Chapter 74: When Did We Ever Need Your Tolerance?

New week, new vibe.

Wen Du felt an indescribable sensation as she headed to work.

Her identity had been exposed, backed by irrefutable evidence stored in the archives room. Yet she didn’t need to retreat or take any action.

She simply had to go about her duties as usual—perform normally, or even exceptionally well.

Ji Tingxi had returned to her role as an external staffer for the Information Room. That morning, she dropped by right on schedule, bearing a bouquet of violets. She popped them into the vase, instantly lending a fresh, elegant touch to the otherwise bland wall. Wen Du had once accompanied Xia Lie in learning the language of flowers, and violets symbolized loyalty and vigilance.

“You can always trust Miss Ji’s taste,” Wen Du said with a smile, accepting the morning gift.

“You can also always trust my eye,” Ji Tingxi replied, graciously accepting the praise but feeling it fell short. She promptly added her own apt supplement.

With that, she leaned closer to the desk, chatting casually. “I’ve gone through all the decryption records we pulled before. They were supposed to be sealed away in the archives room, but I couldn’t resist coming to ask—does Director Wen need to review them?”

“You’re too thoughtful, Division Chief Ji. I don’t need them here for now; the archives room can handle it.”

—Back at the restaurant, she had personally noted the “mistranslations” for her to see. There was no need to double-check the originals; it was shocking enough.

“I have to say, Division Chief Ji, you really have leisure time on your hands to dig out those paper records and pore over them.”

Most files at the Guard Institute were digital, with only select vital information kept in both electronic and paper formats, all stored in the archives room.

To access past records, one typically obtained approval from the archives room and used quick search functions. New files poured in daily, and old ones gathered dust unless needed for reference or audit.

So Wen Du had assumed that particular oversight would go unnoticed unless she exposed herself and triggered a full investigation. Even if discovered, without studying her treatise in depth, it wouldn’t constitute ironclad proof.

She hadn’t anticipated encountering someone like Ji Tingxi—a veritable marvel—who harbored such profound affection for her work. Ji had devoured her treatise word for word, unearthing the flaw buried deep in that vast sea of documents.

“Of course I read them carefully, especially the ones you handled, Director Wen. I scrutinized your reviews the most,” Ji Tingxi said with a gentle smile.

Wen Du shot her a glance, not mistaking that smile for friendliness.

During last Friday’s meeting, Ji Tingxi hadn’t outright agreed to reconciliation. She’d merely granted a probationary period to gauge her performance and value. Until formal reconciliation, it was a one-sided trial: Ji Tingxi as the dominant party, Wen Du as the constrained subordinate under supervision.

This cunning fox wasn’t here to deliver flowers—she was inspecting her work!

Worst of all, Wen Du couldn’t subtly compete as before. She had to tread carefully, keep her “Boss Ji” pleased.

Wen Du met her gaze, her tone brimming with sincerity. “Since Division Chief Ji cares so much, I’ll have to work even harder from now on.”

“Work hard, but remember to rest too. Otherwise, I’ll worry.”

…

Today was the day to visit the new liaison station.

Yue Mu had informed her last night: the time, location, and code phrase. The station chief would be waiting inside for her to patronize the shop.

The organization had selected the station with her preferences in mind.

Wen Du could feign disinterest or boundless enthusiasm. She’d once enjoyed raising flowers; now it was desserts. If required, she could even take up aerobics.

The dessert shop was called Joyful Intent, with a soft pink sign and light-colored interiors. Gentle tunes floated in the air, dusting every entering customer with joy. One side near the counter was the sales area; against the wall was the seating zone. Patrons could grab treats to go or savor them on-site.

Wen Du browsed the glass display case and eyed a creme brulee, hesitating, when a shop assistant approached with eager promotion. “Miss, you want this creamy creme brulee? Grand opening special—thirty percent off for tastings.”

“Sure, I’ll take one. I’ll try it here, and if it’s good, I’ll buy more.”

She could bring some back for Yue Mu, freeing her up from baking to practice dancing and enrich her undercover hobbies.

The assistant served the dessert and utensils at a table, inviting Wen Du to dig in.

Only after sitting did Wen Du notice the seating’s clever design.

The chairs were irregularly placed, spaced far apart, with curving cake racks and display trees between adjacent ones—brimming with the latest dessert models. Paired with the soft, pure music, even seated conversations with friends remained private; no one nearby could overhear.

Wen Du started with the blueberries atop the creme brulee. Though decorative, they carried the dessert’s sweetness plus their own tartness, instantly whetting the appetite. The caramel layer was perfectly thick, cracking like an eggshell under the spoon.

“Eating the caramel with the creme brulee brings out even finer layers of flavor.”

Wen Du looked up to see a woman settling across from her. Her first glance caught the little fragrance wind blouse—light pink plaid, coarse wool with rivet buttons, as fresh as the pastries in the case.

Beyond the outfit, the woman’s features were exquisitely blended: the sharp contours of Homer People with the delicate grace of Sern People. She wore gold-rimmed glasses, her eyes bright behind the lenses like cherries atop a lemon tart.

“Got any Mont Blancs?”

“Yes, miss—vanilla or berry?”

The code matched. Wen Du began scrutinizing her properly.

This was the shop owner, though she’d dressed the part. Her aura—confident and efficient—evoked a dessert chain executive overseeing empires, now humbled to this small outpost for the station’s needs.

Her looks suggested a Homer-Sern mix too, ancestry diluted enough to evade the great purge, allowing her to work and start businesses like pure-blooded Homer People.

“Hello, Miss Wen. I’m the new liaison station chief, Yin Chen—Yin as in stamp clay, Chen as in treasure trove. I’ll be handling your connections from now on.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Yin. Are all the staff here family?”

“Yes, given this station’s importance, no outsiders were hired for strict confidentiality. The one who recommended your creme brulee earlier is Xili from the Seven Leaves Street cake shop—we transferred her over as needed. She can pass info too.”

Wen Du nodded, noting Xili now greeting another customer with professional warmth, clearly seasoned in service. She guided the guest to the opposite counter, minimizing disruption—the mark of an experienced Giel member.

Yin Chen opened the menu on the table, smiling courteously. “We offer classics alongside our original creations. Care to take a look first, miss?”

“Sure.” Wen Du feigned curiosity. Boss Yin’s poise made it feel like negotiating a multimillion deal.

Yin Chen flipped the glossy pages, gorgeous dessert images unfolding with names and flavor notes. Wen Du’s eyes feasted on treats, but her ears caught a different pitch—

“Kangman and Bailunting orders are surging. The Kangman Bogota electronics firm plans a cross-border factory here to cut labor costs. It’ll absorb our local Sern workers and ease personnel transfers. But we need your review on factory sites and transport routes—’cargo’ outbound must dodge patrols efficiently.”

“No problem.”

Securing patrol schedules used to mean personal risk for Wen Du, but now she could negotiate directly with Ji Tingxi. Hopefully easier.

“How’s the Giel line efficiency lately?”

“Vastly improved since borders reopened—triple the volume. Rescued arrivals send thanks, though letters can’t be forwarded for security; the organization relays them.”

The image froze on a souffle: golden orb with crisp edges, puffed high like an inflated cake, cream spilling from the top and trickling down. Yin Chen’s slender finger held the page as she enthused over the drool-worthy dessert.

Wen Du felt warmth bloom, as if tasting it already. As long as the lines kept ferrying lives outward steadily, their work reaped rewards—countless, immeasurable.

“Oh, and Duo Lin sends her regards, asking how you’ve been.”

Only then did Wen Du realize how long it had been since seeing Duo Lin.

After the “undercover incident,” He De harbored suspicions without voicing them, barring her from family tutoring. Thus, she hadn’t seen He Lilin—and lost touch with Duo Lin.

“I’m fine; tell her not to worry. And to stay safe.”

…

Lately, He Lilin had seen neither Wen Du nor He De much.

Without Grandpa He’s regular visits, her wild streak nearly had her dismissing Lan Zhijing to run He Manor herself.

Yet despite her temper, He Lilin’s status drew friends aplenty. Weekends brought lavish invites; she either snubbed them all or picked one by whim.

This weekend, she chose a high school classmate’s celebratory dance for her paper’s publication—another step toward graduation.

Accepting, He Lilin scoffed inwardly: Celebrating a paper with a dance? A press conference would flaunt it better.

She hadn’t planned bringing Duo Lin; these classmates knew her, their high school ties lukewarm at best. Now with status gaps, meeting would sting worse than a failed final.

But as Duo Lin prepped her makeup, she volunteered to join.

“Duo Ruisi’s bash has Ji Rui and Qiao Ya too.”

“No issue. I’ll do my thing; you dance. No overlap.”

He Lilin had never had this before. Not just outings with Duo Lin— even yard sunning meant Duo Lin shading from afar with an umbrella. Ask too much: “Miss, come rest in the shade if you’re tired. I can’t take sun; it bothers me.”

Duo Lin’s initiative thrilled her. No joint dancing, but sharing the vibe? They could recreate it at home, people and cats twirling together.

Under near-graduate Duo Ruisi’s orchestration, the dance was polished, held in her two-story home with top-notch setup and service.

In the living room, Duo Ruisi, in a gown-like dress, greeted warmly, her massive skirt blooming and swaying with each step.

“Ah Li, I’ve missed you! Took forever to drag you out!”

“Weekends were study marathons—still are. But today’s your big day; had to come.”

—Mainly to escape; more food here anyway.

Duo Ruisi linked arms, steering her to classmates behind the buffet table. Old friends with drinks turned, welcoming her en masse.

“Lilin! Back in high school, you aced dance, joined the club even.” Ji Rui hailed first.

“Not bad yourself in ballet.” He Lilin scraped up scarce tact.

“Missing only Little Cha; we’ll start, he joins later,” Duo Ruisi tallied heads and clapped. “Equal guys and gals—waltz to kick off!”

The butler cued music on cue; waltz swirled through the hall, urging feet to move. Familiar classmates paired off fluidly, gender irrelevant—whoever for chat or reminisce amid dances.

He Lilin was Duo Ruisi’s from the start, hand never released through the tunes.

“That top student still looks so smug?”

Duo Lin sat against the wall, quietly watching their figures.

He Lilin’s arrival had spotlighted her too, but no greetings—just ignored.

Duo Lin wore a white blouse under a sleeveless dress, hair in a fishtail braid trailing back. Not dance-ready, nor servant-like, but scholarly aloof, distant as school days.

“Nah, that’s her face—like our cat.”

—No targets; equally aloof to all.

“Won’t she snap at you as hired help? Staring at her face daily?”

He Lilin reflected: plenty of snubs these three years. Unhuggable cat was one thing; icy indifference another. Only lately thawing, master-servant bond stabilizing.

“She’s fine—efficient. Trust her with anything.”

“She better be. Without you, she’d be factory fodder!”

Duo Lin couldn’t catch their distant, music-muffled talk, so she lowered her head, weaving hair clips.

At home, such idle time meant reading—He Lilin’s books free rein. Here, too showy among stellar Homer People; better leave face.

Using pins, she knit yarn into gingerbread shapes, focused, when a hand intruded, blocking view.

“Dance with me?”

Duo Ruisi and He Lilin halted nearby. Duo Ruisi spoke first, as hostess upholding order.

“Xiu Bi, hooked on Dance of Life? This is real life.”

In Dance of Life, humans grooved with beasts—but reality? Cross-ethnic dancing bolder than the game!

Xiu Bi straightened. “Can’t I pick her? Everyone paired; I’m solo.”

“I’ll dance later; grab snacks first—pizzas and breads for you.”

Xiu Bi scanned the table, unsatisfied, pulled his payment card, and thrust it at Duo Lin. “Hit the supermarket across; two cold beers.”

Duo Lin sat frozen, as if uncomprehending. Moments later, she reached—only for He Lilin to snatch it.

Xiu Bi blinked. “What, Miss He running errands?”

He Lilin passed it to Duo Ruisi. “Beers? Boss Duo has ’em. Swipe her card.”

“Yeah, drafts and bottles stocked—one case left.”

Two house staff hauled beers from the kitchen, fridge-fresh with condensation for icy refreshment.

Beer arrived, but Xiu Bi skipped it; next waltz queued. Partners reshuffled; Duo Ruisi honored her word, inviting grandly.

Before pairing, Qiao Ya cut in. “Lilin, your hired girl’s a pianist, right? Piano here’s perfect—play something!”

He Lilin: “She’s mediocre, stumbles. Speakers smoother.”

“No matter—our dances stumble too. Match the beat; one song!”

Eyes locked on Duo Lin, urging silently: Sern girl here? Serve somehow.

He Lilin flashed to high school gala in the auditorium.

Her modern dance needed piano; she beckoned Duo Lin, refused—conflicting rehearsals with others.

Others free, but not hers. He Lilin seethed, vowing to mesmerize, eclipse their dry recitation.

Did she? Unknown—but Duo Lin’s act topped popularity poll.

Now, under the stares, Duo Lin knew.

She rose to the piano, lifted the lid, forearms up, fingers splayed above keys. Back ramrod straight, gaze down yet neck poised—like a starlit gown from behind.

Fingers descended; notes cascaded, sonata lively, gliding flawlessly through the hall.

He Lilin’s partner was now Qiao Ya. Mid-twirl: “Don’t tell me she plays daily at home?”

Petty revenge for the refusal.

“Nope—no time for performances; chores endless.”

Duo Lin earned her role through tireless grind, brute endurance—no talent bonuses.

Qiao Ya hushed; room followed. Wordless, Duo Lin’s seat reclaimed top-dog aura from school, souring chats, deflating moods.

—Post-grad pain: slacker hires ace worker, aced again in tasks.

Song ended; mid-break clusters snacked. Duo Ruisi eyed Duo Lin slyly, grinning meaningfully.

“Lilin, your help’s gold—handy and talented. Study break tunes? I’ll hit the agency for a Sern hire.”

Xiu Bi: “What specs?”

“Big eyes, fine figure, glossy hair.”

“Hired help or show dog?”

“Help, but pleasing—ugly eye-sores at home? Pass!”

Ji Rui chimed: “Love pretties too. Pity brown eyes; purple or green ideal—like my childhood dolls.”

Suddenly, Sern hired workers trended “hot commodity.” Buzz built; all plotting home acquisitions.

Cha Li: “You chase looks; I want brains and obedience—their one perk.”

He Lilin side-eyed: “Why not hire a brain for school? Diploma yours, smarts his—salvage those fails?”

Silence crashed. He Lilin’s tact was volatile: squeezed, it greased relations; loose, it blacked out chats like nightfall.

Topic slain irrecoverable, Duo Ruisi pivoted, slicing pizza while polling summer spots.

He Lilin tuned out, sidled to Duo Lin, issuing her first request. “Supermarket run—canned cocktails, white peach flavor.”

Duo Ruisi overheard, friendly warn: “Across is members-only, first-class citizens.”

—Duo Lin second-tier; barred.

He Lilin turned. “My card, tied to my ID.”

Duo Ruisi OK’d. “Good to go.”

Duo Lin took the card, eyed He Lilin knowingly—ugly room talk stung; out for air.

Slinging Miss He’s purse, Duo Lin descended stairs. Outside, footsteps trailed: Bao Bo, quiet ex-deskmate, decent ties.

Indoors, mutual strangers; now alone, he closed in earnestly.

“Duo Lin, working for He Lilin—big house, fat pay—but her temper’s infamous. High school bullying; bet home’s worse.”

Duo Lin gripped the strap, wary. “What’re you getting at?”

“No fear—just advice. North County City’s opening foreign firms, Kangman-run, lax vibe. Insider from my company.”

“Thanks.” Duo Lin looked away to leave.

“Really… if possible, quit for corporate. More tolerant there.”

Duo Lin turned coldly, silent stare.

Tolerance? When did we ever need your tolerance?

Riding “gene heresy” high horses, lording as superiors?