Chapter 2: Aren't We Friends Too?
“My mother and my sister are both dead. Does it still matter whether you were wronged, Qin Yan?”
Qin Yan drove back toward the villa, nearly hitting a streetlamp because she’d zoned out.
Luo Qisheng’s last words to her kept echoing in her ears.
It was true. The loss was too heavy, too painful. What the truth was didn’t matter anymore. At least not to him.
Her car turned onto the villa’s street. Soldiers with rifles stood guard far down the road. She found it sickening.
She spun the wheel around and headed for Ling Manyun’s little apartment instead.
“Kicked out that fast?” Ling Manyun asked. “Didn’t even bring a change of clothes?”
“No.”
Ling Manyun briskly went off to find her a set of pajamas.
The apartment had no kitchen. You had to cook down in the first-floor hallway, so all they could manage was some simple noodle soup.
Soon enough, Ling Manyun brought up two bowls of egg noodle soup, and Qin Yan sat across from her to eat.
She couldn’t get anything down. Her chopsticks just poked at the noodles, over and over.
“…Eat. I have something to tell you. Once you hear it, you’ll lose your appetite completely,” Ling Manyun said.
Qin Yan: “Go ahead. I’ve already lost it.”
“Your husband, Young Marshal Cheng Tianxun, went in and out of Du Zhuojun’s private residence the night before last. Someone got photos,” Ling Manyun said.
So Cheng Tianxun hadn’t come back yesterday. He’d been back the day before.
“Got it.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to say. Du Zhuojun bought the *Nancheng Daily*. She’s pushing vernacular Chinese too, and she’s poaching our lead editors,” Ling Manyun said.
Qin Yan lifted her eyes slightly.
“I checked. She sent people to contact all four of them,” Ling Manyun said.
Qin Yan slowly pushed the noodles around her bowl with her chopsticks. “Du Zhuojun comes from a prestigious family. She made a name for herself young, and plenty of people in literary circles vouch for her. Using fame and money to attract talent—nothing wrong with that.”
“She’s stealing your rice bowl. Men, fine, let her have them. But not the editors,” Ling Manyun said.
Qin Yan fell silent.
She thought she finally understood why Cheng Tianxun wanted a divorce.
There was one thing Qin Yan had never told Ling Manyun: back then, it was the Military Governor’s wife who arranged for Du Zhuojun to study abroad.
Seemed like it was to break up a pair of lovebirds—to separate her from Cheng Tianxun.
Why exactly, Qin Yan wasn’t curious about, so she never bothered looking into it.
“What are you going to do?” Ling Manyun asked again.
Without waiting for an answer, she offered a plan. “I suggest we assassinate her. Solve this at the root. Blocking someone’s wealth is like killing their parents. If you don’t go hard, other papers might start poaching too.”
Then she added, “Back when you promoted vernacular writing, every other paper ganged up to curse you out. Even those cultural big shots chimed in. The things they said were vile.
Now that they see you succeeded, they don’t just want to copy you—they want to dig up your foundation. Do nothing, and your rice bowl gets carried off.”
Qin Yan: “We’re not old-school warlords. Why jump straight to assassination?”
“It’s the most effective method.”
“We use pens, not guns,” Qin Yan said. “I’ll talk to the editors. Anyone who wants a better offer can leave. If I can build them up, I can build up new people too.”
Ling Manyun thought it over and agreed. “I admire your skill. You’ve got the ability. Since you’re confident, stop moping. Eat your noodles.”
Qin Yan still couldn’t eat.
“Want to go out and buy some little cakes?”
Just then, someone knocked.
“Young Madam.”
It was Adjutant Qian’s voice.
Qin Yan went to open the door.
Adjutant Qian clicked his boots together and saluted. “The Young Marshal is here to take you back.”
Qin Yan had no interest in making things hard for anyone. “Coming.”
After saying goodbye to Ling Manyun, Qin Yan headed downstairs.
Her car was parked under a tree at the mouth of the alley.
This area wasn’t prosperous. Only one streetlamp lit the whole block. But the Mid-Autumn Festival in the eighth lunar month was approaching, and the moonlight was bright.
Under the tree, though, it was still dim.
Another car was parked in front of hers. A man leaned back in the rear seat, window rolled down, long legs slightly bent, smoking carelessly.
A scarlet glow flickered faintly. The crisp scent of tobacco drifted through the air.
“Discussing business this late?” Cheng Tianxun asked as Qin Yan got in.
“Just a small matter.” Qin Yan took the out he offered.
“Eaten yet?”
“No. I don’t like egg noodle soup,” Qin Yan said.
“We’ll eat when we get back,” Cheng Tianxun said.
He added, “I told you this morning to give the divorce papers to Lan Zheng. Did you not hear me? Lan Zheng waited all day.”
Qin Yan turned her head slightly to look at him.
The cabin was dark. His expression wasn’t clear.
“…Lan Zheng wants a divorce but doesn’t want his father to know. He asked me to get him an official document with a stamp on it,” Cheng Tianxun said.
Qin Yan: “I really didn’t hear you. I thought it was meant for me.”
Cheng Tianxun: “Nonsense. Why would I give you divorce papers out of nowhere?”
He paused. He seemed to try holding back a tease, but failed. “Is that why you didn’t come home until midnight?”
“Yes,” Qin Yan said.
Cheng Tianxun couldn’t help laughing.
His arm reached over, pulling her heavily into his embrace. “Someone as cold and rigid as you actually lost her composure.”
He tilted her chin up and kissed her lips.
A faint, clean scent of tobacco.
Qin Yan pushed him away, reminding him, “We’re in the car.”
Cheng Tianxun let her go and ordered the adjutant driving up front, “Faster.”
Qin Yan wasn’t coy at all when it came to bedroom matters, but that didn’t mean she lacked standards.
She had plenty of them.
Upstairs in the bedroom, with just a little effort from Cheng Tianxun, she’d melt into his arms and let him pluck her however he pleased. No matter how he switched things up, she never objected.
Every time she was satisfied, she looked like a camellia soaked in morning dew—lush and dripping. It gave Cheng Tianxun quite the sense of accomplishment.
But the moment she came downstairs, her true nature snapped right back: dignified, cold, by the book.
Even a hint of intimacy was off-limits.
Kind of interesting.
“Running away from home” over divorce papers was something Cheng Tianxun hadn’t expected either.
Cheng Tianxun and Lan Zheng used to be pretty close. They hung out well together, even though Lan Zheng was a few years older. But Lan Zheng had studied abroad for several years and only returned a month ago. With so little contact these past few years, the bond had faded.
The divorce papers were ready, stamped with the official seal. Cheng Tianxun was busy today, so he told Qin Yan to call her eldest brother.
Unexpectedly, at five in the afternoon, Lan Zheng called him at the military government asking if it was done.
“Didn’t I have my younger sister give it to you?” Cheng Tianxun said.
Qin Yan was reliable. Cheng Tianxun trusted her.
Lan Zheng froze, his tone suddenly urgent. “Muhe? Why did you give it to her? If you gave it to her, my whole family will know!”
Cheng Tianxun had been in meetings at the military government all day. His head was throbbing, and hearing the name “Muhe,” he blanked out for a second.
For a moment, he couldn’t remember what his wife’s name was.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t “Muhe.”
Cheng Tianxun and Qin Yan didn’t usually keep in touch. After he came back from his garrison, “eating a few full meals” was the entirety of their relationship.
Normally he was busy as hell, playing mind games with the old generals and his brothers. His wife never once crossed his mind.
Honestly speaking, he barely remembered what Qin Yan looked like. Even her name felt a bit unfamiliar.
After a few seconds of silence, Cheng Tianxun finally recalled. “No, I gave it to Qin Yan. Who’s Muhe?”
Lan Zheng went quiet for even longer. “Who’s Qin Yan?”
“How many younger sisters do you have?”
“One. My father has three brothers. My grandmother has seven grandsons and only one granddaughter—Lan Muhe,” Lan Zheng said.
Cheng Tianxun thought the guy had a hole in his brain.
He’d married the Chief of Staff’s daughter. The wedding was already done.
“…Is Muhe your childhood name?” he asked Qin Yan.
Qin Yan: “No.”
Cheng Tianxun: ?