Later, when Shi Yuanchen wondered why Pei Cangyu had called him that night, he finally found an explanation.
On the day he met with Fei Zuohua and Tu Ziyun, Shi Yuanchen had taken the files regarding Pei Cangyu with him when he left. It wasn't until that night, after he had showered and settled in comfortably with his glasses to review the day's manuscripts, that he discovered the error. Fortunately, he had saved the phone number and tried calling it, but it never connected. As it turned out, he had saved the wrong number entirely; it wasn't Fei Zuohua’s, but Pei Cangyu’s. Because a business card had been tucked into the files, Shi Yuanchen had been distracted while reading and entered it incorrectly.
This went a long way toward explaining his confusion when he received Pei Cangyu’s call.
That evening was supposed to belong to Shi Yuanchen. A study by "White Dust" on suburban crime footprint tracking, based on the GARCH random walk model, had won several major awards in the field. Although such methods were essentially overused in econometrics, with the right perspective, one could still produce something interesting in this discipline. Not only had the laboratory received more academic donations, but Shi Yuanchen had also been invited to the ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new joint laboratory between the city's universities and the police department.
That evening was a warm-up event. Because many believed Bai Shi would make an appearance, the crowd was quite eclectic—or rather, for a non-academic gala dinner, such a mix was perfectly normal.
At this thought, Shi Yuanchen paused and corrected himself. No, academic forums were just as mixed.
In any case, many people attended that night. If one were keen on social stratification, they could easily say the evening was attended by many celebrities and figures from all walks of life.
The earliest to arrive were the journalists. Upon arrival, they looked around, searching for an angle to start their reports, such as: "The expensive Hippo Salmon, fresh from the port, headed straight for the banquet at East Qi Mountain. Having passed through layers of customs, the fish rests in fresh ice, ready to stand out and be presented at tonight's gala. The banquet is hosted by..." or "At eight o'clock in the evening (or some other time), under the watchful eyes of the public, Mr. X..." or "Professor X of X University today..." and other such topics.
Please forgive Shi Yuanchen; he was not a professional journalist, after all, and his reading in that area was limited.
However, among the professional journalists, the ones with the greatest sense of superiority were the school magazine reporters. As students of a prestigious university, carrying the prestige of their institution, they could develop a "designer skeleton" at a young age if they played a role in its organizations. This skeleton had to be exposed, to be noticed by others, but not too obviously, lest they appear empty-headed. Thus, they occasionally wore the school uniform; when they didn't, they would say with feigned disgust, "Damn, our uniform is so ugly." The vitality of the statement lay in that "our," but the disgust felt genuine, as if they would tear the uniform to shreds on the spot if it appeared before them. Of course, the space for "honor students" to shine within the school was limited; unless one relied on personal merit, the school's prestige belonged to everyone—and that was when the prestige of the specific department or faculty came into play. Generally speaking, however, the best battlefield for honor students was online platforms. It was even better if they had an online persona; behind the layers of screens, they would become minor achievers. Occasionally, they would repost news about their alma mater, followed by some "unique" observations to find a suitable high ground for their arguments, safely launching indiscriminate attacks on dissenters—a tactic especially effective against the youth. The smarter ones weren't so blunt; their credentials and the influence of their arguments were kept at a distance—so far that by the time you mentioned them, you thought of the school first, bowing to the prestige before even seeing the viewpoint, which then seemed more and more reasonable the more you looked at it.
These school magazine reporters sat in the very center of the press section, looking extremely polite. They greeted every senior journalist who arrived, their words revealing the kinship of fellow writers, yet carrying the naive pride of those still on campus who assumed their futures were limitless. Student union staff members wore school vests, serving tea and water, busy with various tasks. At this moment, they couldn't help but lament why they had joined the student council upon enrollment; if they had joined the school magazine, they could have at least played around with a professional camera.
The young school magazine reporters introduced themselves to other journalists with a practiced air of maturity before drifting apart; after all, they had little in common. The honest ones went to help the student council staff; the aloof ones fiddled with their cameras; the ambitious ones sought out senior journalists who looked interesting, trying to find a new path out of their own dead-end professional prospects.
Next came the minor figures from large corporations.
Then came the unranked but wealthy individuals from quantitative trading and investment firms, along with some big names from various institutes.
Then came the professors, entering amidst the aforementioned figures. Shi Yuanchen was among them.
Finally, the big shots from major corporations and the prominent, "clean" public figures arrived.
It was easy to see that although this was "Shi Yuanchen's night," he was merely a character with a fixed role. If one really looked at it, some came for the Bai family, some for the university, and for others—no one cared why they came.
A vanity fair.
By all rights, such a world should have had nothing to do with an academic like Shi Yuanchen. However, as long as there is a "circle," it is inevitable. But in all fairness, this kind of gathering was much better than the charity galas of professional socialites. A certain friend of his often found various excuses to host banquets; the last one was for abused children. That gala was held on the 98th floor. The women's lips were plump and delicate, unable to eat much after surgery; the men's gold watches would be shown off here and then covered up there, because there was always a higher mountain to climb. Floor-length gowns, towers of champagne, synthetic meat, synthetic noses, synthetic hair, synthetic laughter, synthetic penises hidden under the lights, echoing synthetic fragrances—they would always collide once the lights dimmed.
By the end of such a banquet, the expenses would be triple the amount of donations raised, but it cultivated the spirit nonetheless, and another would follow soon after.
Shi Yuanchen didn't fit in those places. This setting was better. If one had to ask why, it was because in this setting, the majority—the vast majority—were employees. Just more expensive employees, like himself.
Shi Yuanchen’s background was more than enough compared to those below, but not quite enough compared to those above; he occupied roughly that position.
Both his parents were professors with tenure, now retired and living comfortably. They had two sons; Shi Yuanchen had an older brother. Being born in this city meant he had already won against most of the population; his parents' professions defeated most people in this city. But one generally couldn't talk about these things; saying them out loud made everyone unhappy. His own history of struggle was also quite illustrious: graduated from a prestigious university, went to the US for his PhD, held dual degrees with certifications from both the US and Israel, and had a mentor who was a titan in the industry and held him in high regard—as evidenced by the mentor dragging him along to establish "White Dust." A specially recruited expert, a young professor, single and wealthy, and possessed of great poise.
Setting all that aside, Shi Yuanchen was actually a very self-aware person.
Perhaps because of his profession, he had seen many people. By the age of thirty, he realized one thing: he was among the favored few. It might sound rude to say, but Shi Yuanchen believed that realizing this was no easy feat. Some people would never consider themselves lucky in their entire lives; the world was never enough for them, and they believed everything they owned was brought about by their strong will and tenacious struggle.
Shi Yuanchen had this epiphany because he realized he was in a "just right" position. The setbacks he faced were just right—not enough to make him lose heart, but not so few that he became arrogant. They were just enough to allow him to maintain a positive attitude, to persist in his efforts and hard work, to believe that most efforts yield rewards, and to pass this concept on to future generations like a torch of hope. The cold shoulders and hardships he endured were just right—not enough to leave him isolated and envied at the top, but not so severe that he became a misunderstood talent limping through the winter snow. They were just enough to keep him humble and able to judge good from evil. Because he had seen people collapse, Shi Yuanchen understood that human ruin is the easiest thing in the world. Mental strength might not be the most important factor; fate was. Fate polishes the psyche and determines the person, not the other way around.
Perhaps saying this didn't fit the attitude a scientist should have, but Shi Yuanchen believed that "if fate intends to deal with a person, that person doesn't even have the power to strike back." He reached this conclusion after observing the abandoned urban districts for a year. But he also understood that most people never reach that extreme state of fighting against fate. If they weren't creating their own problems or suffering from an illness, then working quietly would bring rewards, because most people experienced the "just right" balance. Otherwise, that torch would have been extinguished long ago.
The "just right" balance polished Shi Yuanchen, and it polished the people at this banquet.
There used to be a metaphor saying that a cruel society grinds down a person's sharp edges until they are gone, making them "rounded" and smooth, so that they are no longer the hopeful selves they once were.
This was a grave injustice to society. Anyone who has ever tried to grind a stone knows that when you strike it with a blade, the edges remain, as do the fragments. Grinding something until it is rounded requires much greater effort; it requires the "just right" polishing, a gentle wearing down that doesn't cause the person to suddenly shatter. Those stones that are split into jagged pieces are society's rejects; they forever keep their sharp edges, cutting every hand that tries to hold them, until they are buried alone in the sand, sought by no one.
Shi Yuanchen walked toward an exceptionally rounded stone. He was not only fair-skinned but truly smooth. This man was the manager of the Bai family's family office. Like most people here tonight, he was a "gold-plated employee," possessing a brilliant resume, humorous conversation, shrewd eyes, and an expensive watch.
The manager was talking to others. Two people nearby were discussing two recent projects: one was sponsoring an energy company, the other a coffee brand. One had survived the grueling life of an associate, while the other had never even built a model, using Excel at most. The energy guy was envious of the coffee guy: "Unlike our group, we still have to run to the mountains for due diligence." The coffee guy smiled, holding his wine: "You don't even go yourself, what are you worried about? Besides, we travel too. Don't we have to see the place of origin? Look at my arm; Colombia tanned me until I started peeling." The energy guy was still envious: "Damn, that's a nice trip. Besides, what's your pricing? It's terrifying." He turned to the manager: "Did the Bai family invest?"
The manager smiled slightly. "A bit here and there."
They then chatted about new regulations, occasionally pulling in a few industry researchers to say a few words. A chief researcher could hold their own, maintaining a slightly superior posture in front of the investment bankers. The quantitative types, mostly from physics or computer science backgrounds, hadn't yet learned the industry's fanciest "gold-plated" attitude; they inevitably showed their awkwardness after a few sentences. Among the fund managers and those on the banking side taking the money, the PBs (Private Bankers) moved forward a bit, while the institutional types hung back slightly—this wasn't their turf, but they all smiled and listened to one thing or another. The scene was perfectly harmonious.
They were very interesting. Although everyone agreed that replacing certain Chinese words with English was for the sake of easier communication, if someone replaced the "wrong" word, it would quickly draw stares. Sometimes, they were skilled at using the English words someone else substituted to judge their social level.
They chatted about a certain university's cafeteria, telling each other which was their favorite. Someone mentioned one, and a stranger on the other side asked which class he was in. He replied with a certain year, and the crowd's brows furrowed. "We haven't seen anyone from that year. Our memory must be too poor. A penalty drink, a penalty drink! Which dormitory did you live in specifically?"
The man hurriedly replied that he was a graduate student and hadn't been there for his undergraduate degree.
The crowd went "Ohhhhh," saying it so much that the later "ohs" were practically redundant, yet they were deeply meaningful. One had to "oh."
Shi Yuanchen approached, and the manager exchanged a few pleasantries with him. The two quickly created an atmosphere of needing a private chat, and the crowd dispersed to go "oh" elsewhere.
The manager took a glass from a passing waiter's tray, handed it to Shi Yuanchen, and asked about his family's health.
Shi Yuanchen accepted it, answered politely, and then changed the subject. "Actually, I have something I wanted to ask you. I don't understand much about investment."
"Please, go ahead. I'll help however I can."
"The Shi family has some savings, both my parents' and ours. But when it comes to investment, we're completely in the dark. Since you manage a family office, I wonder if you have any suggestions?"
The manager understood immediately. He looked at Shi Yuanchen, let out an "ah," and laughed. "Well, since I'm in this line of work, if you don't mind, I'll talk a bit. You can just listen and see?"
"Of course, of course."
"It's like this." The manager held out a hand, trying to clarify concepts in the air. "A family office is generally for a single family, like the Bais. Besides their corporate assets, their personal assets are very considerable. They set up a separate fund, and the scale is quite massive—many public and private equity funds can't compare. It's not a matter of how much the entry threshold is; it's a matter of it being a managed account."
Shi Yuanchen roughly understood what the manager meant and found that the manager was still being quite polite, specifically using very simple language without trying to show off.
The manager continued, "But I agree, for someone of Professor Shi's status, investment and wealth management are very important. It's just that simply buying products isn't worth this conversation between us. Well, I don't know that much myself. I have some friends; if you're willing, I can introduce you," the manager winked with a touch of polite cheerfulness.
Shi Yuanchen also smiled.
He understood. In short, Shi Yuanchen's bit of money wasn't enough.
Shi Yuanchen didn't feel much of anything about it. They were acquaintances, and the manager had always been respectful and polite to him. Shi Yuanchen himself was a very fastidious person and didn't particularly like people, though he didn't show it much. Still, he bore no ill will toward others; his reserved pride was mostly for the sake of banter.
However, a subsequent action made Shi Yuanchen feel very bad.
Someone came to call Shi Yuanchen, telling him to prepare to go on stage. Shi Yuanchen nodded and turned to leave. The manager reached across his back and patted his other arm—a slightly inward-pulling gesture. If one were to make an analogy, it was like an elder seeing a junior they were satisfied with, a gesture of encouragement.
Shi Yuanchen froze for a moment because this manager was actually much younger than him.
The manager's smile was even happier than when he was "oh-ing" earlier. If Shi Yuanchen didn't study this professionally, he might not have taken it seriously, but the pride and condescension in that smile made him feel a sincere revulsion. He realized that beneath the acquaintance's kind and rounded exterior, this person was actually very caustic.
Forget it. People are all more or less the same. Shi Yuanchen didn't think he was much better, so naturally, he didn't take it to heart.
He went to the front of the stage.
While the host was introducing him, Shi Yuanchen's phone rang. He set down his wine glass and answered the call.
The signal wasn't great, but the voice was very clear—dry, hoarse, and coarse, with heavy gasps as if there wouldn't be a next breath.
The unfamiliar voice said, "I... I'm dying..."
Hearing such a sentence suddenly made Shi Yuanchen's heart leap. He pulled the phone away and glanced at the caller ID. It was Fei Zuohua, but this wasn't Fei Zuohua's voice. He felt a bit of anger. "Is this a prank?"
The voice repeated, "I'm dying..."
Shi Yuanchen hung up.
Bursts of applause still surrounded him, dedicated to the host's humor and wit, but that voice wouldn't leave Shi Yuanchen's mind. It was a voice of utter despair—so desperate that even hearing it from afar made Shi Yuanchen feel a chill. He had only heard such a voice from the mouths of people who were truly about to die: the sick, poor, and elderly struggling to survive in the abandoned districts, a murderer making a final confession, a patient entrusting their last words.
The phone rang again. Shi Yuanchen knew it was likely him again, yet he still answered. He said, "Whoever you are, please stop calling."
The joke wasn't funny; the game wasn't amusing.
But the voice was persistent. "My last will is..."
Shi Yuanchen hung up.
The host's speech ended. Amidst the final round of applause, the host looked at him, signaling with his eyes for him to come on stage.
But Shi Yuanchen frowned, merely listening to the other person's breathing. He was waiting for the last will; a prankster could never make up a last will.
But the other side couldn't say it.
The host finally couldn't hold back and walked over. "Professor Shi, are you ready?"
See? It really was a prank.
Shi Yuanchen hung up.
He walked onto the stage, smiling with poise. He unbuttoned his suit jacket to make himself look more relaxed. He took his speech from his inner pocket, though he could have delivered it entirely from memory; he was just doing it for show. He looked at the rounded stones of various colors and shapes below and began his congratulatory remarks.
The atmosphere in the hall couldn't have been better. People laughed and congratulated one another. They were extremely well-bred people, well-educated people.
A last will...
Shi Yuanchen smiled and turned a page. He had forgotten a bit of his memorized speech.
What does it mean to have no last will...
Shi Yuanchen paused, then immediately gave an apologetic smile, took a quick glance, found where he had stopped, and continued.
It means having no one to entrust things to, no one to leave instructions for. If this number was wrong, it could only be one person.
That orphan.
Pei Cangyu.
Shi Yuanchen stopped completely.
He remained silent, and the audience waited quietly. After realizing the length of the silence, there was a slight murmur of noise.
Shi Yuanchen immediately smiled, hurriedly brought his speech to a close, and left the stage amidst the applause.
He flew down the steps and called the Eighth Bureau, but the people there told him they were a bit busy today and asked him not to contact them unless it was urgent. Shi Yuanchen asked about Pei Cangyu, and the other party told him they weren't sure for the time being and would talk later.
Shi Yuanchen stared at his phone, and as he stared, he felt it might not be such a big deal after all.
He comforted himself, thinking that the police would handle everything.
It wasn't until he went home that night and saw the news in a midnight breaking report.
"Ding Chuan, leader of the Dark Fire group, murders the Deputy Commissioner of the Police Department."
"Ding Chuan massacres nine hospital staff members, attacks guarding police, leaving one dead and one injured; the injured officer has yet to regain consciousness."
"Bai Shi attacks a detective and escapes custody."
"Bai Shi, head of the Bai family, may be the mastermind behind the murders; assets under the Bai name frozen; Bai enterprises officially under investigation."
"Multiple industries under the Bai name plummet after the opening of the X-stock market."
...
Shi Yuanchen looked at the number in his hand.
***
| Chinese | English | Notes/Explanation |
| :--- | :--- | :--- |
| 施远尘 | Shi Yuanchen | A professor and researcher, leader of the "White Dust" project. |
| 费左华 | Fei Zuohua | A detective/police officer. |
| 屠资云 | Tu Ziyun | A character associated with the police/investigation. |
| 白灰尘 | White Dust | The name of Shi Yuanchen's research project/model. |
| GARCH游走模型 | GARCH random walk model | A statistical model used in econometrics. |
| 东岐山 | East Qi Mountain | A location, likely an upscale area where the banquet is held. |
| 希波三文鱼 | Hippo Salmon | A specific (likely fictional or high-end) brand/type of salmon. |
| 丁川 | Ding Chuan | Leader of the "Dark Fire" (暗火) group. |
| 暗火 | Dark Fire | A criminal organization or group led by Ding Chuan. |
| 八部 | Eighth Bureau | A specific department within the police or government. |
