During the first year Jing Hong and Zhou Chang took charge of Fanhai and Qinghui respectively—before the Kunpeng and Huawei merger—the two had run into each other several times at various IT summits.

At a summit in the United States, they heard each other give a full keynote speech for the first time. On that occasion, only three entrepreneurs present had come from Mainland China.

At the summit that day, Jing Hong wore a white dress shirt and a grey suit. His voice was steady, unhurried, and precise as he delivered a presentation on Fanhai Group’s strategy for artificial intelligence. The stage was modest in footprint but set quite high. Sitting in the front row, Zhou Chang tilted his head back, watching Jing Hong from below. From that angle, the slender, fair column of Jing Hong’s neck and the subtle rise of his Adam’s apple were fully visible above his collar.

Likewise, when Zhou Chang stood on stage, Jing Hong observed him in much the same way.

Zhou Chang’s speaking style carried an easy, uninhibited charm. Having spent five years at McKinsey, he knew the presentation style American audiences favored inside and out—witty, charismatic, and punctuated by frequent ripples of laughter and applause. By the end of his address, Zhou Chang handled the open Q&A with seamless poise, answering every complex question with absolute mastery.

At the time, Jing Hong searched his memory for Zhou Chang’s presence during that long-ago entrepreneurship competition. He concluded that, after all those years, Zhou Chang had grown even more composed, even more formidable—every gesture exuding the unmistakable aura of someone born to command.

During the summit’s coffee break, as “second-generation” leaders who had only recently taken the helm of their tech giants—one three months into the job, the other barely a month—Jing Hong and Zhou Chang kept a low profile, refraining from talking big or holding court. Each stood in different conversational circles, listening quietly and keeping their heads down, far from the central spotlight.

Yet both possessed sprawling ambitions; neither was content with remaining on the sidelines. While they appeared courteous and polite on the surface, chiming in occasionally without ever commandeering the discussion, a subtle impatience simmered beneath their polished exteriors.

Thus, quite unexpectedly at a certain moment, both men shifted their gazes and glanced toward each other, their eyes colliding dead-center.

Perhaps it was because each knew the other was trapped in the exact same spot.

Because of that past competition, they shared a secret understanding—neither of them was someone to be pushed around.

As the intermission wore on, just as Jing Hong assumed their tea break would wrap up in this atmosphere of utmost superficial politeness masking a quiet, mutual impatience—a dynamic invisible to everyone else—the situation shifted.

A former client from Zhou Chang’s McKinsey days joined the circle Zhou Chang was standing in.

He represented an established corporate giant. The moment he stepped into the circle, he greeted Zhou Chang warmly, expressing utter shock. He admitted that upon reading news that Qinghui was now in Zhou Chang’s hands, he thought his eyes were deceiving him, never imagining that the sharp contractor who had once managed his project so brilliantly would re-emerge as the chief executive of Qinghui Group.

Zhou Chang merely held a faint smile, maintaining his characteristically attentive expression.

The client then began recounting their past working relationship, praising Zhou Chang’s tenure and accomplishments at McKinsey and the complex challenges he had resolved. Instantly, by reconnecting with his “American background” and a domain familiar to the executive suite present, Zhou Chang seamlessly integrated into the center of the crowd.

Jing Hong, by contrast, had returned to Fanhai immediately upon graduation. Lacking Zhou Chang’s specific background and established network in the U.S., he remained somewhat on the periphery as a relative newcomer to this international executive circle.

At one point, Zhou Chang cast a cool glance in his direction—a look brimming with endless, subtle meaning.

Jing Hong quietly ground his teeth.

It was during that break that Jing Hong discovered Zhou Chang spoke not only flawless American-accented English, but fluent, native British English as well.

Zhou Chang’s voice was deep and resonant, making his British cadence sound effortlessly magnetic.

That evening, the summit guests moved to an adjacent venue for dinner. The summit organizers had arranged the private evening banquet at a high-end, highly renowned Western restaurant right along the street.

En route, a ferocious black dog suddenly lunged from a side path—Americans loved keeping large dogs, some of which possessed aggressive temperaments. The moment the dog charged out, while everyone else instinctively froze or shrank back, Jing Hong silently stepped two paces forward, placing himself on the outer side of the walkway to shield the women in their group.

Fortunately, the owner quickly restrained the dog and pulled it away.

Zhou Chang had been standing further back. Witnessing Jing Hong’s immediate reaction, he gazed quietly at Jing Hong for a few long seconds.

They soon arrived at the restaurant, where the guests took their seats. As the only three mainland Chinese entrepreneurs present, Jing Hong, Zhou Chang, and the third executive were naturally seated together at the same table.

Partway through the meal, someone brought up the global landscape of artificial intelligence.

When the conversation turned to the development of AI in China, Jing Hong spoke with fluent authority, offering a deep, incisive analysis covering everything from government policy and top universities to corporate enterprises and healthcare partnerships.

Everyone at the table listened in attentive silence, occasionally chiming in with nods of understanding.

Having been brought into Qinghui somewhat suddenly from his management career, Zhou Chang certainly understood China’s AI landscape well, but his depth in that specific sector wasn’t quite as granular as Jing Hong’s—after all, Jing Hong had spent the past few years directly overseeing Fanhai Group’s massive AI business division. Consequently, Zhou Chang didn’t interject much.

At one moment, while the rest of the table hung on Jing Hong’s every word, Jing Hong cast a cool, brief glance back at Zhou Chang.

Returning the look from the morning coffee break in full.

The summit was hosted in Boston, and on the way back to the hotel, snow began to flutter down from the dark sky.

As a bus sped past, splashing slush from the roadway, Jing Hong continued walking along the sidewalk in his white shirt, grey vest, and grey suit jacket draped over one wrist, completely indifferent to the weather.

Unexpectedly, Zhou Chang walked up beside him, reaching out to wrap a hand around Jing Hong’s waist to pull him inward. Jing Hong instinctively shifted two steps closer toward Zhou Chang’s side. Zhou Chang withdrew his hand immediately, as if nothing had happened at all.

By the time they returned to the hotel, heavy snowflakes were falling outside the window.

In such miserable weather, the guests had nowhere to go and were confined to the hotel premises.

Around nine o’clock, the third Chinese executive knocked on Jing Hong’s door, inviting him down to the ground-floor bar for a few drinks. He was a heavy drinker who frequented bars every evening after dinner back home. However, his English was exceedingly poor—he barely knew vocabulary and relied on real-time translators for speeches. Thus, wherever he went, he always tried to drag Jing Hong along as his interpreter.

Seeing his plight, Jing Hong agreed.

Since there were only three Chinese entrepreneurs in total, it felt improper to leave Zhou Chang out, so they extended the invitation to him as well.

Jing Hong expected Zhou Chang to decline. Yet after receiving the phone call, Zhou Chang paused for two seconds before answering, “Alright.”

And so, the three met down at the bar. Because of the snowstorm, the venue was packed, leaving only a few open stools at the counter. None of them minded the arrangement; in fact, Jing Hong preferred it that way.

As always, the tension between Jing Hong and Zhou Chang remained palpable, with the executive who organized the gathering sitting directly between them.

He chatted with Jing Hong on his left, turned to talk to Zhou Chang on his right, while Jing Hong and Zhou Chang exchanged virtually no direct words the entire time.

Midway through, having had a bit too much to drink, the organizer stepped away to use the restroom. The party of three was temporarily reduced to two, leaving an empty stool separating Jing Hong and Zhou Chang.

Each took a sip of their drink as gentle ambient music drifted through the air.

Over such a drawn-out silence, complete non-communication felt absurd.

Both men were masters of social propriety, capable of calibrating boundaries to absolute perfection. At an appropriate lull, Zhou Chang picked up his glass from the counter and nudged it lightly toward Jing Hong’s direction.

Jing Hong offered a faint smile. Amidst the slow rhythm of the bar, he raised his own glass and tapped it gently against Zhou Chang’s. A crisp, delicate clink echoed between them. Without exchanging a single word, both took a slow sip.

When the third man returned shortly after, the atmosphere reverted to its previous dynamic.

Toward the end of the night, the executive remarked, “You two are remarkably alike, you know. You should really consider exploring some business partnerships.”

At that, both Jing Hong and Zhou Chang let out a simultaneous scoff of subtle disdain, taking a drink at the exact same instant.

The executive: “…”

He thought to himself: You won’t even admit how alike you are… right down to that identical expression of disdain.

After finishing their drinks, the three headed toward the southern elevator bank to return to their rooms.

Passing through the hotel’s recreational lounge, the executive peered inside and spotted several regulation billiard tables. His hands instantly itch for a game, and he asked, “President Jing, President Zhou, do either of you play pool?”

Jing Hong nodded slightly. Casting a brief glance at Zhou Chang, he replied, “Only average, I’m afraid.”

“Come on, let me get a few frames in!” the executive urged excitedly. “It’s been ages since I last played.”

Jing Hong stepped inside. Zhou Chang exchanged a look with him and followed suit.

As it turned out, the executive was the definition of an enthusiastic amateur.

Playing eight-ball, he was thoroughly slaughtered by Jing Hong and Zhou Chang. He barely got a chance to strike before forfeiting the table, whereas Jing Hong and Zhou Chang routinely ran the rack whenever they stepped up.

The executive kept lamenting, “What on earth, President Jing? You tricked me! How is this ‘average’?!”

Jing Hong merely smiled.

After several frames, the executive lost interest, waving his hand in defeat: “Forget it, forget it! You two play a few frames together. I won’t embarrass myself further.”

Jing Hong and Zhou Chang exchanged a sharp, probing glance.

Resting his cue on the floor, Jing Hong gestured with his chin toward the full-sized Snooker table in the center of the room, asking Zhou Chang, “Frame of Snooker?”

Zhou Chang inspected the table, turning his gaze back to Jing Hong with a subtle, knowing smile: “Sure.”

Neither backed down an inch.

“…?” The executive asked, puzzled, “Wait, you two play Snooker? So you were holding back on me during eight-ball earlier?!”

Neither replied. The air between them grew taut, like a string pulled tight and vibrating, holding the bystander’s heart in suspense. After a deep, lingering look, Jing Hong turned, and the two walked one after the other toward the Snooker table.

A coin toss awarded the break to Jing Hong.

He executed a soft, controlled break with practiced, veteran precision.

Retreating to his chair, Jing Hong crossed his long legs, holding his cue casually in one hand while taking a sip of water with the other.

Both played with extreme caution, exchanging defensive safety shots back and forth. The observing executive grew increasingly tense as he watched.

At one point, a red ball left behind by Zhou Chang exposed a tiny sliver of an opening—a narrow, thin-cut long pot along a single viable line. Cue in hand, Jing Hong circled the table twice before deciding to go for the attack.

“Are you really going for that?” the executive asked anxiously, despite his own poor skills. “That long pot… isn’t it way too far? You have to thin-cut the edge on top of that. If you miss, you’ll concede a penalty, or if you hit it too hard, you’ll leave an open table for him. Are you sure you don’t want to play a safety instead?”

“Quiet,” Jing Hong said softly, leaning low over the table.

The executive: “…”

Zhou Chang sat in his chair, positioned right along Jing Hong’s flank.

His eyes remained fixed on Jing Hong’s every movement.

Jing Hong wore his white shirt and grey vest, though his dotted grey tie had already been removed.

His physique was striking. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up two or three folds, exposing fair, firm forearms. His long, slender right fingers rested lightly against the green baize with a refined, elegant bridge. From years of holding pens, a faint callus marked his middle finger. His thumb was raised slightly, knuckles pulled inward to form a sharp, beautiful arch, while two pronounced tendons stretched across the back of his hand, forming a subtle dimple.

His long legs were anchored securely—his back leg extended straight, his front leg slightly bent. In his low stance, a hint of his black-socked ankle was exposed above gleaming leather shoes.

He held the cue lightly in his left hand beside his thigh. As he addressed the ball, his fingers gently loosened and tightened around the wood in subtle, rhythmic warm-up strokes, sighting down the line.

The cue rested against the inside of his thigh. Clad in grey trousers, the fabric stretched taut across his body, tracing the firm curves of his hips and the backs of his thighs. The line of his supporting leg was especially pronounced.

His wrist was fair yet strong, and a red gem cufflink glimmered on the rolled sleeve.

Further up, his waist was pressed low.

Because of the extreme angle required for the long pot, Jing Hong leaned deeply, making his hips appear even more defined and his narrow waist tight within his leather belt. The fabric of his shirt and vest rose and fell along the contour of his spine.

Unbuttoned at the top, the fabric at his chest hung slightly loose.

His neck was fully extended, displaying a smooth, long line with his Adam’s apple protruding slightly before dipping back smoothly.

The cue brushed lightly against his chin, teasing the sensitive skin beneath.

Higher still, the outline of his jaw was sharp and clean. His lips were pressed tightly together, his teeth subtly gritted—a habit Zhou Chang recognized from the business competition, a small gesture that revealed a fierce, unyielding temperament. His nose bridge was high, his long eyelashes catching the warm overhead lighting.

Jing Hong stared at the cue ball and the distant red without blinking, his gaze razor-sharp. Under the chandelier, his eyes reflected points of light. His low stance forced his pupils upward, giving his expression a cold, ruthless edge. Yet Zhou Chang suddenly noticed that beneath the outer corners of Jing Hong’s eyes, his skin carried a subtle, rosy flush.

He had been aiming for a long time, yet Jing Hong showed no trace of fatigue or impatience—like an agile predator possessing absolute patience and determination for its prey.

Jing Hong inspected the shot for a long moment, just as Zhou Chang observed him. Then, without a hint of warning, Jing Hong struck with sudden, decisive force!

Like a lion seizing an opening, he moved without a fraction of hesitation. Zhou Chang’s eyelids twitched.

With a sharp clack, the red ball dropped cleanly into the pocket!

“Holy!” the third executive blurted out. “You potted that long shot?! Incredible, President Jing! From that distance, on such a thin edge?! Zhou Chang only left the tinest fraction of an angle exposed! If you missed, you’d be in serious trouble!”

Jing Hong watched the red sink. Once it dropped, he straightened his waist, rising slowly by the edge of the table like a lion lazily finishing a meal.

A faint smile hovered at the corner of his lips. He glanced at the pocketed red, then swept that subtle smile over to Zhou Chang, who sat holding his cue in the chair.

The message was clear: I’m at the table now. You won’t be getting up anytime soon—stay seated.

Zhou Chang held his cue in one hand while resting his other against the armrest, propping his lower lip as he looked back at Jing Hong.

Their eyes locked.

Looking at Jing Hong’s provocative smile, Zhou Chang’s immediate thought was: What a gorgeous man.

His second thought followed: Facing a left-handed player like Jing Hong really is tough.

After potting a few more reds, the remaining layout on the table grew awkward. Jing Hong shifted to a defensive stance, calculating the angles before tucking the cue ball behind the black to maximize the difficulty for Zhou Chang’s next turn.

With no clean line to attack a red, Zhou Chang played a safety shot in return.

And so, exchanging safety after safety, the two remained locked in a tactical stalemate for forty minutes.

Jing Hong’s top button was undone. In his low stance, the center of his collarbone was subtly visible beneath the vest, fading into the shadow below.

The observing executive was driven nearly to madness by boredom: “Come on, we’re just playing for fun! Is all this really necessary? You two have endless patience! Forty minutes of back-and-forth safety play?!”

Neither paid him the slightest attention, continuing to circle the table, analyzing lines and laying defenses.

Neither was willing to lose.

Neither was willing to yield to the other.

As the layout shifted, Zhou Chang spotted an opening, executed a brilliant long pot of his own, and took control of the table.

Zhou Chang felt a surge of exhilaration, as if every cell in his body were roaring. Against any other opponent, he would never have attempted a long pot of that difficulty. Even for professional players, the success rate on such a shot rarely exceeded fifty percent. Yet tonight, his concentration was absolute, his control over speed and angle flawless.

He thought: Why is every nerve in my body humming with excitement?

Because of the cluster layout, Zhou Chang was able to score heavily—over the preceding safety battles, the group of reds had been nudged apart, making them far easier to break open.

After potting the final loose red, Zhou Chang’s score surpassed the winning threshold.

The points remaining on the table were mathematically insufficient for a comeback.

Even if Jing Hong cleared every remaining color, he would still fall short by seven points.

Zhou Chang’s split on the last few reds hadn’t been ideal—a matter of pure luck—so he executed another safety shot.

“Alright, brilliant! What an incredible frame from both of you!” the executive called out. “It’s 11:00 PM, and this single frame has taken 75 minutes. Time to head back to our rooms and sleep.”

Once again, neither man acknowledged him. Jing Hong picked up a piece of chalk, holding it between three slender fingers to coat the cue tip with practiced grace.

Zhou Chang clearly understood the frame was far from over. Standing by the table with a stern expression, he analyzed the remaining colors.

Jing Hong retrieved a rest bridge, leaning over the table to address a ball.

Because of the stance required for the bridge, his upper body shifted slightly to the left, pulling his white shirt and grey vest into a series of sharp creases across his back.

Zhou Chang stood right beside him, his gaze dropping to the line of Jing Hong’s waist and back clad in white and grey.

“???” The executive was flabbergasted. “Wait, you’re still playing?! The math is impossible now! Don’t tell me, President Jing, you’re trying to force him into a foul? And he’d have to foul twice while you clear the entire table?! Is this the quarterfinals of an international championship?! You won’t yield as long as there’s a fraction of a chance? You’re going to fight to the bitter end until the points are completely exhausted?!”

The executive knew the rules: failing to strike the target ball resulted in a four-point penalty.

Their actions gave him a clear answer: Yes.

They continued to play.

With multiple reds on the table, forcing a foul using a red was extraordinarily difficult because the opponent could choose any red to hit; hiding every single target was almost impossible. To successfully extract penalty points, one had to either use the final red or wait until all reds were gone, forcing the opponent to hit the colored balls in exact sequence. Naturally, the fewer balls remaining on the table, the harder it became to hide the target ball completely.

Jing Hong chose to execute his trap using the very last red. He spent several shots setting up the position until the table lay exactly as he designed it. With a soft, delicate stroke, he tucked the red ball deep behind a cluster of colors, completely blocking every direct line for Zhou Chang.

Zhou Chang furrowed his brows, walking around the table several times in deep thought. Ultimately, he was forced to attempt an extremely difficult three-cushion escape—bouncing the cue ball off three rails to make soft contact with the red.

Zhou Chang was immensely careful, but the angle was brutally unforgiving. After three cushion rebounds, the cue ball glided right past the red.

A miss.

Four penalty points awarded to Jing Hong.

The watching executive flipped the scoreboard numbers in disbelief.

With a faint smile, Jing Hong said coolly, “Replace it and try again.”

As long as he failed to escape, penalties would accumulate—four points every time.

Jing Hong hadn’t anticipated Zhou Chang’s adaptability to be so terrifying, nor his luck so sharp. On his very second attempt, after making a micro-adjustment to his line, a dull thump echoed across the baize—Zhou Chang made contact with the target ball.

Jing Hong raised his eyes, their gazes meeting for two seconds. He walked back to the table and immediately laid another trap using the same red.

He set the traps; Zhou Chang executed the escapes. One dictated the game, while the other reacted—Zhou Chang was placed entirely on the defensive.

Over the next few turns, as the setups were improvised rather than pre-planned, the escape angles were less severe, and Zhou Chang successfully solved them all.

From there, it became a pure battle of skill and error—whether Jing Hong could lay an insurmountable snooker to claim the remaining penalty points, or whether Zhou Chang could seize a minor flaw and pot the red ball to end the frame.

One possessed endless patience, constantly weaving traps to wear his opponent down; the other remained equally unhurried, systematically breaking every trap.

Neither showed a hint of anxiety; rather, both seemed to thoroughly enjoy the thrill.

Against an opponent of equal caliber where a single misstep meant total defeat, they remained intensely focused, lurking, waiting, and calculating every move.

Seeking opportunity within danger.

An opportunity to deliver a decisive blow.

Otherwise, they would be swallowed whole.

It was utterly thrilling.

The observing executive muttered, “You two are terrifying…”

After seven or eight exchanges, just as Jing Hong was crafting another trap, a sudden burst of boisterous laughter echoed from a group passing through the hotel hallway. Jing Hong’s wrist slipped by a fraction of a millimeter—a minor error.

Leaving behind a clean, playable line to pot the red into the corner pocket.

Jing Hong knew instantly that Zhou Chang would seize the chance to drive the red home.

The point gap would widen, fewer balls would remain, and the frame would be beyond recovery.

The moment the error occurred, Jing Hong closed his eyes briefly, gave a subtle shake of his head, and straightened up.

The instant the cue left his hand, he knew it was over.

Sure enough, Zhou Chang executed a clean stroke, sending the red straight into the pocket.

No reds remained on the table.

“…” Jing Hong prepared to take a seat, ready to watch Zhou Chang clear the remaining colors.

No wonder Snooker arenas demanded absolute silence—not a sound could be tolerated.

Yet to Jing Hong’s surprise, after potting the red and securing an overwhelming advantage, Zhou Chang set his cue aside. Looking at Jing Hong with a gentle smile, he said, “Let’s call it a night. No final result, no winner or loser. We’ll save it for next time.”

Jing Hong raised an eyebrow: “…?”

Zhou Chang placed his cue back onto the rack: “I know all too well how it feels to lose a match due to sheer luck. So we’ll call this one a draw.”

Jing Hong knew Zhou Chang was referring to the counterfeit banknote incident from their past competition. He remained silent.

“Alright, President Jing,” Zhou Chang added, “let’s head back. We’re all tired. Keeping up that level of intense focus in a single frame against Little President Jing is more exhausting than an entire day of board meetings.”

Jing Hong looked at him and said, “…Likewise.”

The group went upstairs together, parting ways at their respective doors.

Jing Hong was the first to step into his room; Zhou Chang was staying right next door.

After Jing Hong’s door clicked shut, Zhou Chang continued down the hallway with the third executive, looking lost in thought.

The executive beside him asked, “President Zhou, what’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” Zhou Chang replied smoothly. “Just thinking that President Jing must easily rack up romantic debts. Every single gesture of his is remarkably magnetic.”

He suddenly recalled the sight of Jing Hong earlier that morning.

The hotel had been slightly warm, and Jing Hong carried an air of casual ease. He wore his grey suit and matching vest, paired with his white-dotted grey tie. Leaning lightly against the side counter near the restaurant entrance, his suit jacket unbuttoned save for one button, he had one hand tucked in his pocket while his other elbow rested against the counter. He was casually scanning the passing crowd while waiting for the restaurant manager, likely over some minor inquiry.

Zhou Chang had spotted him the moment he walked by.

“???” The executive shot him a look that clearly read: He’s so ruthless, you must be out of your mind.

Everyone knew that in the months since Jing Hong took over Fanhai, he had ruthlessly snatched four major projects out from under Qinghui Group, showing zero leniency until Zhou Chang took charge to hold the line.

Zhou Chang let out a low laugh: “Alright, I’m turning in as well. See you next time.” Tomorrow morning, he would be flying directly back to Beijing.

The executive replied, “See you next time.”

Swiping his keycard to enter his room, Zhou Chang suddenly remembered something. He reached out his right hand and tapped lightly against the wall dividing his room from Jing Hong’s. His dark eyes deepened, as though gazing right through the barrier.

“And you,” he murmured softly. “Forgot to mention earlier—see you next time.”