Chapter 60: The Shattered Shen Xian

The assistant immediately arranged for someone else to investigate.

A dozen minutes later, the assistant reported, “She’s not at home, nor in Ning Cai’s neighborhood. I’ve also checked the hotels in Nanzhou, but there’s no record of Zhou Wan checking in.”

Qi Zhengqing narrowed his eyes, a dangerous glint flashing within them. “So she’s hiding from me?”

“Go find her. Turn all of Nanzhou upside down if you must, but find her trace!”

...

As night gradually fell, the nightlife of Nanzhou city began to stir.

Xiao Yang stood outside his family’s KTV, watching the streams of people passing by. He lifted his wrist and glanced at his watch.

It was almost nine o’clock, yet not a single customer had entered the place.

Things didn’t look good.

He made a call to Shen Xian. “It doesn’t look good. Not a soul.”

Shen Xian was at home, telling a story to Qingqing, and replied, “Don’t worry. It’s not time yet. Most people’s night has yet to begin.”

Xiao Yang had worked in nightlife for years; he knew this truth well enough. Still, he couldn’t help but feel anxious.

After Shen Xian hung up, he nestled into the sofa and continued the story for Qingqing. “Qingqing, let me tell you the story of the Big Bad Wolf and Little Red Riding Hood. Once upon a time...”

Qingqing was only two, but she understood enough to listen, clutching at Shen Xian’s sleeve with a hint of fear.

Zhou Wan, already bathed and dressed in a silk nightdress—though a modest one, revealing only her slender, lotus-like calves—had been fiddling with her phone. It was her first time hearing such a children’s story, and she set her phone aside, pricking up her ears to listen intently.

She was curious where Shen Xian had learned these children’s tales.

Watching Qingqing’s face, Zhou Wan noticed she had never seen the child so engrossed before.

“Qingqing, let’s listen to one more story and then go to bed, okay?” Shen Xian pinched Qingqing’s chubby little cheeks, his eyes shining with undisguised affection.

Zhou Wan realized that Shen Xian genuinely liked children and was truly good to Qingqing.

Her gaze softened, the corners of her mouth unconsciously lifting.

A life like this, a tiny family, this gentle atmosphere—it was all so wonderful.

Shen Xian was truly a healing presence.

“This story is called Pinocchio. Children mustn’t tell lies, or their noses will grow long—so long they’ll look very silly.” Shen Xian gave Qingqing’s nose a gentle squeeze.

Qingqing nodded, half understanding.

Zhou Wan was absorbed as well; Shen Xian’s stories were perfect for children—novel, but also subtly instructive.

“Now it’s bedtime,” Shen Xian said.

Qingqing stretched out her arms, signaling she wanted to sleep in Shen Xian’s embrace.

Zhou Wan came over, face stern. “Qingqing, it’s very late. Don’t trouble your Uncle Shen.”

But Qingqing clung to Shen Xian’s neck and refused to let go.

Zhou Wan shot Shen Xian an apologetic look.

He smiled. “It’s fine. Leave her to me. You go rest. Once she’s asleep, you can take her.”

But Zhou Wan didn’t leave.

After Qingqing drifted off, Shen Xian gently carried her to the master bedroom, tucked her in, and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“You really like children,” Zhou Wan remarked.

Shen Xian smiled. “Her eyes are big, bright, and pure. Her smile is radiant. It’s healing for me.”

Yes, he needed healing so much.

All his life, he’d been the one to bring healing to others, treating everyone kindly.

But in all these twenty-odd years, who had ever healed him?

Those who truly cared for him—Xiao Yang counted as one, Ning Cai another—but neither could mend the wounds inside him.

Qingqing’s arrival seemed to allow his battered heart a moment to breathe.

“You’re very good to Qingqing,” Zhou Wan said softly.

Shen Xian replied, “My own childhood was miserable. I don’t want any child I meet to go through the same.”

As he spoke, Zhou Wan keenly noticed a look of weariness and pain in Shen Xian’s eyes.

It was her first time seeing him like this.

Her heart ached involuntarily, and she found herself deeply curious about his past.

“Aren’t you going to rest?” Shen Xian asked.

Zhou Wan shook her head and sat back on the sofa. “I’ve always been a night owl.”

“Same here,” Shen Xian said. “I’m good at staying up late or sleeping in. Sometimes I even pull all-nighters.”

Her legs crossed beneath the silk hem, her calves gleaming jade-like in the soft light. A faint fragrance lingered in the air around her, subtle and intoxicating.

“Do you have any dreams?” Zhou Wan gazed at Shen Xian’s profile—so striking, with its strong features, clear cheekbones, and especially a sharp jawline.

They chatted like old friends.

“To make money,” Shen Xian answered. “Enough for financial freedom. Then I’ll become an elementary school teacher.”

His years of schooling had been harsh.

From the age of five or six, as far back as he could remember, he’d lived in a tiny mountain village with a solitary old man. The old man had been very good to him, scraping by through farming and scavenging. Whenever he went to the market, he’d bring back a piece of candy for Shen Xian.

Those candies were the taste of memory.

But for some reason, the villagers never seemed to like the old man.

Back then, compulsory education wasn’t widespread. The old man struggled just to keep Shen Xian fed, yet he did all he could to send him to school.

When Shen Xian was ten, in fourth grade, the old man closed his eyes one autumn night and never woke again.

That night, Shen Xian was terrified. The house was dilapidated, but the door was heavy and solid; no matter how he tried, he couldn’t open it to call for help.

He screamed and cried inside, his voice echoing in the night. Perhaps someone heard, perhaps no one did.

He would never forget that night, sitting in the dim light with the old man’s corpse, waiting for dawn.

It wasn’t until the next morning that the village head came with others, and they buried the old man in haste.

Shen Xian’s future became a problem.

The old man had no children, only two nephews, but neither would pay for a funeral, let alone take on the responsibility of raising Shen Xian.

The village committee had no choice but to contact the town government. After more than ten days of paperwork, Shen Xian was sent to the Nanzhou City Welfare Home to begin a new life.

He was in fifth grade by then. Fortunately, compulsory education had started to spread, so his studies didn’t fall behind.

After middle school, he was admitted to Nanzhou’s top high school, but by then he was sixteen, too old by law to remain at the orphanage. And high school wasn’t covered by compulsory education.

Luckily, the director, a kind woman, paid his school fees out of her own pocket and let him live in an unused storeroom beside the orphanage.

Shen Xian didn’t disappoint. He scored 680 points in the college entrance exam and was admitted to Zhejiang Media University.

No one knew the hardships he’d endured through three years of middle school, four years of high school, and four years of university.

Was his story inspirational enough? It was.

When his exam results came out, many reporters wanted to interview him, but he refused them all.

The director asked him why.

He said, “Glorifying suffering is a shameful thing. Never praise suffering, nor treat it as inspiration.”

During those years, he’d met too many people who looked down on him, bullied him, stripped him of his dignity.

He hated those people, yet he was also grateful; after all, without adversaries, there would have been no teachers.

Everyone had taught him something.

Sitting on the sofa, Shen Xian said nothing, but his eyes reddened, tears misting his vision.

At that moment, Zhou Wan felt a surge of heartache. She wanted to reach out and hold him.

Because she sensed Shen Xian was on the verge of breaking.