling in whatever he was doing. Irritation stirred in his chest.

But Shen Zheming simply pressed the papers flat on the desk with one hand.

“Why didn’t you ask me?”

Lu Shi looked up, stunned. “Huh?”

Ask you for what?

Reading the confusion in Lu Shi’s eyes, Shen Zheming said calmly, dropping a bombshell of information.

“I’m too old this year; I don’t qualify. But last year and the year before, I got first place in the Aoqiao Cup.

“Asking me would be more useful than flipping through a hundred competition books.”

Having slept too long, Lu Shi’s arm tingled with pins and needles, and his foot was numb as if pricked by needles, immobile.

He maintained his position, watching Shen Zheming pull up past rankings on the Aoqiao Cup official website.

Shen Zheming asked, “Convinced now?”

In truth, Lu Shi wasn’t unconvinced. Even in his previous life, he’d known Shen Zheming was exceptionally brilliant. He was just stunned, struggling to process it.

Before the numbness could fade, his pen was taken from his fingers.

Shen Zheming sat down.

From the contest books Lu Shi had bought, he selected the most representative one. After a quick glance at each type of problem, he could tell which were important.

He circled the question numbers with a flourish, his handwriting slightly wild.

“Let me mark about a dozen for you first. More than that and you won’t be able to digest them. Competition questions, after all, only come in a few varieties. If you don’t understand something, you can ask me.

“Occasionally, the examiner gets clever and writes a problem that’s long-winded, but once you extract the key points, it’s just old wine in a new bottle.”

They say a focused man is most attractive. Staring at Shen Zheming’s sharp, perfect profile, Lu Shi felt he had to clarify something.

“Brother Shen, I should mention upfront: I can’t afford tuition.”

Shen Zheming flipped through pages quickly. “I don’t need money either.”

That’s exactly why Lu Shi was puzzled.

“Then why are you helping me?”

Being so close, Lu Shi could catch the familiar scent on Shen Zheming—not pheromones, just the simple fragrance of soap.

The anxiety in his heart eased considerably, and even his drowsiness faded.

Shen Zheming, who was always running between school, the corporation, and institutions—so busy he had almost no leisure time—remained expressionless, only his Adam’s apple moving slightly.

“Just think of it as me having nothing better to do, killing time.”

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