The investigation into the charity foundation to which Zhong Ziyan had donated began the very day Wei Hanyun returned from Mingqiu Mountain. Fang Nan practically set aside half of his workload to focus entirely on this matter.
—There was no helping it. He had been the one to select the organization where Zhong Ziyan’s five million yuan was sent. If anything went wrong, it would be entirely his fault.
Five million yuan was no small sum for a personal donation, especially during peacetime when there were no major disasters or crises. Fang Nan’s work had been impeccable—he had conducted thorough evaluations before choosing a well-established, reputable charity with a long-standing mission to help underprivileged girls and young women attend university and build new lives.
And so, Zhong Ziyan’s five million was sent off without a hitch, and everything seemed calm.
…That is, until Zhong Ziyan suddenly decided she wanted to see exactly where that money had gone.
At the time, Wei Hanyun hadn’t been as attentive to Zhong Ziyan as he was now, but he still remembered Fang Nan reporting that her intention had been to help impoverished female students.
So when Wei Hanyun took the documents from Zhong Ziyan that evening and skimmed through them, he immediately spotted the problem.
Not only were female students being funded—male students were too.
Even adult male students were on the waiting list for financial aid.
This was, in fact, an incredibly brazen act, but perhaps because the charity was a "prestigious name," it had never faced significant backlash.
The next day, Wei Hanyun handed the documents to Fang Nan without a word. After flipping through just a few pages, Fang Nan went from utterly confused to drenched in cold sweat.
He immediately launched a second investigation, only to discover that the irregularities didn’t stop there.
From the recipients of the funding to the occasional bizarre projects listed in their reports—complete with exorbitant price tags—everything was glaringly obvious, with no attempt to hide it.
By the time Fang Nan submitted his investigative report, he was on the verge of handing in his resignation letter along with it.
"Give the report to Ziyan personally," Wei Hanyun said, refusing to take it. "What happens next is her decision."
Just from those words alone, Fang Nan could almost smell the storm brewing.
…
When Zhong Ziyan received the report, she flipped straight to Fang Nan’s summary at the end. After a quick scan, she asked, "What’s their explanation?"
Fang Nan cleared his throat. "The boss’s instructions were to leave this matter entirely in your hands. Until we receive your orders—"
"Ask them first," Zhong Ziyan said, closing the file. Her fingers lightly traced the "time-honored" name of the organization on the first page. "We’ll see what they say."
Fang Nan nodded and went to make the call. Unexpectedly, the call dragged on for over twenty minutes. By the time he returned, Zhong Ziyan had already finished a plate of snacks. "That difficult to handle? Even you couldn’t deal with them?"
"…" The usually unflappable Fang Nan hesitated before admitting, "At first, the call wouldn’t go through. Then it took at least fifteen minutes to get transferred. When I finally reached one of the people in charge, the conversation lasted five minutes before she hung up on me."
Zhong Ziyan understood. "So in five minutes, you backed her into a corner until she could only rage-quit."
Fang Nan: "…Your grasp of internet slang has improved."
"Well, if they won’t explain," Zhong Ziyan said, pulling out her phone, "I’ll just expose them—where’s Yu Qianshan’s PR team and the hired trolls? Get me ten battalions of them."
Hua Shuangshuang, who had been sitting nearby carefully reading Fang Nan’s report from start to finish, spoke up. "Ms. Zhong, let me draft the post. I can make it detailed and easy to understand, leaving no room for counterarguments."
Zhong Ziyan had always believed in leaving professional matters to professionals, so she handed her phone to Hua Shuangshuang without hesitation. She then went back to her room and rummaged through her drawers before pulling out the nearly one hundred million yuan that Old Man Wei had given her earlier.
The large-denomination deposit slip felt weightless in her hand, as if it were just a hundred yuan. But if converted to physical cash, it would be enough to crush someone.
Zhong Ziyan brought the slip downstairs and handed it to Fang Nan.
Fang Nan took one look at it and felt his hands burn. Swallowing hard, he asked, "What are your instructions, Madam?"
"Set up a new foundation in my name," Zhong Ziyan said. "Is this enough? If not, I can—"
"It’s enough, more than enough," Fang Nan quickly cut her off, adjusting his glasses. "But are you sure you want to use all eighty million for…?"
"If it was given to me, doesn’t that mean I can use it however I want?"
Hua Shuangshuang, who was in the middle of composing a scathing Weibo post, looked up and said, "In that case, I suggest we hold off on announcing it. Setting it up will take time anyway. If we reveal it at the right moment, the impact will be greater."
Fang Nan: "…I see what you mean."
The two assistants exchanged a knowing glance, silently aligning their thoughts.
…
As a newly minted unconventional internet celebrity, [Still Trying to Spend Money Today] didn’t post frequently, but her fans were more active than most. Their eyes were sharper than anyone’s, capable of sniffing out even the faintest traces of wealth in every photo she posted, then swarming in to worship the Goddess of Fortune.
Because the clues were often so obscure, her comments section was filled with high-end private customizers and luxury brand insiders, turning it into an unexpected hub of niche knowledge.
But on this day, when the Goddess of Fortune posted a long Weibo, the reaction was entirely different.
The post laid out, in a calm and objective tone, the fate of the "five million yuan you don’t need to look for," directly calling out a well-established charity for misusing donations. Every piece of evidence was laid bare, making it clear that the goal was to bury them without mercy.
In recent years, China had been making strides in poverty alleviation—a fact evident just by searching "the most expensive thing in the world" on e-commerce platforms, which returned nothing but donation links.
Moreover, similar scandals had already erupted around organizations like the Red Cross, sparking public outrage and demands for accountability.
Who hadn’t donated at least a few yuan here and there?
The thought that their hard-earned money, given in good faith, had been misused by a charity was enough to make anyone leap up in fury.
Especially women who had specifically chosen this "time-honored" charity to support their less fortunate sisters—many of whom had donated from their own modest salaries. Their anger was the fiercest: How dare you steal the money I gave for books and sanitary products for those girls?!
Within twenty minutes of the post going live, it rocketed to the top of trending searches. The public outcry was deafening, with netizens bombarding the charity with demands for answers and solutions. Yu Qianshan’s army of trolls barely even needed to lift a finger.
Yet even as the scandal exploded, fourteen hours later—well into the next day—the charity still hadn’t issued a single response.
Their silence almost felt like a sneer, a haughty challenge.
When Zhong Ziyan woke up the next morning, she noticed something missing from her Weibo, which had been flooded with notifications the day before.
The long Weibo post that Hua Shuangshuang wrote yesterday, which had garnered hundreds of thousands of reposts, was suddenly set to "visible only to me." She tried to adjust the settings but found she couldn’t switch it back to public. Even new posts couldn’t be published—her account was flagged as "abnormal."
A quick refresh later, yesterday’s trending topics had also vanished without a trace.
Zhong Ziyan: "..." She was pissed.
Ever since leaving the Infinite Space, Zhong Ziyan had viewed everything in this low-martial world with a sense of gentle indulgence—like handling fragile objects.
Even when encountering loudmouths like the ones at the Mingqiu Mountain racetrack, she couldn’t be bothered to waste energy on such insignificant pests who could be crushed with a flick of her finger.
She had experienced too much to care about petty provocations or mudslinging.
But the charity’s high-handed attempt to silence her was the last straw.
They messed up, got caught, and instead of fixing the problem, they tried to silence the whistleblower?
Did they really think they could shut her up?
Forget money or influence—with Zhong Ziyan’s overwhelming power, tying these people up and launching them into the sky would be child’s play.
Literally.
After a quick wash, Zhong Ziyan headed downstairs and called Hua Shuangshuang to explain the situation.
Hua Shuangshuang remained unruffled. "Don’t worry, the follow-up is already in motion. Just wait a few more hours."
Zhong Ziyan, who had been ready to storm out and settle the score, paused mid-step.
The sudden suspension of the account [Still Trying to Spend Money Today] didn’t achieve its intended effect—instead, it only fueled public outrage.
—After all, this was too blatant. Even corrupt officials knew to take bribes in secret while pretending to be upright in public!
Soon, more details about the charity were dug up: Manager So-and-So’s father was… The accountant’s wife was…
A closer look revealed it was indeed a well-connected organization—no wonder they acted with such impunity.
Three hours after [Still Trying to Spend Money Today]’s Weibo went dark, furious netizens had already bombarded the charity’s affiliated accounts. Despite platform restrictions, they managed to push a new topic into the trending list.
It was then that Zhong Ziyan received a call from an unknown number. The person on the other end respectfully apologized, "On behalf of Weibo, I sincerely regret the system error that caused your account to malfunction," and so on.
Shortly after, Zhong Ziyan regained control of her account.
The inexplicably hidden long post was restored to public view.
[Still Trying to Spend Money Today: Account’s back. They said it was a system glitch. Probably because my husband made a complaint call.]
Comments: ...We bow to the boss.jpg
A few more hours passed. By afternoon, the charity that had been under fire for two days released a statement titled "Apology Letter." But its contents could be summed up in one line:
—Yeah, we did it. What are you gonna do about it?
Zhong Ziyan: "..." Don’t stop me. I’m taking these crooks down for the greater good!
But if they could play the authority card, so could she.
Without hesitation, she dialed a number from her call log. "Suspend their account too."
The PR manager on the other end fell into an awkward silence: "..."
Zhong Ziyan chuckled. "Can’t do it?"
"Miss Zhong, your account issue was due to a system error—"
"Then give them the same ‘system error,’" Zhong Ziyan cut in. "Or do you think a phone apology and unbanning me is enough?"
"I suggest you—"
"Instead of lecturing me, teach them how to talk." She hung up.
Five minutes later, the charity’s official account, which had posted that shameless "apology," was hit with the same "abnormal" status as Zhong Ziyan’s had been that morning.
Netizens celebrating the takedown cheered: The boss is here! We’ll clear the path for you!
