A few days later, the Spring Festival arrived. Jing Hong worked straight through until six o’clock on the evening of New Year’s Eve before personally driving a Mercedes to Jing Haiping’s place to celebrate the New Year.

The driver had long since returned to his hometown for the holidays.

Jing Hong’s grandparents on his father’s side had passed away over a decade ago, while his maternal grandparents and uncles lived in a small city abroad. Jing Hong’s immediate family gathered with his paternal uncles and cousins every New Year’s Day, leaving New Year’s Eve as a simple, intimate affair.

The moment he stepped into the house, Jing Hong saw that the New Year’s Eve dinner was already set on the dining table—prepared in advance by a private chef team. Aunt Fu had also returned to her daughter’s home, and a bottle of red wine was decanting off to the side.

Jiang Mei was once again listening to a “domineering CEO” romance novel. Jing Hong heard their home’s smart assistant reciting aloud: “While waiting for the ambulance, though Fu Xingran was drenched in blood, he miraculously paid no heed to his broken leg. Instead, he sat casually by the roadside, boredom driving him to build a house out of dozens of black cards—” With artificial intelligence analyzing the semantic emotion, the narration was delivered with impressive flair and feeling.

Seeing Jing Hong walk in, Jing Haiping said to Jiang Mei, “Quick, your son is back. Ask your son to demonstrate how to build a house with dozens of black cards.”

Jiang Mei replied, “Is my son sick in the head?”

“Your son doesn’t know how to do that,” Jing Hong chimed in, smiling faintly as he added, “Mom, Dad, I’m back.”

Jing Hong still preferred meeting and chatting face-to-face like this. Over the phone, Jing Haiping always carried that overly authoritative air of a CEO. Every message was either “Son, Aunt Fu asks if we can arrange a family gathering on Sunday, reply ASAP” or “Son, you won this acquisition beautifully. Your mother expresses great pride.” In short, it felt strange.

Though at home, on occasion, Jing Haiping would bring up things Jing Hong preferred not to mention.

The food, however, was exceptionally delicious.

Steamed leopard coral grouper, plum sauce pork ribs, Wagyu beef cubes, Liaoning sea cucumbers, and so on, alongside several plates of piping-hot dumplings served with dipping sauces and finely minced garlic.

Whether intentionally or not, after a few glasses of red wine and exchange of New Year blessings, Jing Haiping brought up the topic Jing Hong had been reluctant to address.

“Jing Hong,” Jing Haiping began, “Yang Shuo… did you fire her?”

Jing Hong’s chopsticks paused slightly. “I didn’t fire her.”

Yang Shuo was Jing Hong’s cousin, the daughter of Jing Haiping’s eldest brother. This eldest uncle had a son and a daughter separated by a few years. The son took his father’s surname and was named Jing Bo, while the daughter took her mother’s surname and was named Yang Shuo—their names incorporating the characters for “doctorate” (博) and “master’s degree” (硕), fully reflecting their father’s intense desire for his children to succeed.

Yang Shuo had actually been fired by Zhang Li.

When Zhang Li was poached from Qinghui during the forum, her sole condition was control over entertainment department personnel, which Jing Hong granted. The authority over staffing resided with her, not the company’s central Human Resources department.

Yang Shuo held a director-level position and was reportedly quite domineering. A while back, Zhang Li had criticized Yang Shuo over an issue, but instead of accepting the criticism, Yang Shuo claimed to be “one of Jing Hong’s people.” Zhang Li paused for a moment—yet merely a few seconds later, she ordered her to resign and leave. Yang Shuo threw a fit, yelling that she was Jing Hong’s cousin and the former CEO’s niece. Zhang Li had been somewhat caught off guard, not expecting the familial relation to be so close. However, things had progressed to a point where backing down would utterly destroy her authority, so she fired her anyway.

After the incident, Zhang Li approached Jing Hong directly. She explained the situation and added that if she couldn’t manage her subordinates, she couldn’t do her job; if Jing Hong disapproved, she could return to Qinghui and go back to President Zhou.

At the time, Jing Hong had said, “It’s fine, keep going.”

Having poached her himself and given a firm commitment, Jing Hong could not go back on his word.

Besides, he shouldn’t be interfering recklessly with matters within a subordinate’s designated scope of authority. Doing so would truly render her position unworkable. What would be the point of going to such lengths to poach top talent, only to park a relative beside her to meddle in operations?

Furthermore, Jing Hong found the idea of Zhang Li returning to Zhou Chang’s side unacceptable. It would make him look like he had lost.

Jing Hong carefully explained the situation to Jing Haiping, concluding: “Family is family, but I cannot trade Fanhai’s personnel decisions for personal favors. I am myself, and Fanhai is Fanhai. As I’ve said before, today’s business landscape is different from twenty years ago, and different from ten years ago.”

Wolves surrounded them on all sides. A single careless slip could get them dragged down.

Jing Haiping remained silent for a moment before continuing: “I also heard… Fanhai has been getting particularly close to Jing Bo’s competitor, Xianglong Live, recently?”

Jing Hong already felt the dumpling in his mouth lose its flavor. Wanting to brush it off, he replied, “You could say that.”

Previously, while Jing Haiping’s niece Yang Shuo was at Fanhai, his nephew Jing Bo was pursuing an entrepreneurial venture in specialized game live-streaming, which naturally received investment from Fanhai.

In the live-streaming sector, Qinghui’s platform currently led the pack as a comprehensive player, as did Fanhai. However, both giants had also invested in specialized game live-streaming platforms: Fanhai backed Jing Bo’s “Wujie Live,” while Qinghui backed “Xianglong Live.”

Relying on Fanhai’s “inside track,” Jing Bo’s business had fared quite well. For instance, Jing Haiping would inform him of games Fanhai was pouring heavy capital into and planning to push heavily, prompting Jing Bo to immediately contact streamers of similar games, sign them on, and prioritize streaming Fanhai’s upcoming title to seize the first-mover advantage. As a result, Jing Bo’s platform operated rather smoothly.

Recently, however, things had quietly shifted.

Qinghui began aggressively developing the gaming sector of its own main platform. Previously, because Qinghui held a stake in Xianglong Live, Zhou Chang had avoided internal cannibalization. Now, however, Zhou Chang’s style was fierce; he believed invested platforms could never match proprietary ones, and his internal team had indeed built up real momentum.

This left Qinghui-backed Xianglong Live feeling insecure. Knowing that Qinghui Group’s resources would inevitably tilt toward its own proprietary product rather than its portfolio investments, Xianglong realized it was no longer the favored child and was about to be discarded by its parent company. Consequently, it leaned toward Fanhai.

Yet Fanhai already owned Jing Bo’s Wujie Live and would not invest in two competing platforms. Thus, for Xianglong Live, the only narrow path to joining the Fanhai empire was a merger with Wujie Live.

Xianglong Live’s CEO fought with everything he had to achieve this goal. He desperately curried favor with Fanhai, hoping Fanhai would buy them out, while Qinghui had also promised to let go.

First, this CEO purchased a massive volume of ad space across various Fanhai apps, channeling money to Fanhai as a way to clear the path and prove his loyalty.

He then rented a room at a hotel near Fanhai’s headquarters, meeting daily with Fanhai executives to share proprietary data and pitch joint projects… Articulate, personable, sharp, and seemingly devoted, he gradually won over many within Fanhai. Jing Hong had met him several times and similarly felt this CEO possessed superior capabilities and that Xianglong Live was developing better, whereas Jing Bo’s abilities were thoroughly ordinary—previously chosen only because there were no other options.

“Yes,” Jing Hong set down his chopsticks directly and said, “They will merge. But after the merger, Jing Bo will not be the CEO; the other person will.”

Jing Haiping: “…”

“A merger is the optimal solution,” Jing Hong added. “If Jing Bo refuses, Fanhai will divest all its shares in Wujie during its next funding round.”

Hearing this, Jing Haiping’s expression shifted. “Divesting Wujie’s shares means… switching to support Xianglong and abandoning Wujie? From now on, Fanhai and Wujie will be enemies?”

“…If you insist on framing it that way,” Jing Hong said. “After divesting, Fanhai will cut off all support for Wujie. If we invest in Xianglong Live, Fanhai must be accountable to Xianglong and go all out against other gaming live-streaming platforms. We cannot support both sides simultaneously—that would just be wasting money.”

“Then can Wujie even survive? Aren’t you being too ruthless, President Jing?” Jing Haiping, having been a major corporate figure for over two decades, spoke with formidable authority. “You are effectively blocking Wujie, joining hands with Qinghui to strangle it! Trapped in the tight squeeze between Fanhai and Qinghui’s competition, how can it survive? Are you teaming up with Qinghui to deal with your own cousin?”

“If you insist on framing it that way,” Jing Hong repeated quietly. On New Year’s Eve, he was already feeling somewhat displeased. “Gaming revenue accounts for a massive portion of Fanhai’s profits, and gaming live-streaming is directly tied to the gaming business—it’s a matter of life and death, absolutely critical. It’s completely different from other products.”

Pausing for a few seconds, Jing Hong softened his tone as much as possible before adding: “I advise Jing Bo to opt for the merger. In the tech industry, companies merge and split all the time; markets shift from fragmentation to consolidation and back again—it’s completely normal. Jing Bo simply won’t be the CEO anymore.”

“…Leaving won’t be something Jing Bo accepts easily; that company is his life’s work.” Cooling down from the initial shock of learning Jing Hong intended to crush Wujie, Jing Haiping realized Jing Hong’s logic was sound, and his tone weakened slightly. “Jing Bo and Yang Shuo are my nephew and niece after all. Now this…”

“Dad,” Jing Hong said, “we have never mistreated them all these years. Eldest Uncle’s supermarket chain is operated by Fanhai Group—how much money has he made by now? As for the next generation, his daughter joined Fanhai Group and reached a level where she can land an executive position anywhere she goes. His son received Fanhai’s investment, and Fanhai has supported his company all the way to this day. As long as he agrees to the merger, his equity will be worth a fortune. I can only say that at this stage, neither of them meets my standards for a ‘director’ or a ‘subsidiary CEO.'”

“…” Jing Haiping fell silent for a moment, then tried to persuade him once more: “Why don’t you reconsider? It’s not just a matter of cousinly affection. Your eldest uncle still holds that supermarket chain, and I’m worried their family might use it to cause trouble.”

Jing Hong: “…”

Back then, seeing Jing Haiping succeed in his business venture, Jing Tianping had become eager to jump in, eventually choosing the retail industry. However, the family’s supermarket chain had always been handed over to Fanhai for management, with Fanhai collecting management fees.

Over the past two years, interaction between the two sides had deepened—for instance, to beat Qinghui’s fresh grocery business while saving on storage and transportation costs, Jing Hong had utilized those supermarkets as “frontline warehouses” for fresh produce, storing items in the supermarkets’ refrigerators and freezers prior to delivery without building new warehouses. In other words, those supermarkets were now directly linked to Fanhai’s fresh produce and other products.

Hearing Jing Haiping’s words, Jing Hong thought to himself: Isn’t that the mess the two of you created in the first place? His eldest uncle’s family had been clinging to Fanhai for how many years now, leeching off Fanhai for how long? The potential troubles were endless.

Jing Hong had always believed that affection was affection, and business was business. They had a responsibility to shareholders, employees, and customers.

However, Jing Hong also knew that Jing Haiping’s family was a traditional “extended family.” His grandmother had managed everything back in the day, holding Jing Hong’s hand when she was in her nineties and saying, “You must look after your younger brothers and sisters; look after the whole family.”

As for Jing Hong himself, he shared a good relationship with his cousin Jing Yu from his second uncle’s family, but his relationship with Jing Bo and Yang Shuo from his eldest uncle’s family had always been ordinary.

“Alright. I’ll think about it again.” On New Year’s Eve, Jing Hong picked up his chopsticks once more. “Dad, Mom, let’s eat.”

Jiang Mei had long wanted to drop the subject and immediately said, “Let’s eat, let me eat, it’s almost getting cold.”

While eating, Jiang Mei changed the subject: “Jing Hong, do you have someone you like yet? Or is there anyone who likes you? How about Mom gives you some input?”

“…” Jing Hong recalled Zhou Chang asking “do you want to be together?” and thought: If I said “Zhou Chang,” would Jing Haiping and Jiang Mei faint right here on New Year’s Eve?

After finishing the meal, Jing Hong unlocked his phone screen and found a barrage of New Year greetings sent by various company executives, partner CEOs, investment targets, IT peers, financial journalists, and many others.

Jing Hong selectively replied to a few.

Jiang Rengui truly lived up to his background as a sales leader. He had written a lengthy year-end summary expressing gratitude and blessings to clients, even instructing all cloud computing employees to forward it immediately, creating an impressive display across social media.

Because of the conversation at the dinner table, Jing Hong’s mood was somewhat sour.

He replied to messages mechanically while ignoring others, allowing them to sink lower and lower in his chat list as time passed.

On New Year’s Eve, he had finally caught a rare breath of air and returned home to see his parents, only for things to turn out like this.

As his father and former CEO of Fanhai, Jing Haiping should have been the person who understood and supported him the most, yet that didn’t seem to be the case. In Jing Haiping’s mind, other matters seemed more important than Fanhai itself.

Or rather, while Fanhai was important, Jing Haiping didn’t fully grasp Jing Hong’s constant sense of walking on thin ice. He still assumed Fanhai was an unshakable, gargantuan giant, and that minor issues were inconsequential. But Jing Hong didn’t see it that way—in his eyes, pack of wolves encircled them, ready to tear them apart at the slightest misstep.

He needed to capture every future growth driver—or at least multiple growth drivers. Otherwise, once their current flagship products were replaced or forgotten, the giant ship that was Fanhai would sink.

Suddenly, a message popped up at the very top.

It had just arrived.

Jing Hong: “…”

Upon seeing the notification, Jing Hong’s breath hitched slightly. He then tapped his thumb lightly to open his chat window with “Zhou Chang.”

It was a very standard New Year greeting.

Nothing elaborate—lying in the chat box was a lone “Happy New Year” interactive red packet, built on the annual Spring Festival holiday tool integrated into the messaging app.

No extra words.

It offered room to advance or retreat, with the boundaries handled impeccably.

Just a plain New Year red packet, nothing more.

Jing Hong tapped open the red packet and found it contained 8.88 RMB.

It was accompanied by the automated lucky phrase included by the app: Get rich overnight.

For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Jing Hong’s mood brightened slightly.

The corners of his lips curved upward as he typed a few words back: 【Stingy as hell.】

The grand CEO of Qinghui Group sending an eight-yuan-and-eighty-eight-cent red packet for New Year.

A dozen seconds later, Zhou Chang sent a reply: 【In business, one must indeed calculate carefully. Otherwise, how about I experience President Jing’s generosity right now?】

Jing Hong raised an eyebrow and tapped his screen, sending over a standard red packet.

Zhou Chang opened it—the amount was 88.88 RMB.

An extra digit higher.

Yet for Jing Hong, it hardly qualified as “generous” either, falling squarely within the realm of “stingy as hell.”

【What am I supposed to say?】 Zhou Chang chuckled, sending a line that someone in his executive group chat had just said to him upon receiving a red packet—supposedly, whenever anyone received a New Year red packet, even if they weren’t in a superior-subordinate relationship, the recipient would usually say: 【Thank you, Boss?】

Jing Hong teased back: 【Those aren’t words you should be saying lightly, President Zhou.】

Curiously, through these few back-and-forth messages, Jing Hong gradually settled into a sense of calm.

Yet there hadn’t been a single line of clingy or lingering affection.

After a few casual exchanges, Jiang Mei gently pushed the door open and walked in, asking Jing Hong to go upstairs to write a couplet and chat with Jing Haiping. Jing Haiping personally wrote a Spring Festival couplet every New Year’s Eve to hang on either side of the front door, truly fitting his persona as a “scholarly businessman.”

And so, Jing Hong sent a line to Zhou Chang: “The former President Jing is summoning me, I’ll head over first.” He locked his screen and walked up the stairs.

Jiang Mei followed behind, casually asking, “Who was that?” She figured she knew everyone—whether they were Fanhai executives, business partners, or Jing Hong’s friends and relatives.

Jing Hong, however, did not answer her.

On the third floor, Jing Haiping was indeed writing a couplet.

Having finished two strips and set them aside, Jing Haiping looked up, saw Jing Hong, and consciously sought to ease the tense atmosphere with his son on this festive New Year’s Eve, inviting him: “Jing Hong, come over.”

Jing Hong said, “Okay.”

While writing, Jing Haiping chatted with Jing Hong: “For the house in New York, we just had some people dig up the driveway and install radiant heating underneath. That way, whenever it snows, the accumulation from the front door to the yard gate can melt automatically, so we won’t need to hire workers to clear it anymore.”

Jing Hong said, “Sounds good.”

He had heard about this before—many wealthy homeowners no longer hired professional snow removal crews, opting instead to install radiant heating beneath their driveways, running all the way from the hilltop down to the front gate.

Having finished one strip, Jing Haiping said to Jing Hong, “Jing Hong, why don’t you write one too? You can hang it at the entrance to the inner rooms.” Jing Haiping still hoped to spend a warm, harmonious New Year.

Jing Hong agreed again: “Alright.”

Jing Hong had practiced calligraphy for several years, mastering both hard and soft brushes. Jing Haiping had felt that as the successor to Fanhai Group, it would be inappropriate if Jing Hong’s handwriting were unsightly, given that he would inevitably annotate numerous documents in the future.

Jing Hong unbuttoned both cufflinks, set them aside, and rolled up his shirt sleeves neatly, exposing his smooth, toned forearms. Even in rolling up his sleeves, he folded them with meticulous precision.

Resting both hands on the desk, Jing Hong leaned forward, gazing at the red paper as he pondered what to write. He then lifted the writing brush, dipped it in ink, pressed one hand against the paper, and moved his hand like a flying dragon and slithering snake, writing a four-character upper scroll:

【门心皆水】 (Door and heart are both like water)

Door and heart are both like water; self and nature share the spring. It was a classic Spring Festival couplet.

The meaning was profound. The upper scroll signified that before one’s door and within one’s heart, all was as clear and untainted as pure water, reflecting a desire for integrity and purity.

The lower scroll expressed that all creation alongside oneself stepped together into the new spring, welcoming the season while expressing a ambition to benefit all under heaven.

Yet for some reason, as he reached the final character water (水) in “Door and heart are both like water,” Jing Hong suddenly recalled his brief exchange with Zhou Chang just now, the New Year red packets they had sent each other, as well as the moist, salty sea before the door that night, and everything damp and clinging upon and behind that door.

Did that count as “door and heart are both like water”?

Showing no outward emotion, Jing Hong intended to finish the couplet.

Setting the upper scroll aside, he dipped his brush in ink once more, took a deep breath, and continued writing:

【物我同春】 (Self and nature share the spring)

As he reached the final character spring (春), Jing Hong’s brush stroke wavered slightly.

This character in Chinese always seemed to carry a subtle, sensual undertone.

Self and nature share the spring… did they?

Exercising restraint, he wrote slowly.

A left-falling stroke, a right-falling stroke.

Almost done.

A vertical stroke, a horizontal turn with a hook.

The final touches. Jing Hong kept his wrist as steady as possible—one horizontal stroke, then another. The simple four-character scroll “Self and nature share the spring” was finally complete.

On the surface, nothing amiss could be detected.

Flowing like clouds and water, natural and graceful.

The study clock chimed softly—the New Year had arrived.

Outside the window, fireworks exploded across the night sky, bright and brilliant, accompanied by the endless crackle of firecrackers.

Beside him, Jing Haiping picked up Jing Hong’s couplet and praised: “Wonderful! What a fine line—’Door and heart are both like water; self and nature share the spring’!”