Chapter 53: World 2 – 23

Jing Ke’s execution was formidable. Her overwhelming hacking skills allowed her to gather and compile all the relevant data in just one night.

But that alone wasn’t enough. Tax issues alone couldn’t put those people behind bars. Thinking back to the death certificates she had seen on that website, Jing Ke’s breathing grew heavier. It was as if, in that brief moment, she grasped the true weight of a life.

Could two lives just vanish, silently? No, that wasn’t right. Every life had weight. They should have had better futures, futures not destroyed by scum like them.

In a daze, fragmented memories surfaced in Jing Ke’s mind. It was as if there had once been someone who held her hand, who gave many people a chance to change their destinies through education. Who was that person? Was it Shao Qing? She had always seemed so devoted to charity…

Jing Ke’s mind wandered, but for only a split second. In the next, she was back to tracing the flow of funds, trying to track down every single individual who had disregarded the law.

This pursuit kept Jing Ke up the entire night, painting faint dark circles under her eyes on her otherwise fair, delicate face, lending her a touch of disheveled beauty.

“Don’t you need some rest? You can submit a portion of the evidence first. Investigations take time,” Shao Qing said upon discovering Jing Ke hadn’t slept at all, somewhat forcefully pulling Jing Ke out of her chair.

“It’s 9 a.m. You are going to sleep right now. Sleep until 5 p.m… no, 3 p.m. Then we’ll go out to eat,” Shao Qing tugged her toward the bed as she spoke.

“What about your lunch?” Jing Ke asked.

“I’ll order takeout for myself. Don’t worry about me,” Shao Qing pushed Jing Ke directly onto the mattress and pulled the blanket over her. “Didn’t you say yourself that since you have a human body now, you must follow human rules? Humans need eight hours of sleep a day. I won’t force you to get all eight, but you’ll sleep for at least six hours.”

“Sleep now. I’ll wake you when it’s time,” Shao Qing announced, pressing the covers down over Jing Ke and firmly covering her eyes with a hand, leaving no room for rebuttal.

Jing Ke was unused to this new, caring side of Shao Qing, but with her vision blocked, she obediently closed her eyes. Seeing Jing Ke comply, Shao Qing removed her hand, took two steps forward, and drew the curtains.

“Goodnight. Sleep well,” she whispered, closing the door on her way out.

–

Under Shao Qing’s firm stance, Jing Ke had no choice but to adopt the good habit of early to bed, early to rise. After securing most of the tax records, she spent another three days transforming the initial tip-offs targeting just over thirty people into a comprehensive report targeting over eighty.

A quick calculation revealed that this group alone owed over three billion in back taxes. The top ten offenders each needed to pay over a hundred million. These tax figures also shed light on just how lucrative the entertainment industry was—and why people would trade themselves like commodities to get a piece of that pie. It was all for money. Money stirred the heart.

After a brief internal sigh, Jing Ke accepted the juice Shao Qing handed her, twisted off the cap, and gulped down two mouthfuls.

“The data is basically compiled. Want a look first?” Jing Ke gestured, shifting aside to give Shao Qing room.

Shao Qing didn’t refuse. She leaned in to look at the organized files on the desktop and randomly clicked one open. The information Jing Ke had compiled was exceptionally thorough. Though the methods of collection were somewhat… illegal, not a single transaction record was fabricated. Every entry reflected an actual transfer of funds.

Shao Qing lacked extensive accounting knowledge, but that didn’t stop her from spotting the irregularities in the ledgers. A single film crew’s daily meal expenses at 200,000? How many thousands of extras did they hire for that? That notoriously shoddy TV drama had supposedly spent twenty million on costumes and props? Were those cheap white “costumes” secretly made of Yunjin brocade?

After a few cursory glances, Shao Qing could not stomach any more. The padding in those numbers was staggering. What hit harder was seeing the names of several “Seniors” she genuinely admired and had hoped to collaborate with. It made her doubt the entire entertainment industry.

“Also, you don’t need to release all of this at once,” Shao Qing suggested. “Throw out a portion first. You can sell the rest to marketing accounts. If the buzz fades later, use the money from those marketing accounts to hire Paid Trolls to keep it going.”

Jing Ke made an “OK” gesture. After locking down and encrypting her IP address, she sent the complete dossiers to the email inboxes of over a dozen different government departments.

Once sure the information was safely delivered, she then used a sock puppet account on social media to leak evidence of specific individuals’ tax evasion. Following Shao Qing’s advice, she didn’t drop all the evidence at once. Posing as an insider, she released news that certain entertainers were about to be blacklisted over tax issues.

Jing Ke didn’t name names outright but used alphabetical placeholders, playing the cryptic riddler. It quickly piqued the netizens’ curiosity. Once the topic gained traction, she released several exorbitantly priced yet perfectly authentic-looking invoices.

When tax evasion is linked to celebrities, public attention is naturally high. And because these invoices were only sloppily censored, photo-editing experts soon restored the specific production crew names.

Compared to some unsourced rumor, netizens naturally trusted the “deciphered” hidden information far more. Consequently, news Jing Ke had leaked at 1:30 p.m. shot onto the Trending Topics list within two hours, with a “HOT” tag blazing behind it.

Seeing the explosive trending tag, Jing Ke, coached by Shao Qing, pretended to be a true insider and began dealing with marketing accounts. Using the clear invoice photos, she effortlessly pocketed two million from these marketing accounts.

What happened next was even more ironic. Just as Jing Ke was preparing to move on and wreak havoc on other entertainers, someone claiming to be the agent of the implicated celebrity actually contacted her, wanting to buy her silence.

“Shao Qing, how much should I ask for?” Jing Ke had no experience in this area and turned to the industry insider for help.

After a moment’s thought, Shao Qing gave her answer. “He’s an A-lister. Ask for five million.”

The power of an A-lister was indeed formidable. The agent agreed without a second thought. He didn’t even haggle, just immediately asked for Jing Ke’s bank account number to transfer the money.

“They probably have connections in the bank. They can trace your personal info through your account number,” Shao Qing warned. “Be careful not to leak your identity.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll write a small program for them. Let them click a payment link. The money will bounce around overseas several times before finally entering a domestic account,” Jing Ke said confidently.

In under three minutes, she had concocted a masked payment portal and sent the link. Ding— Seeing the SMS notification confirming the five million had arrived, Jing Ke couldn’t help but smile, turning to Shao Qing beside her. Amber eyes sparkling with amusement and anticipation for praise, she announced, “Shao Qing, look, we just made another five million.”

“I see that. Excellent,” Shao Qing replied, feeling a sudden, fleeting urge to pat Jing Ke on the head.

The wool from A-list celebrities was indeed easy to shear. But Jing Ke knew exactly what her real mission was. She wasn’t about to actually bury the news just to make a few more easy millions. Half an hour after the payment cleared, Jing Ke—now playing the role of a marketing account again—released the crucial evidence of their tax evasion. She even dipped into the seven million she’d already earned, spending a million of it to boost the post’s reach and heat.

It was Monday. Office workers who’d rather not be working loved to slack off at this hour. Grabbing a milk tea to refuel during the afternoon lull, then pulling out their phones to see what new gossip was brewing—now that’s what a true worker bee does.

A simple refresh of the trending page was all it took. Clear-as-day evidence stared them right in the face, plastered across the freshest and hottest posts. Seeing that these celebrities could earn in a single day more than they could earn in a lifetime, ordinary office workers nearly bit through their straw in fury.

Spurred on, they forgot all about pretending to be busy to fool the boss. Rolling up their sleeves, they pounded away at their keyboards with the ferocity of someone facing a project’s final deadline.

For average office workers, it was simply the injustice of obscene wealth paired with an unwillingness to pay their fair share. It was pure anger and resentment.

But for those who were also fans? Their emotions were far more complex. Many of them earned only five or six thousand a month. After covering living costs, they were left with a spare thousand or so. And the vast majority of that spare cash went straight to supporting a particular artist. They bought whatever the artist endorsed, whether they needed it or not. All to ensure their idol wouldn’t be looked down upon, just in case sales figures were low.

And what was the result? Money pinched from their own meals just to support an artist, worried he’d be slighted, only to look up and realize the “big brother” they cherished was casually raking in, in a single day, what they’d have to work a lifetime to earn.

Shock. Disbelief. Suspicion. Outrage. Despair. Hysteria.

These fans, possessing a certain amount of spending power, had much more complex emotions. Once they realized the astronomical gap between their income and their idol’s, their rationality finally seemed to kick in. They instantly turned from devoted fans into vicious Anti-fans, their attacks many times more ferocious than any original Anti-fan could ever be.

After an afternoon of brewing, seven of the top ten trending spots were related to celebrity tax evasion in the entertainment industry. With public calls for thorough investigations into X and Y stars growing deafening, certain departments that might have preferred to muddle through or stall could no longer ignore that email—complete with multi-gigabyte attachments. They began seeking instructions from higher-ups on how to proceed.

While public opinion was fermenting, Jing Ke, continuing to check for gaps and omissions, discovered that a specific fifteen individuals frequently wired money to a single location. Deepening her probe, she found the account belonged to a very ordinary small supermarket.

If she had to pinpoint what made it special, it was perhaps its proximity to the national Border. It supposedly had a good stock of international specialties. Could it be these fifteen were just exceptionally fond of foreign delicacies, craving a fix every fifteen days?

No, that was too suspicious. The transactions were always large, tens of thousands of yuan at a time. What kind of “specialties” were this profitable? Could it be a front for smuggling something?

Jing Ke rubbed her chin and began an in-depth investigation into the forces behind this little supermarket, looking for a trail—perhaps smuggling gold or other items—that was generating these profits.

–

“Director Hua, I’m not trying to alarm you, but over a dozen different government department mailboxes received the exact same package—full of ledgers and invoices—at the exact same time on the exact same day.”

“If there’s anything messy in your financials, you must settle the corresponding back taxes this week. The fallout from this is massive. The higher-ups are looking for an excuse to clean house in the industry.”

A voice, carrying a hint of authority, issued from the phone’s receiver, darkening the face of Director Hua, who was currently occupied setting up his Tribute Film shoot. “Any idea who’s targeting me?” Director Hua asked, voice lowered.

He had just managed to become the Chief Director of the Tribute Film. A tax scandal breaking at this critical juncture would almost certainly mean being replaced.

“Hard to trace. It’s likely a top-tier hacker. Professional cyber units can’t even trace the location back,” the person on the other end explained. “I can only tell you the evidence they dug up is incredibly thorough. A dataset this massive takes months to compile. It might be a rival you crossed at the beginning of the year. The head director position for the Tribute Film… many eyes are on it.”

The caller, relying on experience, offered his deduction—one that neatly sent Director Hua hurtling further down the wrong track.

Similar conversations were taking place among others. Many entertainers were misled into believing that if they just paid the back taxes before any official public announcement, there was still a chance to salvage things.

But would Jing Ke really give them that chance?

After nearly a week of brewing, Jing Ke’s computer now held over a dozen more gigabytes of files. Some were previously undetected accounting books. But much of it was damning evidence of black-market dealings, enough to ensure lengthy jail sentences—or even the death penalty—for fifteen key individuals involved. Because it involved items on the severe prohibition list, it had taken Jing Ke a full week to confirm exactly what they were doing.

“What? They’re using that stuff?” Shao Qing was stunned to hear what Jing Ke had just uncovered. “Are you certain? I remember him being an anti-drug ambassador just last year…” Shao Qing swallowed hard. Had they gone insane? That stuff was destructive to everyone who touched it—pure self-harm! Had none of them ever studied modern history?!

“Yes, I spent some time tracing their international smuggling routes. This stuff is legally obtainable in certain countries, so they seemed to treat it lightly,” Jing Ke said, fully aware of the gravity. “Shao Qing, this kind of evidence isn’t suitable for public distribution online. I’m planning to submit it directly to the relevant authorities under my real name.”

“Can’t it be anonymous? Like last week?” Shao Qing frowned, clearly disagreeing with Jing Ke’s decision. When it involved narcotics, no government agency would dare cover it up. They would proceed with extreme caution.

“It can be. But following this trail, I’ve found a lot of very useful intel. It would be most effective to provide it to law enforcement in real-time. Also…” Jing Ke offered a brief explanation.

As the System, when unbound to a world native, influencing a world cost significant energy. After binding with Shao Qing, the cost for the same action dropped to a tenth or even a hundredth. But this time was an exception. The trail Jing Ke had followed led to a serpent far larger than she had ever anticipated.

Rooting out a cancerous growth so deeply entrenched domestically would require energy close to her current reserves. If she used it all now, the help she could offer Shao Qing going forward would be severely limited. “If I cooperate with the police, I’m influencing this world through them. The energy required would be cut by more than half,” Jing Ke concluded.

Shao Qing nodded, seeming to grasp it. “And this energy you need… that’s my Fortune, correct?”

Jing Ke: “You can see it that way.”

“That’s easy. Just take some of my Fortune in advance for now,” Shao Qing said. “My luck’s been pretty good lately anyway. I’ll be fine with a little less.” She added, “I’m not against you cooperating with the police. I’m just worried about the danger it poses to you.”

The sheer brutality of drug traffickers—those who lived by the blade—was clear from the fact that fallen narcotics officers could only have their photos and names publicly released when they had no living direct relatives within three generations. Jing Ke was flesh and blood now. She needed food, water, and sleep. If someone rushed her on the street and stabbed her, she would be just as vulnerable.

Shao Qing admitted to herself that after everything Jing Ke had done for her, the trust she had placed in her had deepened immensely. She even found she had developed a faint sense of dependence on Jing Ke.

“The police should provide protection, so don’t worry too much,” Jing Ke said, a thoughtful gleam in her amber eyes. “Your Fortune has only just returned to about two-thirds. The remaining third still needs time to recover. If you lend me some now, your luck will dip considerably for a while. It might render everything we’ve accomplished so far pointless.”

“Relax. I know my limits. And if it’s truly not enough, I can always borrow a smidgen of your Fortune in advance through the Contract,” Jing Ke soothed, and wrapped her arms around Shao Qing, patting her gently on the back.