HGG - 33

Chi Chong committed suicide.

This was the truth Chi Yu had been desperately seeking, the evidence that Shan Jingyi used to drive a wedge between their sibling relationships. It was also the secret that Chi Zhao and his father had agreed to conceal.

People have flaws, but Chi Chong, the eldest son of the Chi family, did not.

Chi Chong was perfect. He consistently ranked first in school during his academic years, graduated from a top domestic university, and pursued advanced studies in the U.S. There were no scandals about him, his lifestyle was impeccable, and he had been with his first love for many years—a match made in societal heaven.

In the eyes of elders, he was a considerate and outstanding heir; to his younger brothers, he was a gentle and mature older brother; and in public opinion, Chi Chong was the irreplaceable leader of Chongming Culture.

Before Chongming changed its name, it was called Chi Corporation. At the Chi family banquets back then, Chi Chong often performed piano recitals. His playing was melodious and powerful, captivating everyone who heard it. No one didn’t adore him, especially his two younger brothers.

Young Chi Yu would occasionally mutter while looking at such a brother: “It’s as if Venus herself kissed him.”

Chi Zhao stood beside him, glanced at their second brother, and then continued watching their eldest brother play.

“What a painful sound,” the youth remarked.

Sometimes, Chi Chong would drape an arm around Chi Yu’s shoulder or ruffle Chi Zhao’s hair, saying: “Success is important, but if you’re not happy, then success means nothing.”

And yet, this flawless Chi Chong chose to end his life.

He drove his car through a guardrail and into the sea. Chongming claimed it was an accident, presenting the autopsy report and evidence of brake failure in his sports car.

With that, everything was settled.

Before heading to the station to catch the bus back, Song Yi took Chi Zhao to browse the morning market in town.

He sipped milk through a straw, following Song Yi as she wandered among the various stalls. Spotting one particular shop, Chi Zhao paused, picking up an item from the display outside.

It was a children’s stationery store.

Though called a stationery store, it sold all sorts of miscellaneous items—trading cards boys loved, magic wands girls adored, and even scented erasers shaped like perfume bottles displayed at the entrance.

Song Yi stopped, turned back, and reminded him: “Mr. Chi, we still have to pick up Grandma later, so we can’t linger too long.”

“Mm,” Chi Zhao picked up a fairy wand colored pink, blue, and purple intertwined together. “I want to buy this.”

Song Yi glanced at the magical prop and paid for it without hesitation.

As they were about to leave, a little girl and her mother approached. They wanted to buy the same fairy wand, but the girl puffed out her cheeks and asked: “Is this the real thing?”

The local folk were honest, and the shopkeeper, chuckling warmly, said: “Ah, I just stocked it casually—I’m not sure.”

Chi Zhao suddenly spoke up. “It’s real,” he said.

He skillfully flipped the wand over, revealing a fabric tag at the bottom. “If it says ‘Clara’ here, then it’s authentic.”

The girl was startled but thanked him nonetheless.

As they walked away from the shop and headed back, Song Yi couldn’t help but comment: “You know quite a lot about this.”

“Mm,” Chi Zhao replied, casually fiddling with the fairy wand. “This is merchandise from the first domestic TV series of this genre.”

He shared some industry stories.

When the magical girl TV series was being produced, the budget was low. After its initial broadcast garnered good feedback, toy manufacturers approached them to discuss merchandise production.

However, that year, there was an incident where a child was injured by a defective toy. The matter caused a huge uproar, leading to strict inspections of toy manufacturers. The person in charge of the magical girl series, fearing similar incidents might affect the sequel’s production, declined the licensing request.

But alas, things didn’t go as planned. Even without official merchandise, the young viewers’ desire for magic wands couldn’t be suppressed, and pirated versions flooded the market.

Moreover, the sequel failed to pass review for various reasons.

“Reclaiming copyright might bring compensation, but who knows? There are too many counterfeiters. And lawsuits cost money,” Chi Zhao said. “They were about to give up, but luckily, they secured an investment. Though it didn’t bring much back.”

Investment?

Song Yi remained silent, taking the plastic packaging of the fairy wand from Chi Zhao.

“In short, piracy is devastating to legitimate products,” Chi Zhao said. “Thankfully, in gaming, domestic awareness of copyright has improved compared to a few years ago.”

She knew she didn’t need to respond. However, as Chi Zhao suddenly began discussing games, she couldn’t help but gaze at his calm profile, wondering what he intended to do.

Chi Zhao didn’t plan to explain, and she didn’t ask.

After walking a few more steps, Song Yi noticed the instructions inside the fairy wand’s packaging. She casually took it out and, flipping through, saw a line of text on the last page.

“Special thanks to Chongming Games for supporting this product.”

Song Yi looked up, quietly gazing at Chi Zhao’s back.

A TV series whose sequel was aborted, yielding no returns—why would anyone invest in them?

Song Yi vaguely understood something.

But there was still much she didn’t know.

For instance, Miss Wu Qi Qi’s grand arrival.

Unlike Song Yi, Jenny, and Zhou Shuhua, if one were to describe Zhan Heqing’s impression of Wu Qi Qi using a line from a novel, it would undoubtedly be—”Woman! You’re playing with fire!”

Since their second meeting, Zhan Heqing couldn’t resist clicking into Wu Qi Qi’s live stream.

She was indeed signed to a small platform, a rookie streamer with average popularity. Her live stream room was named “Autumn Won’t Return.” Like other full-time female streamers, Wu Qi Qi played games, sang, ate, and engaged in other daily activities during her streams.

At first, when Zhan Heqing entered, he only intended to check on her work situation and send her some gifts, helping out wherever possible.

No ulterior motives—he really wasn’t there to watch her stream!

First, Zhan Heqing registered an account.

Initially, he planned to use his usual ID, “Youth Digest,” but hesitated. What if someone recognized him? That would be embarrassing.

So Zhan Heqing pondered changing his name.

“Green Green Grassland.” No, that revealed his tragic pursuit of Zhou Shuhua. Too sad, inappropriate.

How about “Youth With You”? But upon entering it, he found it was already taken.

Finally, Zhan Heqing successfully registered under the name “Liu Qing, Owner of Huibinlou.”

As soon as he entered the live stream, Zhan Heqing was startled. Wu Qi Qi was peeling pineapples. Without delay, he sent her a wave of gifts and heard her laughingly look up at the screen: “Thank you, ‘Liu Qing, Owner of Huibinlou’!”

Wow!

I’ve been acknowledged!

Zhan Heqing sat solemnly in front of the screen, a sense of pride swelling within him.

Just as he was about to type a response, his phone rang downstairs. It was an employee from the tech department he was close with, speaking in an excited tone: “Vice President, hurry! The art department’s about to fight!”

Unlike Chi Zhao, who was universally considered “terrifying,” Zhan Heqing’s image among subordinates was more approachable. While this had its advantages, it also came with drawbacks.

For instance, trivial matters like this sometimes couldn’t be avoided.

Helplessly, Zhan Heqing set aside the live stream, adjusted his tie, and went downstairs. Upon arriving, he saw several employees from the design department standing in the reception area outside the office, their factions clearly divided.

Most of the female staff stood on one side, while Zhou Shuhua stood on the other, surrounded by male colleagues consoling her.

Zhan Heqing approached and asked: “What’s going on?”

The lead artist, who had been with the company for a long time and was familiar with upper management, spoke first: “Mr. Zhan, every time we rush deadlines, she gets sick. Everyone works themselves to death while she rests, and after the project ends, she still takes a share of the profits. Once or twice is fine, but she does this every single time.”

Before Zhan Heqing could respond, Zhou Shuhua began to sniffle, her eyes red, seemingly on the verge of tears: “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. Give me your account details—I’ll transfer the money to you right now.”

“You should all calm down,” a male artist interjected. “Actually, Shuhua never said she wanted it. It was us, well, us guys thinking that our art team is a collective. We should support and help each other. Who would’ve thought these sisters…”

Upon hearing this, Zhou Shuhua lowered her head and began to sob softly.

Beneath her arms, her harmonious and serene face expressed deep sorrow.

Crying was something Zhou Shuhua excelled at. Blessed with natural beauty, she had enjoyed privileges as both a woman and a beauty since childhood.

Zhou Shuhua wasn’t a shortsighted fool. Along the way, she gradually deduced the rules of advancement.

The differences between men and women are innate, and it’s natural for women to step on men to get ahead. Controlling men was effortless for her.

Tears were a woman’s sharpest weapon. Instead of strength, women should embody fragility and pitifulness.

Still, she wasn’t without mistakes. For instance, now, she had carelessly let her guard down again, ignoring the feelings of her female colleagues.

But so what? As long as those in power were men, the imbalance between genders would remain irrelevant. With Zhan Heqing present, it was even less of an issue.

The only obstacle she hadn’t overcome recently was Chi Zhao.

Even so, Zhou Shuhua remained confident.

He had let her ride in his car, driven her home, and dismissed his secretary at her request. Winning him over was only a matter of time.

She focused on crying, unaware that Zhan Heqing had begun considering whether to exercise his authority to directly terminate an employee.

It was a critical period, and they couldn’t afford to shake morale over such trivial matters.

Just as he was about to speak, his phone suddenly rang.

As the vice president answered the call, the previously noisy crowd fell silent. Zhan Heqing pressed the phone to his ear, listened attentively, responded briefly, and then hung up.

“Chi Zhao’s back,” Zhan Heqing announced.

Security personnel stationed at the entrance nodded respectfully to the newcomer. The receptionist, who had been on the phone, covered the receiver to greet him. Others in the lobby instinctively lowered their voices and moved aside. The secretary pressed the button for the private elevator and politely said: “Mr. Chi, please.”

He held a Chinese domestic cat in one hand. Whether it was his impeccably tailored suit or his strikingly radiant appearance, Chi Zhao exuded an air of relaxed arrogance.

He had returned. The office, which had been embroiled in heated arguments, immediately quieted. Was the preparation for the charging operations complete? Was the summary finalized? Did the new server opening date need adjustment?

Despite the earlier uproar, everyone’s minds now focused solely on work.

But before the crowd could disperse, the elevator doors opened. Stepping out, Chi Zhao held a fairy wand in his hand.

He didn’t greet everyone immediately but slowly approached, inspecting each person with a smile amid the unusual silence.

“You.” The fairy wand pointed at the male artist who had spoken earlier.

As Chi Zhao approached, the employees instinctively made way. He used the magical girl prop to point at several people: “You, you, you, you.”

Finally, he looked at Zhou Shuhua, whose eyes shimmered with tears.

“And you,” his smile perfectly intact, Chi Zhao enunciated each word like a magic spell: “Fired.”

Some were surprised, others gasped, and some weren’t shocked at all.

For a trendy gaming company constantly chasing and even leading trends, employee turnover was routine.

The lead artist sighed in relief, crossing his arms and directing an approving gaze at Chi Zhao. This was Chongyou—this was Chi Zhao.

Chi Zhao turned and handed the fairy wand to Zhan Heqing: “Settle their wages today.”

Without hesitation, he carried Tree Frog upstairs. Zhou Shuhua, stunned, finally rushed forward in disbelief: “President Chi! Mr. Chi! Could there be some misunderstanding? I…”

Her words faltered, and Zhou Shuhua couldn’t take another step forward.

Because Song Yi stood in her way.