The Workshop was not a sanctuary; it was a cage crafted of old wood and crippling debt. It was the only place the silence wasn't a lie.
I ran the heel of my palm across the sanded surface of an antique—cool, clean, and honest. That was the core of my existence: the methodical repair of broken things, a desperate contrast to the ruin of my own life. My hands, trained to restore time itself, often felt too heavy, too clumsy, to handle the simplest truths.
Outside, the air in Willow Creek Hamlet didn't smell like rain or earth; it smelled of stale judgment and small-town debt. I could feel the malignant scrutiny of the hamlet pressing against the walls, all of them waiting for me to falter. The knowledge that every petty move I made, every hour I spent here, was meticulously tracked by the gossiping network—from Mrs. Ma at the General Store to the spying eyes of Mr. Guo—was a unique form of torment. It made the air itself feel thin.
The resentment from the main house was no longer a sound; it was a constant, low-frequency ache in my bones. She can't even cook a proper meal. That was their final, humiliating verdict. I, with a mind that could analyze the chemical breakdown of ancient lacquer and a palate that could distinguish a vintage Bordeaux, was ridiculed for my inability to boil rice. It was the deepest, most infuriating irony—my intellectual prowess was nothing against a frying pan.
My love for my late grandmother was the single, pure inheritance of my life. She had given me this Workshop, this space where logic ruled, and in doing so, had enraged the family that now owned the main house. I knew their game: to invalidate the will and seize the property. They lived in the house my grandmother had purchased for them, yet they saw me, the rightful heir to this small annex, as the ultimate freeloader.
The clatter from the kitchen, sharp and brittle, signalled the step-mother's routine. She was likely emptying her purse, gathering the last of her bus fare money for another trip to the County Land Office, another attempt to twist a local official's arm or bribe a clerk. Her relentless greed was exhausting.
I turned away from the noise, seeking the only place I found solace: the technical journals.
I lifted the worn pages, its diagrams and chemical formulae a balm against the suffocating emotional chaos. I didn't care about the billions; I cared about the science. I coveted the precise, clinical genius of the R&D reports from Lu Global Security—their patents for polymers, their uncompromising stability.
I was fascinated by the cold, flawless logic of Lu Wei's empire. It promised a control I had never known. A world where results were undeniable, and chaos was engineered out of existence.
A fragment of their power, for my survival.
I was seeking a new, advanced restoration wax—one that would be cheaper and more durable than my current imported supply. If I could secure this new material, I could finish the local commissions faster, earn the money needed to legally protect the Workshop, and finally tell the step-family to choke on their resentment. It wasn't greed; it was survival defined by intellectual dominance.
My greatest fear wasn't poverty; it was becoming a victim again. I closed my eyes, the memory of the political coldness that almost consumed me—a familiar, sharp ache I couldn't fully place, a trauma lodged deep in my subconscious.
I pulled the jade heirloom pendant from beneath my tunic. It was ice against my skin, a stark reminder of an unknown origin, a painful past I couldn't fully recall, yet felt deeply. It was a silent vow of resistance: I would not be defined by failure. I would not surrender to this stifling routine.
My phone buzzed—a simple text from Jiang Mei, my friend. Tea house, 4 PM? Need to escape. Jiang Mei, the grounded, kind pediatric nurse, was my sole anchor to genuine, uncomplicated humanity. She never questioned my past; she only offered a simple, stable slice of the present.
The rhythmic, low roar began subtly—a vibration that spoke of immense, contained power. I dismissed it at first, thinking it was a large delivery truck taking a wrong turn.
But the sound didn't fade. It grew, deep and resonant, shattering the sleepy, predictable silence of the Hamlet. It was a sound that didn't belong to this world of rusted trucks and old tractors. This sound was pure, undiluted Capital power.
My blood ran cold.
Then came the frantic, panicked shouts.
"Who is that?!" "A Beijing plate! Get back inside!"
I hurried to the window, my heart hammering a sudden, frantic rhythm against my ribs. Through the grime-streaked glass, I saw it: a sleek, black, armored Maybach. It was a machine of power that looked devastatingly out of place against the mud and moss of the lane. It didn't look like a vehicle; it looked like a threat.
The car stopped directly in front of the main house. The engine cut off, and the silence that followed was suffocating, punctuated only by the distant, furious barking of dogs.
The front door of the sedan opened slowly, deliberately. A figure unfolded from the driver's seat.
He was tall, impossibly so, and his suit—dark charcoal, impeccably tailored—looked less like clothing and more like a second skin forged of authority. His silhouette was sharp against the gloom, radiating an aura of absolute, intimidating control. He didn't look like a man lost. He looked like a king surveying property he had come to claim.
My mind, so sharp just moments ago, seized up. I didn't know his name, but I knew his world. The brief, cold admiration I felt for Lu Wei's empire instantly turned to pure, primal dread. This man was that logic, that control, made flesh.
He didn't move immediately. He scanned the scene: the dilapidated main house, the frantic curtain movements in the neighbors' windows, and finally, the quiet, closed door of my Workshop.
The step-mother, drawn out by the spectacle, emerged from the main house. Her face, usually a mask of petty resentment, was contorted with shock and avarice. She straightened her dress, a grotesque attempt at dignity.
"Can I help you, sir?" she called out, her voice unnaturally sweet, laced with a tremor of excitement.
The man turned his gaze to her. It was a glance that dismissed her entire existence in a microsecond.
"I am looking for the owner of the Workshop located on this property," his voice finally cut through the silence. It was low, cultured, and carried the weight of unquestioned authority.
The step-mother's smile faltered, replaced by immediate suspicion. "That annex? Oh, that belongs to the family, sir. It's a complicated legal matter. We handle all business concerning that shed."
The man took one slow, deliberate step toward her. "I require the person currently occupying it. The one known as Xu Ling."
The name on his tongue was a physical shock. It sounded alien, spoken with a precision that hinted at data files and research.
The step-mother's eyes narrowed with venom, the greed temporarily forgotten. "That freeloader? She's nothing. She works on old junk. She has no business you'd be interested in."
The man ignored her completely. His eyes snapped back to my window, and I instinctively flinched back into the shadow of the desk. He hadn't seen me, but the sheer force of his gaze felt like a physical violation.
He knew my name. He knew my location. And he had come in a vehicle that signaled he bypassed every gate and boundary that normally protected the quiet lives of others.
This is not a repair. My mind screamed the terrifying truth. This is an invasion.
I clutched the jade pendant, its coldness the only thing tethering me to reality. The brief, cold admiration I felt for Lu Wei's empire had now curdled into pure, primal dread. My sanctuary was breached, and the man who embodied the cold, controlling power of the Capital stood on my doorstep.
My quiet life was over. The sound of his arrival was the sound of my ruin.