Chen Qingyu had only recently returned to China.
Prior to that, he had been living in New York, serving as the personal bodyguard to the influential financial tycoon, Mr. Luo Fei Wilson.
Twenty years ago, Mr. Wilson was invited to China to attend the full moon banquet of his friend’s eldest son. On the return journey from the cruise ship, fate took an unexpected turn. It so happened that a migration of fish was passing through, and a fishing net was cast into the waters. However, instead of catching the precious bluefin tuna, the net ensnared something far more unexpected—Chen Qingyu, who was seriously injured and drifting in the high seas.
When Wilson’s men informed him of the discovery, his initial reaction was to dismiss it with a wave of his hand. He was, after all, too indifferent to meddle in others’ affairs. If it had been an ordinary drowning victim, perhaps he would have offered a casual rescue. But this person bore gunshot and knife wounds, with traces of head trauma—evidence that he had been thrown far into the ocean, a clear sign of trouble.
Yet, the translator, unable to bear seeing his compatriot vanish into the depths, cleverly persuaded Wilson to reconsider. “Sir,” he urged softly, “according to traditional Chinese customs, it’s not appropriate to shed blood on festive days. Today is the full moon of Miss Cheng Yun’s son. Why not save him? It might even bring blessings to her young master.”
Hearing this, Wilson raised a hand slightly, signaling his men to act. He was not one to shy away from trouble—on the contrary, he despised it, yet he was unafraid of facing it.
Thanks to Wilson’s wealth and influence, Chen Qingyu was swiftly given the best medical treatment and pulled back from the brink of death. However, the head injury was severe, and as a result, he lost most of his memory. All he could vaguely recall was that his name was Chen Qingyu.
Wilson ordered his men to verify Chen Qingyu’s identity, but the results were disappointing: there was no record of anyone matching that name.
“It seems I’ve saved a liar,” Wilson mused, lowering his gaze to scrutinize the young man. Suspicion flickered in his eyes—perhaps Chen Qingyu was pretending to have amnesia to deceive him. “Even if you’re lying, you’ll still owe me for the cost of saving you. Do you understand how much I’ve spent?”
The astronomical medical bills caused Chen Qingyu’s eyes to darken suddenly.
Wilson, noticing his reaction, smiled kindly but firmly reminded him, “Just remember—those expenses are in US dollars.”
Chen Qingyu remained silent.
In order to settle the enormous debt, he had no choice but to stay with Wilson and work it off.
Later, Wilson was targeted in an assassination attempt; all his bodyguards were killed. The gunfire and bloodshed triggered Chen Qingyu’s muscle memory. In that moment of chaos, he instinctively led Wilson out of the siege alone.
It was then that Wilson truly understood the phrase “accumulate virtue and blessings,” as spoken by the translator.
Despite his amnesia, Chen Qingyu’s instinct to protect Wilson, and his ability to fight fiercely in critical moments, hinted at a past filled with secrets. He tried to recover his memories and sought help from the embassy, but, unfortunately, they could find no trace of his personal information.
In a sense, he had become an illegal resident—his entire identity concealed during his undercover missions. All of his personal details were hidden away like dusty secrets, beyond the reach of even Mr. Wilson’s resources.
With nowhere else to turn, Chen Qingyu was forced to remain by Wilson’s side.
Over the years, he had saved Wilson more than once. In gratitude and trust, Wilson not only regarded him as a confidant but also helped him obtain the status of an M citizen.
He had established new social ties and enjoyed a stable, prosperous life. Yet, despite all this, an unshakable feeling persisted—he knew he had something vital to accomplish.
Sometimes, in the quiet hours of midnight, fleeting fragments of memories would drift through his mind—disjointed and elusive, like flowers shrouded in fog. No matter how hard he tried to grasp them, they vanished upon waking, leaving only the echo of their presence.
The recurring motif in his dreams was a tall building—opulent, dazzling, and bustling with guests. One moment, the scene was intoxicatingly vivid; the next, it was engulfed in wind and fire, the lights dimming as chaos erupted.
In those dreams, a faceless figure stood behind him, wielding a cold, sharp blade that pierced his heart.
Wilson had once told him that, when he found Chen Qingyu, he bore a fatal knife wound on his back.
Strangely, Chen Qingyu was highly skilled—never exposing his back to enemies—so the origin of that wound remained a mystery. The attacker, he suspected, was someone he deeply trusted: a betrayal hidden beneath layers of loyalty.
He had been defenseless, drawn to the very person who betrayed him. And now, he knew he had to return to that place—both to recover his lost memories and to confront his enemy.
Wilson supported this decision wholeheartedly. He even arranged for people to search in China for the mysterious dream-building.
The search spanned ten long years until, finally, they found it: the site of Yaotai Langyuan, the largest brothel in Beijing two decades ago.
Once a place of grandeur and lively entertainment, with elegant ladies and bustling crowds, it was now overgrown with weeds and abandoned, a ghostly shell of its former self.
Chen Qingyu wandered around these ruins for several days, yet neither his memories nor his enemies revealed themselves. The place felt cursed—ominous and empty—so much so that even the old women who scavenged nearby avoided it, and no one else dared approach.
However, that long-abandoned ruin suddenly came alive tonight.
From a distance, Chen Qingyu saw faint lights flickering within the ruins. Without hesitation, he advanced, umbrella in hand, seeking to uncover the mystery.
As he moved toward his destination, obstacles appeared—small, insignificant barriers. Yet, under the coordinated efforts of his force, they were swiftly cleared.
Walking slowly out of the rain, Chen Qingyu’s gaze was drawn to a pair of hands attempting to pry open a window. It was then that he realized he might have inadvertently entered a scene of illegal detention.
He observed that the kidnappers had locked the hostages in the basement. The hostages, desperate to escape, were attempting to break through a skylight—hoping to breathe freely once more.
It became clear that the “blockade” outside was merely a watchful guard.
Seeing their struggle, Chen Qingyu stepped forward, intending to offer help. However, the hostage unexpectedly called him “Old Man.”
He stiffened, then corrected himself quietly, No—just call me ‘Dad.’ What does adding the word ‘Old’ mean? It’s too presumptuous.
Lowering his eyes, Chen Qingyu regarded the scene before him, contemplating his next move.
The young man who claimed to be his son had dark eyebrows and eyes, giving him a cunning and intelligent appearance. Yet, beneath that sharpness, there lingered a stubbornness—one that wouldn’t yield until he slammed against a metaphorical south wall. Not only did he insist on recognizing him as his father, but he also clung to Chen Qingyu’s trouser legs, refusing to let go. Because he had lost the memory of the first half of his life, in Chen Qingyu’s perception, his timeline began twenty years ago. Consequently, although his physical age continued to advance, he always felt psychologically as if he were in his twenties.
Therefore, when Chen Zemian looked at Chen Qingyu clearly, his first reaction was, “How could I have a son as old as you?”
Chen Zemian’s voice was firm. “Now, you do.”
Chen Qingyu, clearly reluctant, responded, “But I haven’t been back to China in twenty years. Do you really have twenty?”
Chen Zemian was taken aback. He grabbed Chen Qingyu’s wrist sharply. “You haven’t been back to China for twenty years? Then where did all those years go? Why are you here now?”
Chen Qingyu let out a soft hiss, twisting his wrist backward and swiftly freeing his hand in an instant.
Chen Zemian, quick as a serpent, turned his hand against Chen Qingyu’s arm, his wrist as flexible as a snake’s, gripping tightly.
The two exchanged rapid moves, back and forth, their actions almost a blur.
At this familiar exchange, Chen Qingyu felt a flicker of doubt. “Are you really my son? But I never taught you these moves.”
Chen Zemian waved his hand, beckoning Chen Qingyu closer to his ear.
Curiosity burned within Chen Qingyu—no less than Chen Zemian’s—driving him to lean in toward the ground, eager to listen.
Lowering his voice, Chen Zemian said, “I am your son from another time and space. You didn’t teach me these techniques, but I know everything. I know all about you. If you don’t believe me, you can ask me.”
Hearing this, Chen Qingyu’s eyebrows furrowed slightly. “Who stabbed me here twenty years ago?”
Without hesitation, Chen Zemian replied, “Guan Yu. His English name is Kevin. He’s a waiter at Yaotai Langyuan and the lover of the second boss.”
******
It was also a rainy day. The long-anticipated clearing operation was finally underway. Police forces from across the city had been dispatched, their flashing lights piercing through the rain. Gunfire and thunder echoed in a fierce battle—constant, relentless. Flames soared, consuming Yaotai Langyuan completely. Suspects either surrendered or were shot dead; the scene was engulfed in chaos and fire.
Despite assurances that all hostages had been transferred, Chen Qingyu could not contact Guan Yu. He was uncertain whether Guan Yu was still inside Yaotai Langyuan or somewhere hidden away.
There were several secret rooms in the basement, disconnected from the main building—hidden chambers where the second boss sometimes vented his anger by locking Guan Yu away.
Chen Qingyu knew he had to go back alone. He couldn’t risk exposing his colleagues to the flames or letting others see Guan Yu’s battered, humiliated face after the torture.
He tracked down Guan Yu.
In an instant, Guan Yu appeared behind him, stabbing him in the back with quick, precise movements.
This move—a deadly technique Chen Qingyu himself had taught Guan Yu after long practice—had been perfected over countless repetitions. Only now, it was executed with near-perfection, as if the straw dummy had been the second boss himself.
Chen Qingyu felt the cold first, then the searing pain.
Before losing consciousness, the last words he heard were:
“You are late.”
*****
Coupled with Chen Zemian’s narration, this moment finally lifted the veil from Chen Qingyu’s memories—those buried deep within his subconscious. The dusty past slowly resurfaced, echoing with everything that had transpired.
Though not all memories had returned, he understood why he had come back.
“I am indeed too late,” he murmured softly, holding his umbrella with one hand. He slowly rose to his feet, gazing at the tall building that had lost its familiar scenery. “Twenty years late.”
“Whether it’s too late or not can wait,” Chen Zemian immediately interrupted, noticing the expression on Chen Qingyu’s face. He understood the other was preparing to face the boss alone. “Dad, can you get me out first? My neck’s sore from tilting my head up for so long.”
Chen Qingyu hesitated, then reluctantly accepted the nickname. “Do you want to go out through the top or the front door?”
Chen Zemian paused, seemingly considering the question. “Is there a difference?”
Supporting his knee with one hand, Chen Qingyu leaned in, asking as if addressing a three-year-old, “Would you prefer to climb out from the skylight, or shall I break through this building and carry you out from the front?”
Chen Zemian pointed at the window frame. “Just take that down.”
Nodding, Chen Qingyu instructed Chen Zemian to step back.
Obediently, Chen Zemian moved away.
Both of them—father and son—knew how to leverage the opponent’s strength. Chen Zemian’s tactic was to use his weight to lift the railing, while Chen Qingyu’s approach was to stomp on the window frame with his own force.
He stepped onto the window frame.
Suddenly, a tremendous force erupted—heavy as a thousand pounds. The wood twisted and shattered beneath the pressure. The window frame cracked with a sharp sound and teetered on the edge.
The connection couldn’t hold. The frame detached from the window, falling swiftly.
The heavy, solid wood hit the ground with a deafening crash. The loud noise echoed through the building’s silent halls, likely alerting the gangsters on the first floor—unless they were deaf.
Not wanting to risk revealing their position, Chen Zemian immediately leaned over, reaching out to grab the falling frame.
But at that moment, he felt a powerful drag behind him—something lifting him from the beam.
The window frame brushed past his fingers and plummeted to the ground.
Chen Qingyu, with swift strength, grabbed the back of Chen Zemian’s neck and, using his formidable arm, pulled him out of the window just in time.
Chen Zemian stared silently, the expression unspoken.
— * — * — * — * — *
TL:
Cat MianMian, grab by the back of his neck: Meow? 🐱
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Author: LazyHermitGal
A Lazy Hermit Gal wondering in the void and falling into the translation abyss.
