Chapter 40 - The Price of Decency
If things continued as they were, Ji Qikun would remain beyond the reach of the law, forever escaping the consequences of his actions.
Eight years ago, standing on a street teeming with the indifferent flow of traffic, Weng Xiuyue had been struck by this singular, chilling realization. The thought was like a seed that had spent a long winter accumulating nutrients; once the spring rains of her desperation fell upon it, it took root in her heart, growing with a ferocious, unstoppable vitality.
It is so easy for a single drop of water to vanish within the vastness of the ocean.
Not long after, Ji Qikun vanished from the public eye, and that seed in her heart matured into an unshakeable, towering tree. She understood then that if she continued her pursuit as "Weng Xiuyue," Ji Qikun would only burrow deeper into the shadows like a cornered rat. To initiate the next phase of her war for vengeance, she had to become another anonymous drop in that boundless sea.
She discarded the name Weng Xiuyue. Along with it, she threw away the life she had painstakingly built—the house and the car for which she had only just finished paying off the loans.
In her former life, she had been meticulous, whether in public or private. She had firmly believed that an adult, regardless of the setbacks they faced, should maintain a certain level of "decency." To her, decency was the external manifestation of a rational mind. Yet, this very principle had become the weapon people used to attack her. Because she did not appear disheveled or wail in performative grief after her daughter’s death, the public judged her as hypocritical and cold. They claimed her pursuit of justice was merely a ploy for a monetary settlement.
The decency she had maintained for forty-two years did not collapse when her daughter died, but now, she destroyed it with her own hands.
She rented a dilapidated, self-built house on the outskirts of the city. From the moment she opened her eyes each morning, her only task was to force-feed herself the high-calorie foods she had once avoided with a passion. Even when she could no longer swallow, even when she vomited from the sheer volume, she would wipe away her tears, pick up the fallen scraps from the floor, and continue to stuff them into her mouth.
She ate until she retched, and retched until she could eat again.
She never touched cosmetics again. Once a month, she would travel into the city and lie in a nameless, dingy inn, allowing a woman of questionable qualifications to inject hyaluronic acid into her face. She filled her temples, her nostrils, and her chin. She visited "beauty studios" that performed illicit surgeries in backrooms, having them cut her eyelids and alter the shape of her eyes.
As her figure began to swell and distort, she stepped out of her seclusion to take on grueling manual labor to sustain herself. She crafted a persona: a divorced, solitary woman with a daughter living elsewhere. Drawing on the silver-tongued skills she had honed as a top salesperson, she integrated seamlessly into rural life. She mimicked their speech, their gait, and sought advice on their signature home-cooked dishes.
Hauling sand and gravel under the scorching sun and harvesting corn turned her once-fair skin a ruddy, weathered black. Brown spots began to bloom across her cheekbones and forehead. Every night, she would steam a massive pot of rice, mix it with lard, and devour it in great, desperate gulps.
As time bled away, her body bloated like a balloon. Her hands became as rough and calloused as sandpaper, her fingers thickening into blunt instruments of labor. She learned the art of the rural woman’s sharp-tongued banter, using crude jests and curses to drive away men who tried to take advantage of her. She no longer flinched at an accidental brush of skin; instead, she would unleash a torrent of spicy vitriol that left the offender shrinking in embarrassment.
She had successfully become another drop of water. She had become Zheng Tianxin.
Two years ago, she finally caught wind of Ji Qikun again. Her total disappearance had convinced him that she had abandoned her quest for revenge. He had returned to Jiangdu City and opened an art gallery. She gave up her rural rental, donned a loud, floral-patterned dress, and slipped into a pair of beige plastic sandals. Like a gaudy plastic bag caught in the wind, she stood in the recruitment office of the OCEAN Art Center, a beaming smile plastered on her face.
She had brushed past Ji Qikun just as he was finishing the interviews for the clerical staff. He hadn't recognized her.
After securing a position in the canteen, she systematically tracked down Tan Mengyan and Xi Manjing—others who had been scarred by the Ji family—and persuaded them to join her. With Xi Manjing, she had employed a bit of deception, leading the woman to believe she possessed concrete evidence of Ji Qikun’s role in Ji Teng’s condition.
She knew Ji Qikun too well; his every habit was etched into her mind. From a sea of thousands, she had selected Wei Zhi, certain that Ji Qikun would fixate on her. And Wei Zhi had exceeded every expectation.
"When I learned you had spoken privately with Xi Manjing, I knew you would eventually sense something," Weng Xiuyue said, looking at Wei Zhi across the wooden table. Her dark eyes shimmered with a mixture of admiration and wonder. "I don't know if it was fate or simply our good luck, but Wei Zhi, you have done better than I ever imagined—perhaps too well. That is why you are standing here, asking me these questions."
"You lied to Xi Manjing," Wei Zhi said, her voice steady. "The case you truly want to reopen isn't Ji Teng’s. It’s Mei Man’s."
Weng Xiuyue spoke slowly, her expression one of feigned indifference. "A mother must naturally look out for her own child first. If my plan succeeds, Ji Qikun’s true face will be exposed to the world. Not only will it clear Mei Man’s name, but it will also toll the bell for Ji Teng’s case, giving Xi Manjing more time to find new evidence. How can you call that a lie?"
"Is it about clearing Mei Man’s name," Wei Zhi countered, "or is it about clearing your own conscience?"
"What do you mean? I have nothing to be ashamed of."
"If this were truly for Mei Man—" Wei Zhi’s gaze was piercing, "—would her soul truly consent to you sacrificing another innocent woman, someone just like her, just to obtain evidence against Ji Qikun?"
"You don't need to preach to me," Weng Xiuyue snapped, her face darkening as her features twisted into a mask of ferocity. "We each get what we need. You want money, I want evidence. I am no saint, but don't pretend you are some innocent lamb."
"Even now, you cling to your delusions," Wei Zhi said. "Was Mei Man’s death really caused by Ji Qikun alone?"
"What do you know!" Weng Xiuyue suddenly screamed. Her face flushed a violent red, her eyes bulging as the veins beneath her skin throbbed. The face that usually wore a jovial mask was now distorted by an indescribable agony. "If not Ji Qikun, then who? Are you going to deny the truth as well?!"
"Why did Mei Man never tell you about her pain before it was too late?"
"Because I was busy!" Weng Xiuyue flung her arm out toward the empty air, her fingers trembling with agitation. "Back then, I was working myself to death to pay off the mortgage! I was flying all over the country! Do you think it’s easy for a single mother to raise a child and put her through university?!"
Her voice tore from her throat, starting as a low growl before rising into a sharp, piercing shriek. Every word seemed to drain her of strength, saturated with uncontrollable rage and despair.
"I pinched pennies to give her the best life! Anything she wanted, I bought for her! She didn't have a father, but I made sure she was no different from any other child! I played both roles! I worked until I was on an IV drip, and even then, I’d drive to a client’s house to close a deal! I did all of it so no one would look down on her, so she could be just like everyone else!"
She stood there, chest heaving, her heavy breaths sounding like a dying bellows. Wei Zhi looked at her and couldn't help but think of her own mother. Wang Lin and Weng Xiuyue were polar opposites in personality, yet they shared a singular, tragic commonality. Their love was a landscape of pain, blood, and sacrifice—and yet, it was utterly futile. Their love brought them nothing but harm.
"If the person who made the mistake cannot look their error in the eye, then even if you put Ji Qikun in prison, it isn't revenge," Wei Zhi said quietly. "It’s just a desperate act of penance to soothe your own soul."
Weng Xiuyue’s massive frame shuddered. Her shoulders slumped as if under an invisible weight. Her hands were clenched so tightly that her knuckles were white, her nails digging into her palms, yet she seemed oblivious to the pain. She glared at Wei Zhi, her eyes burning with a fire that threatened to incinerate everything in sight.
"I am also a daughter," Wei Zhi continued. "So I know that when a daughter encounters such horror and chooses to hide it from her mother, there are only two possibilities."
Beneath Wei Zhi’s calm exterior, her thoughts were a turbulent tide. Memories crashed against the walls of her heart, leaving a bitter resonance. The past flickered like phosphorus in the dark, illuminating scenes she had tried to bury. She loved her mother more than anyone. And her mother loved her just as fiercely. But their love was deep and self-righteous, a love that had pushed them both toward a precipice.
"One is that she knows her mother is powerless, and she hides the truth out of a kind desire to protect her. The other is that she knows her mother will not only fail to understand or support her, but will actually become another source of harm. She hides it to protect herself."
Wei Zhi paused, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Which kind of mother were you, Weng Xiuyue?"
Silence fell over the loft, broken only by Weng Xiuyue’s ragged, sobbing breaths. Tan Mengyan remained a silent shadow by the window, unmoving since Wei Zhi had exposed Weng’s identity. Weng Xiuyue’s lips trembled, her eyes—once full of rage—now overflowing with tears. The tears washed away the anger, leaving behind a raw, visceral agony, as if a mask that had grown into her skin was being forcibly torn away.
She wanted to argue, to deny it, but her emotions betrayed her. The collapse of her composure stifled her voice. Through the haze of her tears, she saw herself thirty years ago.
She saw herself on a hospital bed, embracing the tiny, wrinkled life that had just been torn from her body. The baby had looked comical, eyes squeezed shut, but from that first moment, Weng had decided she would do everything in her power to ensure this child had a "perfect" life. She was only twenty then, a high school graduate working as a receptionist, in love with a man from her hometown. When he found out she was pregnant, he fled, sending her a breakup text from a train.
Everyone told her to get an abortion. She had hesitated, but ultimately chose to give birth. She wanted to prove she could do it alone. She refused to give the girl her father’s name, nor the name of her alcoholic grandfather. She named her "Mei Man"—*Perfect*. She would use Mei Man’s life to prove she wasn't a tragedy.
Because of this resolve, and her burgeoning hatred of men, she rejected all suitors, dedicating herself entirely to her daughter. She became an insurance salesperson, clawing her way from the bottom to become a top earner and eventually a manager. She swallowed every bit of bitterness and every tear. Even when she came home drunk from business dinners, she would lock herself in the bathroom, refusing her daughter’s help, unwilling to let the girl see the shadows beneath the glitz.
Because Mei Man’s life had to be perfect.
Weng Xiuyue’s high standards for herself extended to her daughter. Mei Man had to excel in everything. In exchange for the "best life," Mei Man had to be a "good girl." While other kids played with toys, Mei Man had a mobile phone—with the condition that she report her location every step of the way. If she didn't get the top grade, Weng would spend the night analyzing her failures until the girl promised never to disappoint her again.
"I'm sorry, Mama."
"It’s my fault, Mama."
"Please don't be angry, Mama."
The little girl would carefully wipe away Weng’s tears, swearing to do better. And Weng would hold her, saying, "I'm doing this for your own good, Mei Man. In this world, if you don't study, you have no future. You’ll end up washing dishes, and people will laugh at you—and they’ll laugh at me for failing you..."
Mei Man would nod, perhaps not understanding why washing dishes was so terrifying, but willing to promise anything to stop her mother’s crying. Because she loved her.
"I'm sorry, Master."
"It’s my fault, Master."
"Please don't be angry, Master."
Mei Man had learned to please, to grovel for a conditional love.
In the quiet of the night, Weng’s reason would sometimes pierce through her grief. Was Mei Man’s death truly only Ji Qikun’s fault? If she were the perfect mother she claimed to be, why had her daughter never spoken of her fragility? Or perhaps she had, and Weng had simply failed to listen.
"Mama, are you busy?"
Six months before she jumped, Mei Man had sent a message. Weng had been at a business dinner, drinking until she vomited to secure a major contract. She had typed a brief, distracted reply.
"What is it?"
"I've been feeling troubled lately... I don't know if it's me or the other person."
"Do you have a boyfriend at university?" Weng had ignored the dinner conversation, squinting at the screen. "What did I tell you? Don't date in college. Those boys aren't sincere!"
"I don't have a boyfriend. I'm talking about a friend."
Weng had ignored the correction. "Remember what I said! Even if you like someone, don't sleep with them! You can't have anything 'indecent' happen before marriage, or your life will be ruined!"
"I know, Mama."
Weng couldn't remember what she had replied after that, or if she had replied at all. All that remained of that night was the smell of vomit in a bathroom stall. The truly important things had been pushed aside.
It had always been that way. Only after losing everything did she realize her mistake. Her daughter had reached out for help—and she had failed to catch her hand.
***
