The spacious villa echoed with the shrill screams of "vengeful spirits seeking lives" from an old Cantonese film.
The antiquated melody of the vintage projector reverberated, pounding against eardrums.
A child scampered back inside, bare feet pattering, as a Filipina maid in an apron set aside a fallen silver tray, chasing after him while pleading, "Young master, have mercy! I can’t keep up if you keep running!"
A series of clattering noises came from the room, and by the time the little master returned, he had donned new gear—his chubby little hands gripping a laser sword as he lunged forward.
His high-pitched cheer cut through the eerie soundtrack, one hand on his hip as he brandished the hilt: "State your name!"
Zhu Qing took in the child’s face.
He was about three years old, his soft, naturally curly hair slicked back in an adult-like style, though a rebellious strand dangled over his forehead from rough play. His eyes, dark and bright like grapes, glared with exaggerated fierceness.
Zhu Qing deflected the sword with one hand, sending it clattering to the floor.
The boy stared at his palm, muttering in a babyish voice, "When did Daddy buy a new shield…?"
Zhu Qing studied the child discreetly.
The boy’s features bore an uncanny resemblance to the childhood photo of Old Master Sheng from his autobiography.
Over the years, Hong Kong media had spun increasingly outlandish theories about the Sheng family heir—even a fortune-teller once hinted in an interview that Old Master Sheng had spent a fortune on feng shui to alter his fate, yet remained "destined without grandsons."
If this child really was Old Master Sheng’s grandson, why keep him hidden?
Zhu Qing ventured, "Is your daddy Sheng Wenchang?"
The young master clearly knew his father’s prestige, puffing his chest proudly. "Are you the bodyguard Daddy sent?"
The tabloids had long speculated about the Sheng family’s dwindling lineage, sensationalizing the so-called "battle for inheritance" between the first and second wives under headlines like "Two Beauties Vie for the Throne."
But no one had ever mentioned a third child—until now.
A voice called from nearby, "The young miss and her husband are back…"
Zhu Qing turned, her gaze trailing down the staircase.
The little master, impatient for an answer, huffed, "Speak properly! I’m interrogating you!"
The boy blocked her view, so she sidestepped.
Young Master Sheng, unused to being ignored, nearly combusted with indignation. "Hey—!"
Zhu Qing’s eyes swept past him. "Quiet."
After waiting so long for his new bodyguard to grovel, only to be ordered around instead, the boy shrieked in outrage.
Fire her! Make Daddy fire her right now!
...
The antique clock chimed the hour as Marisa, the maid, coaxed the child back to his room with a mix of coaxing and cajoling.
Leaning against the teak spiral staircase, Zhu Qing watched as the second son-in-law handed his suit to the butler.
"My apologies, but there was an error in the engraving on the elders’ tombstones. They need corrections."
Chen Chaosheng, the Sheng family’s second son-in-law, cut a refined figure—gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, his face weary yet composed.
As he spoke, he removed his glasses to rub his temples, his tone courteous and mild.
"This mansion took years to build. From groundbreaking onward, it sustained entire construction teams, with workers coming and going constantly..."
"After completion, we waited through two rainy seasons before moving to the hillside. Frankly, the bones found in the fireplace are an undeserved calamity for the Sheng family."
Zeng Yongshan had long heard of the second son-in-law’s elegance and cast a curious glance his way, sidling closer to Zhu Qing.
"Mr. Chen here has won the Best Son-in-Law Award at Hong Kong Weekly for three consecutive years," Zeng Yongshan muttered under her breath. "The second young miss really hit the jackpot!"
Zhu Qing used the edge of her notepad to block the sharp glance from Inspector Mo.
Zeng Yongshan guiltily touched her earlobe, silently thanking her new colleague for the cover.
Mo Zhenbang asked, "Mr. Chen, when was the last time you used the fireplace?"
"Last Christmas Eve," Chen Chaosheng replied, polishing his glasses. "The renovation team suggested switching to a smart thermostat system, but my father-in-law is traditional—he insisted on keeping the cast-iron design. Who would’ve thought that secret had been hiding in the pipes all these years?"
"Either way, this place is now a haunted house," he sighed. "On the way back, Peishan was still racking her brains about hiring an auction house to appraise the collection."
When the new colleague didn’t engage, Zeng Yongshan turned to gossip with the old-timers.
"I heard the second young miss was drop-dead gorgeous in her youth!"
"Well, she was a top-three Miss Hong Kong finalist—the judges had sharp eyes… Though, she’s still young now."
Rumors painted the eldest daughter, Sheng Peirong, as the "Iron Lady" of the business world, while the second daughter, Sheng Peishan, was born for the spotlight.
Even now, TV stations still rerun clips of Sheng Peishan’s beauty pageant days from over a decade ago.
"Then why did she leave the industry?"
"Pulling wire stunts at 4 a.m.—why would the second young miss suffer through that? Her rental income alone could feed us for ten lifetimes!"
"No wonder there’s a fight over the inheritance."
"I’d bet on the second young miss. This time, her husband went above and beyond for the old master. As for the eldest daughter… she didn’t even contribute to the funeral expenses!"
Zhu Qing turned, her gaze drifting toward the family portrait hanging near the staircase.
Two gilded chairs stood side by side, with Sheng Wenchang and Qin Lizhu seated prominently at the center. Behind them, the eldest daughter, Sheng Peirong, wearing tortoiseshell glasses, stood on the right, arm-in-arm with her husband. The second daughter, Sheng Peishan, clearly closer to her birth mother, leaned in playfully, hands resting on Qin Lizhu’s shoulders, while her husband, Chen Chaosheng, smiled at her fondly.
Zhu Qing slowly approached the painting.
Sheng Peirong, the eldest daughter, was rumored in business circles to be ruthless and decisive. Whispers had circulated for decades that Old Master Sheng intended to groom her as the group’s successor. Yet, the portrait revealed none of her famed intensity—only a faint shadow in her eyes.
Judging by the ages, the painting predated the existence of the young master now residing on the third floor.
Strangely, though, the composition left an obvious empty space to the left of Sheng Peirong.
"Who does this spot belong to?" Zhu Qing asked.
All eyes turned to the portrait.
Chen Chaosheng, who had been speaking eloquently, suddenly fell silent, searching for the right words—until the elevator doors slid open.
"It’s for the Sheng family’s child," a gentle voice answered, accompanied by the sound of wheelchair wheels rolling across the floor.
The Sheng Peishan from the portrait had arrived, leaving Zeng Yongshan gaping.
Gone was the carefree, radiant girl from the painting. The woman before them now seemed like a different person entirely. The world had long speculated why Sheng Peishan vanished from the entertainment industry after her Miss Hong Kong stint, assuming it was just a rich girl’s whim…
Yet no one could have guessed that the second young miss—raised in a greenhouse, untouched by hardship—would reappear in a wheelchair.
Chen Chaosheng stepped forward, resting a hand on his wife’s shoulder and lightly brushing her nose with his finger. "You should be resting in bed if you have a headache. Still not listening to me, I see."
"Don’t worry," Sheng Peishan replied with a gentle, serene smile, squeezing his hand affectionately. "I’m feeling much better."
The couple moved with effortless harmony.
At the second master’s signal, a servant brought over a cup of hot tea and draped a woolen blanket over Sheng Peishan’s knees.
Mo Zhenbang noticed that beneath the cashmere blanket, one side of her skirt hung empty.
"She was my niece," Sheng Peishan said, pulling her gaze away from the painting as she continued explaining to the police. "She passed away when she was just six months old."
Her eyelids lowered, her voice soft. "Father said this spot is reserved for the child who never came home."
It was the Sheng family’s nightmare.
Chen Chaosheng kept his hand on his wife’s shoulder. "That’s an old tragedy from twenty years ago. It has nothing to do with this case."
"If we’re not bringing up the past, then what about the present situation—" Zhu Qing looked up, "—like the young master Sheng in the nursery?"
Sheng Peishan’s teacup clinked back onto the gilded porcelain saucer, her husband steadying the spoon for her.
The officers exchanged uneasy glances, forcing themselves to remain composed lest Mo Zhenbang compare their sluggish investigation to a snail’s pace.
Mo Zhenbang himself looked equally surprised.
Before the battle for inheritance could even begin, a young heir had appeared out of nowhere. No doubt the tabloids would soon be buzzing about a septuagenarian’s enduring virility and a secret prince hidden in the hills.
...
By the third-floor staircase railing, the young master had slipped out, about to perform a daring slide down the banister when he overheard his sister’s words.
He abandoned his plan, gripping the railing with both hands as he peered down.
The house was filled with strangers—the only person Sheng Fang recognized was his bodyguard.
Yet the bodyguard had abandoned his post, ignoring his duty to stay close, and was instead staring at a painting in the living room.
The adults’ conversation was only half-understood by the child.
Marisa, the Filipina maid, spoke Mandarin poorly and could only grasp the gist, but she knew well enough to cover the young master’s ears when sensitive topics arose.
Marisa’s hands were plump.
The little master’s ears, though covered, still had gaps.
Chen Chaosheng’s expression darkened.
"Who knows why the bones were found here? That’s your job as the police."
"Kindly remember to respect the Sheng family’s privacy during your investigation. If the media catches wind of this, I’ll be filing a complaint with the Complaints Against Police Office."
Marysa gasped.
A three-year-old hearing about bones hidden in the fireplace would surely have nightmares.
"When my parents-in-law were alive, they shielded my brother-in-law like an impenetrable fortress. The Sheng family has already lost one child—we don’t want to relive that pain."
Marysa gasped again.
Thank heavens the little master didn’t ask what "losing a child" meant. If a three-year-old heard that, he’d be screaming in the night.
"Young master, it’s time to go back to your room and watch cartoons," Marysa said anxiously. "None of this is for children’s ears."
Having spent enough time in the Sheng household, Marysa knew the rebellious little master all too well.
The more you tried to stop him, the more he’d raise hell.
She stood there awkwardly, trying to block the child’s view with her large frame.
"Marysa, what’s a niece?"
Marysa could hardly untangle such complicated family relations.
She scratched the back of her head, thought hard, then shook it.
The little master crouched into a tiny ball, chin resting on his hands, puzzling over the question.
He was too clever to be stumped by this.
At that moment, Zhu Qing seemed to sense the scorching gaze and looked up.
Their eyes met across the distance of three spiral staircases. The young master stood up, chin lifted, exuding an air of arrogance.
Amidst the dazzling golden splendor, the poor little policewoman’s worn-out pants, stained with puddle water and tucked into protective shoe covers, stood out glaringly, completely out of place.
The kid vividly remembered his recent defeat at the hands of the female bodyguard—had it not been for the interruption downstairs, he might have been flipped over her shoulder.
He had to retaliate. If he couldn’t win with fists, he’d fight back with words.
Summoning all his focus, he racked his brain for the most cutting insults from his limited life experience.
"Pork bun! Stinky tofu! Snot worm!"
The young master’s round face, puffing like a pineapple bun, twisted into a fierce scowl.
Arms crossed in an imitation of the street gangsters from TV dramas, he drew a deep breath, ready to unleash his tirade—
Zhu Qing turned her head away.
The would-be gangster from Mid-Levels: "…"
Utterly. Furious.
