Chapter 13

Chapter 13: Chapter 13 — Linggang Psychological Clinic

Regardless of whether it was a holiday or not, doctors were always a busy profession.

“Meow.”

The warm-toned fabric sofa was neat and comfortable. A goofy golden retriever lay quietly beside it, its head pressing into the overly soft fabric and making a small dent. Hearing the sound, a silver-white cat sitting on its back turned its head. Its round eyes blinked as it licked its paw and lazily yawned.

Not far away, two more cats were relaxedly lying by the window, exposing their bellies to the sun. The scattered cushions all had the same printed text:

Linggang Psychological Clinic.

“Rustle—”

The door was pushed open. A breeze rolled in, swirling fallen leaves into the room. A pair of long legs stepped inside, wrapped in pure black dress pants—clean, crisp, without a single wrinkle.

Dutiful and professional, the originally drowsy cats and dogs immediately perked up, preparing to “receive guests,” but after seeing who had entered, they lay back down again.

The reason was simple: this two-legged creature had always been extremely indifferent toward them.

“Mr. Jian is here,” the receptionist girl said softly with a smile. “The previous client finished early. Dr. Feng is waiting for you in the consultation room.”

Jian Qing nodded.

As a “regular customer” who came at least once a month, he needed no guidance. The door was slightly ajar. Jian Qing raised his hand and knocked, immediately hearing:

“Come in.”

The voice was very gentle and steady. Inside, the middle-aged man was watering a potted plant, his expression kind and amiable. On his chest hung an ID badge. Beneath the plain photo were three characters: Feng Zhekang.

Jian Qing sat familiarly in the chair closer to the outside.

He looked calm, with no particular desire to speak. Rather than seeking help, he seemed to be just going through the motions.

Putting down the small transparent watering can, Dr. Feng quietly sighed.

To be honest, he had no clear understanding of Jian Qing’s psychological condition. He had even tactfully suggested before that the patient seek another specialist, but Jian Qing didn’t seem to mind.

“Anything special happen recently?” Dr. Feng asked. “You came earlier than last month.”

He had read the recent news that had caused a public uproar. The deceased, Xi Xue, had drowned, which might trigger painful memories for the patient.

Two years ago, during that “accident,” Jian Qing had been dragged into trouble by a deranged driver and fallen off a bridge into the North River. It was said that the car windows were locked and the two struggled underwater. By the time he was rescued, Jian Qing had already lost consciousness, and it took several resuscitations to save his life. When he came to Dr. Feng afterward, he had lost a significant amount of weight.

Jian Qing answered honestly: “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Lying in front of a doctor was a completely unnecessary behavior. From childhood to adulthood, including when facing “criminal experts” invited by the city bureau, he had always responded the same way.

Dr. Feng was helpless, but also used to it.

“The same dosage as last time,” he said, pulling out a pen from his chest pocket and lowering his head while prescribing the medication. “Take less. It will affect memory.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the young man’s wrist hidden under his coat. The other person immediately and considerately rolled up his sleeve, revealing a clean, bare forearm:

“I don’t plan on dying yet.”

Dr. Feng: …

The patient was too intelligent; it always made him want to switch their roles.

And besides, what did he mean by “not planning on dying yet”—that sentence alone was already dangerous enough.

Although at present it did not appear that the other party showed any obvious self-destructive tendencies, a person’s capacity to endure is ultimately limited. If pressure is only blocked and never released, sooner or later it will burst like a dam.

He had once suggested that Jian Qing keep pets—cats and dogs, flowers, birds, fish, insects, even plush toys would do. At the very least, he should have something he could confide in, a “safe object” to vent his emotions.

The result was, naturally, failure.

Faced with a patient who had tightly sealed his inner world—seemingly cooperative on the surface but actually refusing treatment—there was little he could do except prescribe medication cautiously and offer moderate encouragement.

Jian Qing listened to three songs in the consultation room.

In truth, he didn’t have any particular feelings about music, but he still had to sit through the full duration. He understood the root of the problem very clearly, and also understood even more clearly that this was not something a doctor could solve.

Monthly punctual visits were nothing more than for getting medication.

Within his ability, Jian Qing did not want his attending physician to feel too frustrated.

When he returned home, the bright sun was at its highest point. Outside the door was a clear blue sky, but inside was dim and heavy. Thick curtains hung all the way to the floor, tightly drawn together.

This made Jian Qing feel comfortable.

Lifting his hand, he opened the wardrobe. Shirts and suits in similar tones hung neatly arranged. In the innermost drawer, rows of unopened medicine boxes were also lined up in order.

Jian Qing counted carefully, then placed the “new addition” inside.

The information revealed by the transmigrators—he could not forget even a single line. But even if it was merely “thirsting while gazing at plums,” it still gave him a faint sense of security.

Today was a holiday, no one could hand over work to him. Rarely, Jian Qing truly had free time, rather than being “summoned” by the serious crime unit.

While cutting tomatoes to prepare lunch, Bian Shao called: “Hello? Brother Jian, there’s a banquet at Lanjiang Yayuan tomorrow. Are you going?”

With no strong pursuit of culinary pleasure, Jian Qing’s cooking skills were average, but his knife skills were excellent. Under his hands, the round tomatoes were cut into similarly sized small cubes, arranged neatly and rigidly. Bright red juice seeped out, and against the surrounding dimness, it looked like a fully atmospheric horror film.

On the video call, Bian Shao’s expression visibly changed.

“Fushun Zhai isn’t closed today,” he said. “Do you want me to bring you something?”

Jian Qing shook his head, lifting his eyes slightly. “Why are you asking this?”

If he remembered correctly, banquets held at Lanjiang Yayuan were mostly business gatherings involving exchanges of interests, which did not match Bian Shao’s temperament.

“My mom,” Bian Shao said gloomily. “She insisted I go out and see the world and recognize some faces.”

With a troubled expression, he muttered, “She really dares to think. What kind of person am I? And my old man is so good at having kids. I probably only get the inheritance after the ones in front of me all die.”

So he really had no intention of working hard at all.

“If you go,” he said, his little scheme crackling with enthusiasm, hands clasped together in pleading, “I’ll have someone to talk to and back me up. Brother, my real brother, please.”

Jian Qing turned on the tap and washed his hands. “Mm.”

“I knew it! Loyal as always,” the screen shook violently as Bian Shao stood up. “Then I’ve got to pick out clothes carefully. What should I wear?”

Jian Qing looked at his left ear, jingling with accessories, and said plainly, “Like a person.”

Bian Shao immediately burst into laughter.

Completely different from the extravagant decadence of “Qi Qing,” Lanjiang Yayuan was quiet and antique. Even the servers wore modified hanfu. Inside, people clinked glasses and smiled warmly, while the parking lot was built far away, as if afraid that colorful supercars would ruin the carefully crafted atmosphere.

“Why did they insist on paving such a long road with cobblestones, and it even has slopes,” Bian Shao muttered complaints about forced refinement as he passed through layers of bamboo forest. He looked up, saw Jian Qing standing at the entrance, and waved wildly. “Brother! Over here!”

“What a pity, it’s not a masquerade ball today,” he said as he ran up in a few quick steps, joking, “I was even thinking what you’d look like in ancient costume.”

Jian Qing returned a faint, indifferent glance.

Clearly wearing a suit and glasses—modern to the extreme—yet he looked like a painting drawn with a brush, perfectly blending into the background without the slightest sense of intrusion.

Bian Shao immediately slapped himself lightly on the mouth: “Alright, alright. With a face like that, even wearing a sack would look good. Forget I said anything.”

Looking across the entire North River (Beijiang) circle of fame and fortune, there was hardly anyone with a name who didn’t recognize Jian Qing’s face. Back when Mr. and Mrs. Jian of the Jian family were murdered, the Jian family had indeed fallen into decline for a long time. But as Jian Qing gradually grew up, the Jian family not only reversed its decline and rose again, it even surpassed its former peak in every aspect.

Older generations in business more or less believed in feng shui and birth charts—especially regarding that “213 case”… Jian Qing was basically someone who had crawled out from a pile of dead bodies. His fortune was said to be extremely ominous. Rumors like “celestial lone star who harms others but benefits himself” and “borrowing lifespan to raise vengeful spirits” had also caused plenty of private speculation among them.

However, regardless of all that, Jian Qing’s capability was undeniable. Wherever he appeared, there would only be one focal point.

“Hey, I remember there was also a little idol who chased after you before?” A male celebrity in wide robes and flowing sleeves sat upright in front of a guqin, performing live background music. Bian Shao picked up a strangely shaped wine glass and took a casual sip. “Tch, disgusting. At least add some champagne into this. As expected—having a big conglomerate backing you is just different, so extravagant.”

Do whatever you want, however you want.

Jian Qing didn’t respond, but he remembered the person Bian Shao was referring to. According to the transmigrator’s ranking, that person was the “male third lead,” who would eventually sink so deep into obsession that he would slit his wrists over Jian Qing. After recognizing him, Jian Qing decisively cut ties early on and said he liked sunny, cheerful types, eliminating the trouble in advance.

As of now, there had been no death notice.

Apart from when he first took over the company, Jian Qing had hardly touched alcohol in recent years. Bian Shao kept complaining that the drinks were awful, yet became increasingly interested and tasted every “strange wine” available, ending up with flushed cheeks and completely drunk, losing consciousness.

Jian Qing called over a server and had him escorted to a guest room.

As the time approached ten o’clock, alcohol and desire began to rise, and the atmosphere in the venue gradually heated up. After finishing his business negotiations, Jian Qing left without the slightest hesitation.

In situations like this, he always left early, and no one dared stop him.

The night wind brushed lightly. The path leading to the parking lot was illuminated only by a few stone lamps—dreamlike and faint. Tonight the stars were scarce, and the moon was completely hidden behind clouds. One step, two steps—the noise behind him gradually faded. Just as his field of vision was about to open up, a flash of cold light suddenly struck from within the bamboo grove.

The blade went straight for his face. Jian Qing tilted his body, narrowly avoiding the chilling edge as it brushed past his ear.

The attacker seemed surprised that he could dodge it and froze for a brief moment, but still didn’t give up, continuing to swing the knife forward. Yet even with all his strength, he couldn’t advance even a fraction.

—Jian Qing had grabbed his wrist.

Like iron tongs, the grip was so painful the man nearly collapsed to the ground and rolled around.

Seeing that he was about to be dragged toward the lit area, the attacker gritted his teeth and bit down hard on the young man’s arm. The next instant, the world spun.

Bang!

His back slammed heavily into the ground, producing a dull, teeth-aching thud. He felt as though his internal organs had been displaced, a bitter, metallic taste of blood rising in his throat.

A brutal and perfect shoulder throw.

The faint light from the stone lamp fell across his face, revealing his ordinary features.

And precisely because of that sliver of light, he finally realized in terror: under the pitch-black night sky, the young man standing with lowered eyes showed no shock at all. Rather than prey, he looked more like a hunter patiently waiting for its quarry.