Chapter 113 — The Second Drop of Blood
Xie Siquan said coldly, “Murder and silencing the witness.”
He Dongting didn’t refute that. His brow stayed tightly furrowed. “These days aren’t safe. I’ve hired some men to watch the area, but there are too many people coming and going here. It’s better to move to another residence.”
Xie Siquan replied, “Don’t think about that. I already bought a house, but Jing’er refuses to go. Since he’s willing to live in the Bai family’s East Courtyard, let him stay there.”
He Dongting asked, “Can the Bai family be trusted?”
Xie Siquan said indifferently, “Far more than yours. Bai Jiu may be young, but he manages people and business better than you do. You think every household is as full of holes as the He family?”
He Dongting’s face showed little emotion. He sat silently for a while before saying, “Since Jing’er is at the Bai house, help me contact Bai Jiu. Three days from now, I’ll need a favor from him.”
Xie Siquan thought briefly, then nodded. “I understand. I’ll make sure the message is passed.”
He Dongting stood up and left.
The matter of Xie Yuan’s memorial tablet being taken away had struck him hard. He had grown far more silent than usual.
Three days later.
He Dongting issued an official statement—he acknowledged Xie Jing as his son and would hold a banquet at the end of the month to celebrate.
The newspaper didn’t print a photo, but for several days, people saw a young man in a school uniform entering and leaving the He residence, often brought there in a Bai family car, always accompanied by two guards.
In an upstairs room of the He mansion, He Shuwei stood by the thick curtains, watching that young man stride lightly into the house. His eyes were dark and cold.
A servant beside him, dressed like an attendant, whispered, “Mr. Yichuan said the last matter has been resolved. You can rest assured.”
He Shuwei nodded. Then he added, “I want another car.”
His hand gripped the velvet curtain tightly, eyes fixed on the Bai family car parked in the courtyard below. There was something nearly deranged in his gaze.
After finishing his arrangements, he went downstairs.
He was still dressed with care—each garment worth more than a working family’s monthly expenses—but his mood had changed. Now that He Dongting’s attitude toward him was clear, he felt as if even the servants whispered about him behind his back.
Holding his head high, he walked on until he spotted a worker and casually asked, “Where is my father?”
The servant looked uneasy. “Sir is in the study, talking with… with Young Master Jing.”
He Shuwei’s expression didn’t change. He just nodded and walked off.
Only after stepping outside the He residence did he slam his fist into a wall. The knuckles split open, blood running down—but he felt no pain. His entire body seethed with rage, and in his mind echoed that single phrase the servant had used: ‘Young Master Jing.’
He stood there for a long time, letting the fury slowly subside. Then he hailed a rickshaw and went to the opium house.
Inside the opium den, Third Master He was in his usual spot, but this time he had no companions—only himself, reclining on a couch, exhaling clouds of smoke.
When He Shuwei arrived, Third Master He straightened up sharply, eyes wide, “I just heard the news—the wet nurse who carried you home when you were a baby died on the road?”
He Shuwei sat down beside him and nodded. “Yes.”
Third Master frowned. “You did it?”
He Shuwei didn’t deny it. He nodded again.
Third Master exploded in anger. He swung the opium pipe and smashed it against He Shuwei’s head. The blow sent his head to the side, a trickle of blood running from his temple down to his brow.
The old man’s years of smoking had sapped his strength; even that single strike left him short of breath. His chest rose and fell as he cursed between gasps, “You fool! Killing someone now—it’s plain as day! Don’t you see you’ve just confirmed it was murder to silence her?!”
He Shuwei said quietly, “But Third Uncle, I was scared.”
Third Master, seeing his weak and timid look, grew even angrier, “What are you afraid of! It’s just another of those people the Sichuan Xie family sent! Haven’t there been several like that before—men who looked like Xie Siquan? They were all sent away after a few days. I managed those times, and I can manage this one. Once there are too many coincidences, He Dongting won’t believe it anymore! Besides, Xie Siquan’s a hothead—this is the perfect chance to let him and the He family clash again—”
He suddenly stopped talking.
He Shuwei had been staring at him the whole time, an unsettling, hollow look. The hairs on Third Master’s arm rose, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Hoarse-voiced, He Shuwei said, “I’m afraid of dying.”
Third Master stared for a moment before realizing He Shuwei wasn’t responding to his words at all—just talking to himself.
“Third Uncle,” He Shuwei went on softly, “I’ve known since childhood that I wasn’t really the He family’s young master. Do you know how I found out?”
“Because the tutor you hired for me all those years ago—she told me herself. She said she was my mother. She told me many things—how to disguise myself, what to eat, what not to eat. She said I must pretend to be allergic to lychees, but when I couldn’t, she jabbed my wrists and ankles a hundred times with a needle dipped in itching medicine. My skin swelled and festered, and I got a fever. I never knew whether she was being kind or cruel. Every day she taught me how to survive in the He house—and reminded me I must be filial to her, give her money…
“Later she died. I watched her drink those so-called ‘tonics’ again and again—nurse never let me touch that soup.”
He Shuwei’s eyes glazed over. “But I couldn’t tell anyone. I was terrified, Uncle. I was afraid of dying.”
Tears streamed down his pale face. He looked at the Third Master, eyes void of warmth.
He had watched his mother die slowly before his eyes; the shadow of that memory had never lifted. Sometimes, he would wake in the middle of the night, mouth open, pressing his chest, yet unable to breathe.
The Third Master wanted to curse him again—but his hands and feet went numb, his body suddenly weak. His face changed; he tried to rise, but fell off the couch, crawling clumsily toward the door. Sweat soaked his clothes.
He Shuwei walked toward him slowly. He placed his leather shoe over the Third Master’s hand. The man cried out in pain, but He Shuwei covered his mouth and nose, muffling the sound until it couldn’t reach outside. The more he struggled, the tighter He Shuwei’s grip became, the veins on the old man’s neck bulging.
Terror filled Third Master’s eyes—he couldn’t understand when this timid nephew of his had gained such strength.
Still in that same mild, deferential tone, He Shuwei said, “Third Uncle, I often went to the theatre. Do you know what I realized?”
“I saw myself in them. I’ve always felt like an actor on a stage. Every moment—even in my own bed—I must stay in character. This life was stolen. One day I’ll have to return it. So I savor every single second…”
His voice softened, “But one day, I finally understood something.”
“I don’t want to be anyone else. I want to be the He family’s young master.”
“I want everything that comes with it.”
He released the old man’s throat, stood up, and fetched a small case. A faint clinking of glass sounded as he opened it.
The Third Master’s chest heaved violently; seeing the syringe, panic flooded his eyes. He rasped, “You—you—what are you doing?!”
He Shuwei knelt beside him, holding him down, “Third Uncle, if I want to stay in the He family, no one can hold leverage over me. Once you’re dead, no one will know who I truly am.”
“Yichuan—Yichuan won’t allow this!”
“I’ve already met with Mr. Yichuan,” He Shuwei said calmly.
“You—you hid that from me—!”
“No. You never realized—he recruited two of us from the start. You were the one in the open; I was the one in the shadows.”
He pressed the syringe in slowly, the needle sinking into flesh, “Mr. Yichuan said there’s an old saying in China—‘Put to death and then be reborn.’ Some things, even when it comes to your own father, you can’t show mercy.”
Third Master’s eyes bulged wide; the icy liquid entered his blood. He coughed out several mouthfuls of blood, his last strength spent as he grabbed for He Shuwei’s collar, “You… you poisonous creature… you’ll die horribly…”
He Shuwei waited until there was no more movement, then gently closed the dead man’s eyes.
He rose, fetched a wine jug, scraped some opium paste into it, and mixed it into the liquor until it turned murky. He poured some into a cup, splashed some on the table, letting it drip from the couch to the floor—a convincing scene of overdose.
When everything looked right, He Shuwei finally left.
That day, two major events occurred in the He family.
That afternoon, the car Xie Jing was riding in was tailed and crashed on the eastern outskirts of the city. And at the opium den, Third Master He was found dead.
