A Letter from Keanu Reeves

The Buddha statue exuded an air of solemnity. Before it, Chen Wan was meticulously flipping through Buddhist scriptures for Song Qingmiao. He was so focused on his task that he didn’t notice the abbot entering the hall.

Zhao Shengge overheard the woman softly calling Chen Wan “baby,” and his expression became somewhat peculiar.

As he walked closer, he finally saw the woman’s face clearly—it was none other than Song Qingmiao, whose fame once shook Haishi.

So, these two weren’t a couple. Although Zhao Shengge’s generation no longer cared much about those bygone stories, buried beneath years of dust, a mix of truth and lies, he vaguely recalled hearing about her from Tan Youming.

Apparently, Chen Wan wasn’t a native of Haishi. Song Qingmiao was from Jiangnan, which explained the gentle, scholarly air about him—like an ink-wash painting of mountains and rivers.

But Zhao Shengge wasn’t the one who thought so; it was Qin Zhaoting who had said it.

Others around him greeted the abbot, and Chen Wan finally looked up. Seeing the figure standing behind the abbot, he sighed inwardly, bracing himself to greet them.

“Abbot, Mr. Zhao.”

Zhao Shengge gave a faint nod. The abbot recognized the two immediately: “Benefactor Song, Benefactor Chen.”

Song Qingmiao had once seen Zhao Shengge from afar at a banquet. Surprised and delighted, she glanced at Chen Wan with a mix of disbelief and pride. She had never imagined that her seemingly unaccomplished son would know someone so prominent.

“Baby, introduce us!”

Hearing that word again, Zhao Shengge raised an eyebrow slightly.

Chen Wan wasn’t paying attention to that; his focus was on Song Qingmiao tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Outwardly, Chen Wan remained composed, but inwardly, something rotten was being slowly unearthed and exposed—a faint sense of shame accompanying it.

He knew Song Qingmiao too well and understood exactly what that small gesture of hers usually meant.

This was precisely why he had a thousand, even ten thousand reasons to avoid letting Song Qingmiao and Zhao Shengge cross paths.

Zhao Shengge wasn’t someone like Chen Bingxin, whose intentions were superficial, nor like Xie Jiajian, who arranged secret meetings behind his family’s back. Zhao Shengge wasn’t one of those men—he wasn’t anyone Song Qingmiao could see through, manipulate, or exploit.

Whatever calculations Song Qingmiao might have would seem utterly laughable, whether she relied on herself or intended to use Chen Wan as a lever.

Her greedy delight, coupled with his ignoble background, was laid bare before Zhao Shengge.

Chen Wan sighed inwardly and introduced them briefly: “This is Mr. Zhao. This is my mother.” He had no intention of saying anything more.

Song Qingmiao said quite a few things, but Chen Wan didn’t really listen. He was quieter than usual.

This was the first time Zhao Shengge had seen Chen Wan’s cold side. Chen Wan had always been warm and considerate, but now there was something unconvincing about his polite smile—it felt insincere, almost forced.

Though unsure of the reason, Zhao Shengge sensed that Chen Wan genuinely didn’t want to linger. Respecting that, he didn’t stay long either. Glancing briefly at his assistant, he turned and left.

His time at Lianjing Temple had already far exceeded his planned schedule—there was no point wasting more of it.

Once Zhao Shengge was gone, Song Qingmiao, noticing her son’s indifferent demeanor, reproached him for lacking social tact.

“You know Zhao Shengge. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Chen Wan’s faint smile disappeared as he turned to look at her. In his eyes was something unfamiliar and unreadable, something deep and composed.

It seemed like a reminder, but in reality, it was a warning—a firm, unyielding warning. His voice was calm, almost chilling in its gentleness.

“We don’t really know each other. Don’t overthink it.”

Song Qingmiao shivered inexplicably, her voice softening as she muttered, “What do you mean? He greeted you, didn’t he?”

In Haishi, how many people could claim to have Zhao Shengge greet them first?

“He didn’t,” Chen Wan replied, his expression one of mild indifference. “He responded out of courtesy. He doesn’t actually know who I am.”

Of course, this was a lie meant to placate Song Qingmiao. Although Chen Wan and Zhao Shengge weren’t particularly close, Zhao Shengge definitely knew who he was.

Song Qingmiao furrowed her delicate brows, about to argue further, but Chen Wan interrupted her first.

“Mom,” he said softly.

It had been a long time since he’d addressed her that way. The word caught Song Qingmiao off guard.

His pitch-black eyes, deep as an abyss, locked onto her. Looking at his beautiful yet greedy mother, Chen Wan patiently advised:

“Demons and devils are not something we can provoke. No amount of praying to the Buddha will help. Don’t you agree?”

Whatever Song Qingmiao desired, he could try his best to provide—be it jewelry, money, or social standing. But Zhao Shengge was off-limits.

Song Qingmiao was silenced. Seeing her son so unusually serious, as though any further discussion might ignite a great conflict, she reluctantly backed down. Yet, in her heart, she began to scheme again.

Meanwhile, Zhao Shengge’s car crossed the Pearl Bridge, just as his assistant’s call came through.

Ever since the shooting incident in Italy two years ago, Zhao Shengge always ensured that his routes outside the city’s center were thoroughly secured in advance. Though the domestic situation was safe, he had far too many enemies.

Through the earpiece, Chen Wan’s voice—gentle and patient—could be heard talking to his mother. Each word was clear and unmissable, traveling straight to Zhao Shengge’s ears.

Listening with an impassive face, Zhao Shengge eventually spoke to the deputy general manager, who was waiting on the other end of a video call.

“The budget for the dock project—don’t you think the numbers seem a little inauspicious? Maybe rework them.”

The overly mild tone made the deputy general manager feel as though he had room to negotiate. As he began explaining, Zhao Shengge was already tuning him out.

One tree passed after another outside the car window, their fleeting shadows casting a solitary air on his shoulders.

Countless speculations about Chen Wan’s motives had crossed his mind before.

And now, the correct answer revealed itself.

Since meeting at the Mazu Temple, Zhao Shengge had been out of sight for a long time—long enough to make Chen Wan a bit uneasy.

This time, however, it seemed to be a meeting with a high level of confidentiality, so much so that even Tan Youming didn’t breathe a word about it. Naturally, Chen Wan couldn’t catch any news either.

Their next encounter happened due to Qin Zhaoting.

During the two-day cruise event, Chen Wan had collected a stack of business cards. Qin Zhaoting even exchanged private contact information with him and invited him to visit his newly opened shooting club.

The club was located on Holland Avenue, taking up nearly a thousand square meters in the prime real estate of Central District. It boasted facilities for shooting, archery, rock climbing, and billiards, among others.

Chen Wan arrived early and even brought a small gift.

“Have you ever tried shooting?” Qin Zhaoting asked.

“No,” Chen Wan replied.

Qin Zhaoting was about to offer to teach him when an off-road vehicle pulled up.

Three people got out.

Shen Zongnian wore his usual impassive expression, while Zhao Shengge was on a phone call. As they passed by, Zhao Shengge seemed not to hear Chen Wan’s polite greeting—or maybe he did and just didn’t respond.

Acting as the chauffeur for the trip, Tan Youming spun his car keys and approached. Pointing at Shen Zongnian’s retreating figure, he remarked, “Half-asleep.” Then, nodding toward Zhao Shengge’s back, he added, “Rude.”

Both Qin Zhaoting and Chen Wan: “…”

The club was sleek and tech-savvy, and today’s activity was laser shooting with ten targets.

The shooting range featured 15 clay target machines. The clay discs moved unpredictably, and shooters could fire in various directions, scoring points based on accuracy.

While selecting gear, someone mentioned the project in Polly Bay. The plan to build a new port spearheaded by Zhao Shengge had already become the talk of Haishi.

Jiang Ying asked Zhao Shengge, “I heard you want to revise the budget?”

Tan Youming, ever the quick talker, answered for him: “He doesn’t like the current numbers—they’re bad luck.”

The room fell silent for a few seconds. Zhao Shengge casually took off a pair of protective goggles, tried them on, and corrected, “That’s Zhao Maozheng’s reasoning. He’s getting old; superstition’s inevitable.”

The group seemed skeptical about this explanation, as it was well-known that the Minglong family patriarch no longer called the shots.

Zhao Shengge added with apparent sincerity, “You wouldn’t want a Titanic-style maiden voyage, would you?”

This shut everyone up.

Many of the people present had family businesses tied to cruise lines or shipping. If the Polly Bay port were indeed built, at least 80% of Haishi’s cargo ships would dock there. With its deep waters, shelter from storms, and long bay line, the port’s capacity would be unmatched.

One person remarked that they’d be the first to test sail when the port opened.

Another joked half-seriously that such opportunities should be earned through competition. While they were all friends, business was business—this was a headline-worthy project.

Chen Wan listened quietly, a tinge of envy surfacing in his heart.

It wasn’t about coveting their wealth; it was an inexplicable sense of admiration for the romance of it all.

Chen Wan was a pragmatic person, but when it came to Zhao Shengge, he couldn’t help indulging in fanciful, romantic notions.

Being the first ship to sail from Zhao Shengge’s harbor—it sounded so alluring.

Only, no matter how hard Chen Wan worked, it was a dream unlikely to come true even in several decades.

Zhao Shengge, ever the unabashed businessman, nodded and said amicably, “Everything’s negotiable. Highest bidder wins.”

“…”

Dressed in a white shooting uniform, he looked even more striking—broad-shouldered, long-legged, standing out effortlessly in the crowd.

He chose a lightweight Voidwing rifle. From aiming to pulling the trigger, he took only 0.3 seconds, hitting the bullseye of the 10-ring target 33 feet away.

The sharp “bang” resounded, with simulated smoke trailing from the digital effects, exuding a bold and unrestrained arrogance.

In that moment, Chen Wan felt as if his very soul had been hit.

Qin Zhaoting walked over and asked, “How’s it going? Enjoying yourself?”

Chen Wan was actually quite skilled with firearms, though he had never shown it.

Qin Zhaoting, a connoisseur himself, patiently introduced him to various gun models and explained the basics of shooting and aiming.

Chen Wan appeared gentle and refined, the type of person who’d never held a gun before. As the host, Qin Zhaoting felt obliged to spend more time with him.

Half-listening out of boredom, Chen Wan smiled and reassured him, “Don’t worry about me; I’ll practice on my own.”

Just then, someone called Qin Zhaoting away. Apologetically, he patted Chen Wan’s shoulder and said, “Let me know if you need anything.”

When accepting the gun, Chen Wan was careful not to touch Qin Zhaoting’s hand. As he looked down, loading the weapon with deliberate focus, he suddenly felt a strange sensation.

Lifting his head abruptly, his pupils contracted in shock—

The muzzle of Zhao Shengge’s gun was aimed squarely at him.