Launching a Counterattack

At the top floor of Yuanlong Technology, in the CEO's office.

The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering nightscape of Jingzhou, yet the room was thick with tension.

"President Lu, we've hit a snag."

Zhang Qi stood before Lu Chenyuan's desk, his expression uncharacteristically grave. Behind him, a holographic screen rapidly scrolled through complex data streams and network topology maps.

"Li Xiujian's asset structure is like an iceberg in the dark web," Zhang Qi said, pointing at the red nodes on the screen, his voice low. "What we've uncovered are just the clean shell companies—the tip of the iceberg. His core holdings are buried under five layers of offshore entities and encrypted digital trusts. The money flows jump erratically. Our best team tracked it for seventy-two hours, hit multiple dead ends, and triggered traps."

Lu Chenyuan's gaze was calm as still water. His fingers tapped lightly on the desk, as if deep in thought—or perhaps he had anticipated this outcome all along.

He knew full well that a revenge-driven viper like Li Xiujian, lying in wait for decades, was no fool like Lu Mingshi. His meticulousness and ruthlessness were in another league entirely.

"A snake that's hidden for decades won’t expose its weak spot so easily," Lu Chenyuan said, his voice devoid of inflection. "This is expected."

"But..." Zhang Qi pressed, urgency creeping into his tone, "the longer we delay, the more chances he has to move and conceal assets. We're fighting a shadow."

"Then let in the light," Lu Chenyuan said, rising slowly and walking to the window. He looked down at the bustling city below. "The business siege is just the first step—to make him feel the sting, to force him to move. Once he does, he’ll leave traces."

Just then, Lu Chenyuan’s private phone on the desk lit up with a soft vibration.

When he saw the name on the screen, an imperceptible flicker passed through his deep-set eyes.

Mo Qingli.

He picked up the call, swiping to answer, but before he could speak, her cool, assured voice came through clearly:

"You’re having trouble dealing with Li Xiujian?"

It wasn’t a question—it was a statement.

Lu Chenyuan paused.

He never doubted this woman’s business instincts or intelligence-gathering prowess.

Since the launch of their "Candle Dragon" project, Yuanlong Technology and the Mo Group had deeply intertwined their data streams and resource allocations. His sudden mobilization of top cybersecurity experts and intelligence analysts for this high-stakes, non-operational pursuit—such a large-scale anomaly—might evade outsiders, but never Mo Qingli, their closest strategic partner.

"Not trouble," Lu Chenyuan replied, his tone still even. He paced back to the window, his gaze fixed on the distant skyline. "Just... more complicated than anticipated."

A two-second silence followed on the other end.

In those two seconds, understanding, calculation, and resolve seemed to pass between them.

Then Mo Qingli spoke again, her voice now carrying an unshakable certainty:

"The Mo family’s overseas intelligence network has been cultivated over three generations. Especially in Europe and the major offshore financial hubs, our people can access information—and gray zones—beyond the reach of normal business or even government channels. Do you need it?"

Lu Chenyuan understood the weight of her offer.

This went far beyond business cooperation.

She was laying bare one of the Mo family’s most guarded, most critical assets—without reservation.

A warmth flickered in his chest, but his voice remained measured:

"That’s a core Mo family resource. The debt would be too heavy."

A light, crystalline laugh came through the line, cutting through the office’s oppressive air.

"Lu Chenyuan, have you forgotten? The enemy of my enemy is the most natural ally. Li Xiujian isn’t just your family’s nemesis—he’s a threat to Jingzhou’s entire business ecosystem. Removing him clears a future obstacle for the Mo family as well."

She paused, her voice softening slightly yet gaining an even sharper edge:

"Besides, I admire your methods. I’d rather invest in an ally who can shape the future than waste resources on pointless hesitation."

"Fine." Lu Chenyuan didn’t refuse again. With a woman like Mo Qingli, excessive politeness would only insult her intellect. "I owe you."

"Noted," she replied, amusement threading her words. "I’ll wait for your good news."

The call ended.

Lu Chenyuan turned, his gaze locking onto Zhang Qi. His eyes now held a razor-sharp decisiveness, the calm before a decisive strike.

"Cease all direct cyber infiltration immediately," he ordered. "Retract our tracks, erase all traces. Stand by—a new opening will come soon."

"Yes, sir!" Zhang Qi answered, the gloom in his heart replaced by exhilaration. He could almost feel the coming storm.

---

Meanwhile, in a secluded villa on the city’s outskirts, inside a dust-covered art studio untouched for nearly twenty years...

Lou Mengling stood alone before a large, white-draped easel, motionless.

Ever since that day at the private club, when she had met Lu Ruoxi, her daughter’s polite yet icy "Hello, Madam"—so distant it might as well have spanned an abyss—had pierced her heart like an unrelenting shard of ice.

She knew any apology, any tears, would be meaningless against the eighteen stolen years of silence.

She longed desperately to close the distance, to make amends, yet she was paralyzed by the crushing realization that she had no idea where to even begin.

Her own weakness—the part of her that could only weep in regret—would likely only burden that resilient, heartbreakingly strong daughter further.

And so today, as if guided by some unseen force, she had pushed open the door to this long-abandoned studio.

Afternoon sunlight streamed through the slanted glass ceiling, illuminating swirling motes of dust in the air—and the past she had buried just as deeply.

Before becoming the poised, elegant wife of the Lu family, she had been the youngest and most gifted lecturer at Jingzhou University’s fine arts department.

Her paintings, once hailed as "radiant with life and soul," had been coveted by collectors and art lovers alike.

Yet for a husband who never loved her, for a family she thought needed her complete devotion, she had set down her brush—locking away both her art and the luminous self who created it, sealing them in this room for twenty years.

Now, the dream was over.

It was time to wake up.

Lou Mengling reached out, her fingertips trembling faintly.

She slowly, solemnly, lifted the white cloth covering the easel.

Her movements were gentle, as if performing a sacred ritual.

As the cloth slipped away, it revealed a blank canvas beneath.

Her fingertips lightly brushed over the thin layer of dust that had settled on the easel. The confusion and pain in her eyes gradually cleared, replaced by determination—until, at last, a long-lost flame flickered to life within her. A flame called "self."

She was going to pick up the brush again.

This time, not to please anyone, nor to prove anything.

Only to reclaim Lou Mengling—the woman who had once freely splashed colors across the canvas, whose soul had soared unbound.

Perhaps only when she was no longer the weak, weeping mother who needed her son’s protection—but an independent, whole woman with her own career and radiance—would she truly deserve to stand before her daughter as an equal and say, "Ruoxi, Mom is back."

Lou Mengling took a deep breath and walked out of the studio, retrieving her phone.

She scrolled through her contacts until she found a number she hadn’t dialed in years—yet had never deleted.

Chen, Dean of the Jingzhou University College of Fine Arts.

When the call connected, she spoke in a voice so calm and resolute it surprised even herself:

"Dean Chen, hello. This is Lou Mengling… Yes, it’s me. I apologize for the sudden call, but I was wondering… is the college currently hiring?"

---

Jingzhou University, Main Library.

The third-floor reading room was so quiet you could hear the rustle of turning pages.

Lu Ruoxi was wholly absorbed in a German academic text on the Riemann Hypothesis.

To her, this world of numbers, logic, and conjecture was the perfect refuge—a place untouched by the noise and chaos outside.

Then, her phone screen lit up with a notification. A message from Lu Chenyuan.

She picked it up and unlocked the screen:

"Mother has decided to return to Jingzhou University and resume teaching. She’s currently finalizing the paperwork to apply as a fine arts lecturer."

Lu Ruoxi’s slender fingers, still holding the book, paused imperceptibly.

Almost instinctively, she lifted her gaze, her cool eyes drifting past the towering bookshelves toward the window.

Outside, on the tree-lined path in front of the library, a few students walked by in small groups, laughing, their textbooks tucked under their arms. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on their youthful faces—alive with vitality.

A moment later, her phone buzzed again. A second message from Lu Chenyuan:

"She wants to start over. Maybe… she also wants to be closer to you."

"Don’t feel pressured. Just follow your heart."

Lu Ruoxi stared at the words, her clear eyes rippling with something inexpressibly complex.

Like a still lake disturbed by a single, tiny pebble.

She didn’t reply. Silently, she locked the screen and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

When she returned to the book, the cold, precise symbols of mathematics seemed, for the first time, faintly tinged with the warmth of the human world.