When Ji Tingxi visited the office again, a hollow ache gnawed at Wen Du’s chest, her attention scattering in all directions, refusing to settle obediently in her mind.
She had to exert far more control than usual just to appear natural, handling her work with the same efficiency as before.
It wasn’t just her, though. The atmosphere in every office felt off, even the air in the Logistics Department growing stale.
Everyone cooperated in pretending nothing was wrong, but their exchanged glances carried unspoken burdens that weighed heavily on them all.
With everyone’s mood so somber, Wen Du’s occasional lapses into low spirits seemed perfectly normal. She even felt grateful for the oppressive atmosphere, as it spared her some of the energy usually drained by navigating interpersonal dynamics.
But the energy she’d stockpiled that morning drained away in the afternoon like water from a burst dam, nearly leaving her depleted.
“Director Wen, you’ve rested at home for a day. Feeling better?”
“Much better,” Wen Du replied, turning her face with a practiced smile. “To be honest, after pulling two all-nighters, I haven’t fully recovered. Still, compared to Division Chief Ji, who’s been toiling day and night, I’m definitely faring better.”
As she spoke, her gaze fell on the flowers in the other’s hand—roses in shades of rose-pink and pale pink, accented by milky white and off-white, with a ribbon at the stem dangling just right from slender fingertips.
“The flower shop near Wutong Street has closed. Since Director Wen loves flowers, if it’s inconvenient for you to buy them lately, let me handle it.”
Ji Tingxi placed the bouquet behind the computer. Sunlight from the window made the roses glow even more vibrantly, like a high-key portrait fresh from a photographer’s touch.
The words were polite, but the implication was clear: The shop’s closure is my fault, preventing Director Wen from getting her flowers. From now on, I’ll deliver them, so you don’t have to make special trips and stir up trouble.
Seeing this performance, Wen Du knew Ji Tingxi wanted to reclaim her old spot as a regular unofficial member of the Information Room. From a professional standpoint, Wen Du welcomed that. But those flowers in her hand might as well have been a butcher’s cleaver—anything would have been less uncomfortable than flowers.
“Thanks for the kind gesture, Division Chief Ji, but I think I’ll swear off fresh flowers for a while. Who knew buying flowers could lead to running into dissidents? It still gives me chills thinking about it.”
Ji Tingxi seized the opening. “My mistake—I wrongly suspected Director Wen. If there’s fruit wine tonight, I’ll drink three cups as penance.”
Fruit wine? It lacked the bite. Wen Du thought only poisoned wine would suffice.
“You were just doing your duty. If I were in your shoes and spotted something suspicious, I’d act immediately to protect the safety of everyone in the building.”
“Working with such a reasonable colleague as Director Wen is my honor.”
“Having such a dedicated colleague as Division Chief Ji is my honor too.”
The two women exchanged smiles that faded to reveal deeper, mirthless undercurrents.
From Ji Tingxi’s eyes, Wen Du caught a probing glint—no longer pure enthusiasm, or even feigned pure enthusiasm. It wasn’t a slip in Ji Tingxi’s disguise skills; now, she was deliberately letting her true colors show.
In the past, they’d played their hidden cards close, all psychological maneuvering confined to the heart, never leaking into their gazes.
But now? The cards were torn open, intentions laid bare. Yet they still treated each other with courtesy, engaging in empty pleasantries, as if afraid to slight the other even slightly.
The result was a refined passive-aggression: surface civility unchanged, but the internal offense and defense had seeped through, evolving into part of the game.
A contest of who could better suppress their hostility and stay calm.
With that realization, Wen Du glanced at the Earl Grey by the window. Oh, so the flowers weren’t just to comfort her—they were meant to provoke. No wonder they looked so garishly dazzling.
…
Yue Mu stepped outside. To outsiders, she’d spent the whole day in the linked houses, the epitome of a thrifty, hardworking employee.
In reality, her life brimmed with variety and excitement no less intense than Wen Du’s.
Wen Du’s battlefield lay within the Guard Institute, while Yue Mu’s spanned the vast streets of North County—sparks of fire scattered across the land.
With Summer Lotus Flower Shop closed, Yue Mu quickly found a new one. It had a spacious storefront and offered DIY services, letting customers get hands-on and unleash their creativity.
The new shop was a bit farther out on Xuanling Street. Yue Mu bought a basket of sunflowers, turned the corner, and entered an orphanage. The gate wasn’t grand, but the children’s beaming faces complemented the flowers’ brightness perfectly.
Whenever visitors arrived, the kids lit up like fireworks, pulling out their best tricks in hopes of being chosen for adoption.
The orphanage conditions weren’t bad, though. After removing the Sern children and with subsidies from North County Station, meals and entertainment had improved dramatically—three nutritionally balanced meals a day that even made neighboring street aunties envious enough to want to crash.
A Ling had been showing off his signature handstand, but spotting Yue Mu, he flipped up with a dragon swing, repositioning himself eagerly.
From the fourteen-year-old “veterans” to the fourteen-month-old “newbies,” everyone knew Yue Mu only visited, never adopted.
That didn’t dampen their enthusiasm. They swarmed her like goldfish to bread, eyeing the “bread” in her basket.
With the “goldfish” hooked, Yue Mu knelt down, dividing the sunflowers—one bloom split between two kids, letting them squabble over it. The last one she held in hand, smiling at the little boy before her.
“If I’m not mistaken, this one’s for me.”
“Why do you get a whole one?”
The others only got half each and had to fight for it.
“Because we’re the best of friends. Good friends deserve something special.” A Ling reached for the sunflower.
Yue Mu pulled her hand back with a laugh. “Good guess, but not entirely right.”
“Where’d I go wrong?” A Ling tucked his T-shirt into his waistband, ready to bust out his secret skill—when friendship fell short, stunts made up the difference.
“The flower isn’t free. You have to show me something fun in exchange.”
A Ling blinked. What could interest this rich auntie in their “backwater” spot?
“Oh, you want to play a game again, right?”
“There’s lots of fun stuff. Games are fun too.” Yue Mu tucked the lone sunflower back into the basket, its head pointing toward the multipurpose recreation room.
A Ling pulled his shirt out again and led the way, the oversized garment flapping like pajamas.
“I’ve leveled up to eleven lately. I’ve built a castle—just needs decorating. What texture tiles should I go with?”
Yue Mu followed, already knowing the path but letting A Ling guide her for that sense of shared adventure.
“I need to check it out in-game. What if the frosted texture glitches and reflects light weirdly?”
Once there, A Ling powered up the dedicated phone, about to cast to the screen. Yue Mu smiled. “If you screen-mirror, the other kids will swarm, and they might snatch the sunflower.”
“Good point.”
A Ling logged in on the phone. The interface loaded his castle—solidly built with spires and sculptures, but the interior was still a bare shell begging for luxury upgrades.
“Let me see. To match the exterior plaster, skip tiles—wallpaper instead, with some oil paintings and corner moldings.”
“Good point.” A Ling went with it. Whoever brought gifts had the best ideas.
The castle’s owner shouldered his virtual pack and headed to the market for materials or trades. Soon he snagged wallpaper and paintings, ready to head home. But glancing at Yue Mu, who was peering eagerly with neck stretched, he paused.
This rich auntie was a riot—living in a “castle” herself yet itching to renovate a virtual one.
“Want to give it a try?”
“Sure.” Yue Mu took the phone, browsed the market, and stopped at a stall. No NPC here—a player hawking maple sugar cookies and dried cranberries, colors popping vividly.
Drawn in, Yue Mu typed a string of characters into the chat.
—Station Chief Xia Lie of the Lilac Street contact station has been sacrificed.
A Ling’s left eyelid twitched. “Whoops, wrong keyboard. Switch it.”
Otherwise, it was gibberish—how would the other side read it?
“Really? Why’s the keyboard layout different from mine?” Yue Mu kept typing unhindered.
—Sacrificed after posing as a Libo Faction supporter.
A Ling snatched the phone, mumbling, “You want the cookies, right? I’ll haggle. This vendor rarely shows—never seen them before…”
Yue Mu watched his serious typing, then finally pulled out the sunflower from the basket and set it beside his hand.
…
Inside the Guard Institute, the mood across departments hung heavy, but none more awkwardly than in the Institute Director’s office.
The body was frozen, the conference room scrubbed clean, yet scars lingered in He De’s heart, festering deeper with time.
On the fifth day after the incident, Ji Tingxi—the office’s frequent visitor—sat across from the desk again, checking on her leader’s well-being.
“The gene test results are in. She’s a pure-blooded Homer Person.”
Gene tests took at least two weeks, but the lab had pulled overtime to deliver in five days, avoiding a “house arrest” weekend lockdown.
“I checked Xia Lie’s background too—it matches. One thing, though: her stepmother was Sern, and she had a half-sister from that union. After the new policies kicked in, the family cut ties cleanly with the stepmother and stepdaughter—no servants’ roles, straight out the door. The split was so decisive that Xia Lie’s career stayed on track. Who’d have thought she hid it so well, sympathizing with Sern People all along and harboring grudges against the new policies?”
He De pursed his lips in frustration. His rise stemmed not just from solid skills but unyielding ideology. Such defiance of the new order infuriated him.
The Rui’er Terrace had poured its heart into stabilizing this era of peace, only for villains to scheme its ruin. Some folks just couldn’t stand prosperity—itching for chaos, demanding everyone rot together in the name of “equality and freedom,” “peace and prosperity for the realm.”
“Not surprising. Our superior genes still produce duds now and then. Even holy dragons birth monsters, let alone humans. But she’s not just a Libo Faction sympathizer—the whole shop reeks of suspicion.”
Ji Tingxi’s back stiffened, bracing for what came next.
“Net Intelligence reports her social account got a shady message this morning. Sender’s IP traces to coastal E’an City in the West District.”
Mention of the West District, especially the coast, clicked for everyone in the Guard Institute—especially Ji Tingxi, an operative transferred from there.
Libo Faction again!
Ji Tingxi frowned, impatience showing alongside doubt. “Dean He, any ID on the sender?”
“No.”
“The shop’s been ordered shut, and they’re still messaging? Smells like misdirection.”
“You still think the owner and staff aren’t Libo Faction but Sern Organization members?”
“Not think—certain.” The words burst from Ji Tingxi.
He De’s already stern features hardened further, exuding authority without a word.
“Tingxi, I get your reasoning and have backed your probe. But after this mess, don’t you have any self-reflection?”
Ji Tingxi rose, straightening her clothes. Self-criticism? She dove right in.
“Yes. I failed your trust. The flower inspection slipped, letting the suspect smuggle tools into the conference room and cause chaos.”
Weapons were always metal; subordinates had scanned with machines and handhelds per protocol. But who’d expect the suspect to “innovate” with a non-lethal, distracting ruler for the deed?
“That’s one issue. But your plan delayed how many field ops? Do you know? Bai Zhuo had Red Show Theater locked down, ready to net them, but he got grounded two days—now the criminals have vanished!”
Ji Tingxi jumped in with self-flagellation.
“You’re right. Blue Training Department’s new recruit camp ceremony got postponed; the lab couldn’t fetch specimens from County University, stalling projects. I owe you—and every department head—an apology.”
He De had been building steam for a blistering reprimand, but she’d preempted it all, summing up errors herself. His momentum fizzled; his face darkened, voice losing heat but not authority.
“And yesterday in the conference room, with the suspect lunging at me, why’d you tell Meng Tuo not to shoot?”
“Because I saw instantly her ‘weapon’ was harmless. She just wanted suicide to dodge interrogation and tests—I wasn’t about to let her win.”
He De sighed silently.
Deep down, he’d suspected as much but needed to hear it from her lips for reassurance.
Seeing his expression soften, Ji Tingxi met his eyes squarely, her daring impulse stirring anew.
Xia Lie’s pre-death vitals had spiked abnormally. Ji Tingxi strongly suspected the mole was among the remaining eight.
She even had specific targets in mind. Just give her more time, and she’d flush them out!
He De seemed to read her mind and shot back. “Still eyeing Director Wen? Remember, Xia Lie might’ve been Libo Faction, but Director Wen was recently targeted by their hitmen. Hell, I suspect she let her flower-buying routine slip, drawing the assassins!”
“But Dean…”
“No buts. Your priority is reflection—don’t compound the errors!”
Ji Tingxi studied He De’s face and fell silent.
Right… she’d been too aggressive.
She had ironclad confidence, but now wasn’t the time to push.
He De prized stability and efficiency above all. The two-day lockdown probe plus the conference room fiasco had shaken morale and harmony—treading right on his red line.
To steady things, he’d sacrifice plenty.
Time to sheath her edge, prioritize internal calm, and soothe He De’s heart.
“You’re right, Dean He. It was my mistake. I’ll fully back Section Chief Bai’s investigation and handle all delayed department matters on my watch—whatever it takes to get everything back on track!”
