Sheng Fang was always full of whimsical ideas and excelled at seizing opportunities. Though he had been sulking earlier over forgetting his black card, he had now completely regained his lively spirit—his drooping head gradually lifting, his round little chin tilting up, and his entire small frame standing straight with pride.
"Please," he said, straining on tiptoe as he raised the shopping basket with both tiny arms, his chubby cheeks trembling from the effort.
Zeng Yongshan’s heart melted at the adorable sight. "Just buy it for him, hurry up and buy it!"
Director Fan chuckled warmly. "Since the little one likes it so much, he can just take it."
What followed was a small tug-of-war. Director Fan insisted on gifting it, while Zhu Qing was equally determined to pay. The receptionist, caught between them, didn’t know what to do. In the end, Sheng Fang decisively snatched the money from his niece’s hand and stuffed it into Director Fan’s pocket.
The little young master was eager to play with his new toy and had no patience for their back-and-forth.
"We’re never short on toys here," Director Fan said with a resigned shake of his head. "You’re all too polite."
Zeng Yongshan also shook her head silently, thinking to herself—
You really shouldn’t be so formal with this wealthy family!
Sheng Fang, now laden with his spoils, practically floated on air, his steps light as if walking on clouds. The moment he slid into the backseat of the car, he became the picture of obedience—quietly cradling his new toy, occasionally blinking his big eyes out the window, pretending to be invisible.
Up front, the two madams were engrossed in discussing the case as the car passed familiar streets.
Truthfully, Sheng Fang had no idea how to get to Ho Man Tin. His plan was simple: unless he saw the police headquarters in Yau Ma Tei, he wasn’t getting out of the car.
But his niece knew exactly what her little uncle was thinking. With a press of the accelerator, she drove straight to the Yau Ma Tei Police Station.
Pushing open the door to the CID office, the colleagues barely batted an eye at Sheng Fang’s arrival.
"You’re here?"
"Yep!"
The two madams went to brief Mo Zhenbang on their progress.
Before turning away, Zhu Qing asked, "And you?"
"I have my own methods," Sheng Fang replied mysteriously, patting his little chest.
Then, clutching his prize, he confidently made his way to Inspector Weng’s office.
Knock, knock, knock. After three raps, he turned the handle and peeked inside with half his small face.
"Ah John, wanna play with my new toy?"
...
The clock hands pointed to 5 PM, but no one was clocking out on time.
Case files were strewn messily across desks as the team debated the latest developments.
"Based on the current evidence, we can confirm Wei Ansheng is Wei Feiyang—the child never actually died."
"Meaning Wei Huasheng only transferred his household registration back then but never officially canceled it. The system was chaotic at the time, and since the boy was only three, many procedures were overlooked."
"Still doesn’t make sense," Xu Jiale muttered, scratching his head. "If he was alive, why issue a death notice? Rich folks are all about good omens—wouldn’t they worry about bad luck?"
An officer chuckled. "Don’t bother trying to figure out how the wealthy think."
Zeng Yongshan slid a file forward, tapping a key testimony. "If it was to avoid Huang Qiulian, then it makes perfect sense. If we suspect she killed the victim, then the victim must’ve feared she’d come after the child after her release. A mother who’d harm her own flesh and blood… nothing’s beyond her."
Uncle Li shook his head. "What kind of grudge could drive that? Ten years ago, she nearly killed the child, and now she’s back to finish the job?"
"The rich handle things similarly," Mo Zhenbang mused. "Either hire top-tier bodyguards or erase all traces of identity. With Wei Huasheng’s fortune, hiding a child would’ve been effortless. At its core, it’s just a father wanting to protect his son."
"What’s so hard to understand?" Zeng Yongshan nudged Xu Jiale. "Don’t you always read the gossip magazines on my desk? ‘Secret Heir of a Tycoon’—those kinds of headlines, remember?"
Just then, Sheng Fang happened to pass by the corridor.
Freshly assigned a new task—fetching tea for Weng Zhaolin—he abruptly stopped when he sensed the eyes on him. Turning, he met their gazes with wide, curious eyes.
Uncle Li tilted his chin toward the boy.
There’s your living example.
"Go back to Inspector Weng’s office," Zhu Qing told the child.
An adorable kid would only slow down the investigation—best to leave him with the inspector.
She shooed him off with a gesture before refocusing the discussion. "If Wei Ansheng is Wei Feiyang, where is he now?"
An eleven-year-old wasn’t quite grown but wasn’t helpless either.
Still, he’d need someone to care for him.
"Grandparents are deceased," Liang Qikai said. "Unlikely with the maternal side either. After the abuse case, the victim probably cut ties."
After a pause, Mo Zhenbang assigned tasks.
"Check household registrations—Wei Feiyang, aka Wei Ansheng, might’ve been placed under a trusted contact or institution."
"Interview close associates—drivers, nannies, secretaries. They could’ve been tasked with the boy’s care."
"Contact education authorities for school records. A child that age would be enrolled."
"Pull medical records from back then, plus any travel documents over the years."
Officers scribbled down their assignments.
Meanwhile, Hao Zai rushed back in.
"Handwriting analysis confirmed—the six-year-old daughter of Wei Xusheng didn’t write that note. The ex-wife wasn’t surprised her former husband was involved, just angry he dragged their kid into it."
"But she spoke highly of Wei Huasheng, said he was a good man who’d tried to help them. Pity Wei Xusheng never got his act together."
Though the brother’s alibi held, the lead still needed follow-up. Recalling Wei Xusheng’s earlier tantrum over inheritance, the team exchanged weary glances—the man who once preached "elders should care for kin" now saw only dollar signs.
A new round of investigations began.
On his way out, Little Sun remarked, "The victim’s secrecy was airtight—even daily staff and his own brother were kept in the dark…"
Teams dispersed, while Zhu Qing stayed behind organizing files, constantly on the move.
By the time she remembered dinner, she spotted Sheng Fang bouncing alongside Inspector Weng, ready to head out.
"Thanks for treating!" the boy chirped brightly.
Weng Zhaolin wasn’t taking him out for a meal for the first time. He rolled his eyes with a hint of pride. "Cut the act."
Their figures gradually faded into the distance.
Zhu Qing watched their cheerful retreating backs, her lips curling into an unconscious smile before she turned back to bury herself in the stacks of case files.
...
The evenings behind the Yau Ma Tei Police Station were always bustling with life. A long queue had already formed outside the cha chaan teng. As a regular, Inspector Weng was immediately spotted by the sharp-eyed owner, who personally ushered them inside and somehow managed to clear two window-side seats in the packed restaurant.
"Ah John," Fang Fang gazed at him adoringly, cupping his chubby cheeks. "You’re so impressive!"
The words struck just the right chord with Weng Zhaolin. His lips curled into an exaggerated grin, and in his delight, he ordered several extra portions of dim sum.
Little Sheng Fang’s main dish was char siu rice, topped with a fried egg and a side of greens.
The young master knew how to eat well—nutritionally balanced, as always. He had everything figured out.
While waiting for their food, Fang Fang swung his legs, sipping his iced lemon tea, and proudly declared, "I’m the one who cracked the case!"
The little boy animatedly recounted his adventure at the toy company headquarters to his friend—how he tiptoed to spot the train model on the high shelf, and how he helped his niece uncover the crucial clue...
Weng Zhaolin shook his head in amusement. "After days of investigation, the police are outsmarted by a three-year-old."
Sheng Fang immediately held up four plump fingers with utmost seriousness.
"Oh? Four years old now." Weng sighed. "Time flies..."
The owner brought over the char siu rice, the golden fried egg resting on top, its yolk still slightly runny. A gentle poke, and the white rice turned golden.
Little Sheng Fang gripped his spoon, eating with earnest delight, savoring each bite.
"Ah John," Fang Fang pointed at the coffee on the table, "be careful, it’s hot."
The thoughtful gesture made him the picture of an angelic child.
At first, Weng simply watched with a smile, but soon he was propping his chin on one hand, his gaze growing softer by the minute.
He and his wife had discussed having children many times. But she always argued that raising kids was exhausting, and ultimately shut him down with, "Formula is too expensive."
Yet, watching this well-behaved boy, he suddenly thought—
What’s a little formula money? He’d pay it gladly!
Just as Weng’s face lit up with paternal longing, Sheng Fang spoke up.
"Ah John, go pack some food to take back for everyone."
"...What?"
"My niece hasn’t eaten yet. Jiale, Uncle Li, Yongshan will be back soon too." He counted on his chubby fingers. "And also..."
Weng’s smile froze, then slowly flattened.
In the end, he shot the kid an exasperated look and got up to place the order.
...
Early the next morning, Zhu Qing and Zeng Yongshan arrived punctually at the community center, receiving their volunteer badges from the staff.
They adjusted the lanyards as instructed.
Even as they left the station, Mo Zhenbang had reminded them—despite their suspicions about Huang Qiulian, they lacked concrete evidence. They had to stay low-key.
The event was held on the lawn.
As they walked down the corridor toward the outdoor area, Zeng Yongshan tugged at Zhu Qing’s sleeve. "You need to smile. No one wants a frosty-faced volunteer!"
Zhu Qing attempted to rearrange her expression, but the forced smile made her laugh first. Her lips curled naturally, her eyes crinkling into a genuine, warm grin.
"There you go," Zeng Yongshan nodded approvingly. "That’s the spirit."
The event was a casual tea party—children sat in circles, drawing and snacking, guided by staff from the Happy Children Development Center and the community center to connect with nature.
Huang Qiulian was rarely seen at such gatherings.
Her criminal record was an invisible barrier, keeping her apart from the children. Even on the same lawn, she stayed in the distance, silently sweeping fallen leaves with a broom.
Zhu Qing and Zeng Yongshan exchanged a glance. Under the pretense of checking attendance, they subtly moved closer to Huang Qiulian.
They knew every detail of the child abuse case by heart. The thick case files had been pored over endlessly, searching for overlooked clues.
The records were clear: during initial interrogations, Huang Qiulian had vehemently denied all accusations. Only when neighbor testimonies, forensic reports, and medical records formed an airtight chain of evidence did she have no choice. In court, her sole request was to visit the severely injured child in the hospital—denied by the judge to prevent "further trauma."
After sentencing, she appealed from prison, but with no new evidence, the verdict stood.
Now, a year after her release, Huang Qiulian sat quietly in the corner, worlds apart from the lively scene. It was hard to imagine she had once been a confident high school teacher, standing at a podium.
"Just need a quick signature for our records," Zeng Yongshan said warmly, handing her a form.
Huang Qiulian seemed surprised anyone would address her.
She looked up, her gaze steady. "I don’t interact with the children. I only clean."
But as the social worker had said, Huang Qiulian never caused trouble. After a pause, she took the pen and signed her name with careful strokes.
Zheng Yongshan seized the moment to ask about her alibi for the day of the incident.
"Just got off shift. Was resting in the dorm," Huang Qiulian replied simply.
The community center provided staff accommodation—shared rooms for three or two.
Officially, Huang Qiulian had a roommate. In reality, she lived alone—no one would bunk with a convicted child abuser.
Suddenly—BANG!
Zeng Yongshan whipped around. A child had popped a balloon underfoot.
A piercing scream followed. An autistic girl clamped her hands over her ears, curling into a tight ball.
Panic spread instantly. Even the well-trained staff struggled to calm a dozen special-needs children at once.
Then, Huang Qiulian stepped forward and switched off the malfunctioning microphone, silencing its electric buzz.
The screaming faded, replaced by an eerie quiet.
Without a word, Huang Qiulian retreated to her corner.
For the rest of the event, Zhu Qing and Zeng Yongshan helped supervise games, their eyes occasionally drifting to that solitary figure.
Morning sunlight bathed the lawn, breathing life into everything.
The children clutched crayons, leaving chaotic lines on paper, occasionally looking up with innocent smiles. Huang Qiulian's gaze couldn't help but follow these little figures. When one child tucked a biscuit into their pocket, a tender amusement flickered in her eyes.
"Would she really harm a child?" Zeng Yongshan murmured to herself unconsciously before dismissing the thought, as if reminding herself.
Don’t let emotions cloud judgment.
Zhu Qing also watched Huang Qiulian.
She stood slightly bowed, letting sunlight trace the weary lines at the corners of her eyes, then picked up a broom to sweep scattered paper scraps from the lawn.
...
As soon as the community center event ended, Zhu Qing and Zeng Yongshan rushed back to the police station.
The case briefing had already begun when they pushed open the conference room door.
"Here’s the expenditure record from the victim’s bank account," Little Sun said. "All large transactions were charitable donations. The institutions marked in red received fixed annual transfers."
"Hospital records show the child from the abuse case was secretly relocated the following year," Liang Qikai added. "It’s an old case—no proper archives. Likely, a death certificate was forged to keep the ex-wife from tracking them down after her release. But the paperwork was sloppy, so the household registration wasn’t voided. Just a company-issued obituary."
"Senior management confirmed no memorial was held. Fits local customs—no ceremonies for deceased children."
Zhu Qing frowned. "All this effort just to hide from Huang Qiulian?"
"Another odd detail," Hao Zai cut in. "An eleven-year-old with no school enrollment. We checked public, private, even unregulated international schools—nothing."
"Drivers, nannies—all alibis checked out. Zero leads."
Xu Jiale returned after a phone call outside.
"I’ve got something." He held up a charity dossier. "A church-run rehab school called Sacred Heart Manor, funded by an overseas Chinese foundation. The victim’s charity funneled long-term donations there."
He pulled out a freshly faxed photo. "Last year, Sacred Heart submitted a student’s entry to a photography contest—award-winning shot signed ‘Wei Ansheng.’"
The room buzzed with energy.
But the next steps were mired in bureaucracy. The institution was notoriously insular, requiring layers of approvals. Only after mediation by the Social Welfare Department were they granted access—with strict conditions: no disruption to the children.
By the time special entry was secured, dusk approached. They’d have to move fast.
"Let’s go." Mo Zhenbang stood, only for Uncle Li to block him.
"Not you," Uncle Li said. "You look like a loan shark collecting protection money. Scowl like that, and you’ll traumatize the kids."
He scanned the room. "Zhu Qing, you’re in."
Officers stiffened in their seats.
His eyes landed on Zeng Yongshan. "Yongshan too."
Finally, he nodded at Liang Qikai. "Qikai, tag along."
The rest stared, slack-jawed, as the trio gathered files—realizing slots were full.
Outrage erupted.
"Seriously, boss?" Hao Zai smacked the table, sour. "Only the pretty ones get field trips? Is this Miss Hong Kong auditions?"
Xu Jiale rubbed his stubble, aggrieved. "This is bullying. Should’ve shaved this morning."
"Tell me about it. I didn’t even style my hair."
"I—I’ve got a decent suit in storage..."
Amid the grumbling, Zhu Qing, Zeng Yongshan, and Liang Qikai made a swift exit.
Protests chased them out:
"Unfair..."
"Boss, this is looks-based discrimination!"
Thud. Thud. Mo Zhenbang swatted heads with a folder, torn between annoyance and amusement.
The team kept muttering, sulky.
"Dinner’s on Uncle Li," Hao Zai ventured, raising a timid hand. "We demand compensation."
...
In her villa on Kadoorie Hill, Sheng Peirong sat in the study, reviewing years of company ledgers.
Sunset draped her in gold.
Aunt Ping burst in, clutching a crumpled tabloid.
"Miss, look at this. I scoured five newsstands downhill for it," she panted. "Some no-name rag no one reads."
"Thank you." Sheng Peirong unfolded the paper calmly.
Her brow arched as she read aloud: "Sheng Peirong Brain-Dead for Years—Sheng Heirless—"
"Aiyah, bad juju! Take it back!" Aunt Ping flapped her hands. "Disgusting trash! They’d print anything for sales, karma be damned!"
"Expected." Sheng Peirong smiled, tapping a file. "The first move."
"You were at the kindergarten gate yesterday afternoon!"
"Word hasn’t spread yet."
Every step she and her lawyer predicted was unfolding. Pei Junyi’s tabloid leak was just the opener.
She reached for her tea, pausing at the milky scent.
"Milk?"
"Qingqing’s orders." Aunt Ping coughed guiltily. "Said caffeine hinders bone healing."
She scurried out before retaliation.
Sheng Peirong chuckled, resuming her reading. Soon, the clatter of woks and aroma of dinner seeped under the door.
On the living room rug, Sheng Fang dumped out every board game his eldest sister bought, stacking pieces into a chaotic castle.
Aunt Ping groaned, balancing dishes. "Who’s cleaning this up?"
At dinnertime, Sheng Peirong wheeled past the mess without a glance.
She tossed over her shoulder: "Hope it’s tidy before Koko visits."
Sheng Fang’s eyes bulged.
Since when did Big Sis weaponize his niece?
Worst part? It worked instantly.
Grumbling, he kicked at scattered pieces—sending one under the sofa.
He belly-flopped, stubby legs flailing, fishing it out.
"Such obedience." Sheng Peirong smirked. "I’ll praise you lavishly when Koko’s here."
"Big Sis," Fangfang hissed, arms crossed, "don’t bother!"
...
Sacred Heart Manor nestled in a secluded New Territories valley, serene.
After cross-checking the Social Welfare Department’s permit, the gatekeeper finally waved the police through.
"I'm the volunteer on duty today." A middle-aged woman wearing a work badge stepped forward. "The archives room has prepared all the relevant materials."
"We heard the tragic news and can hardly believe it. How could Mr. Wei…" The volunteer spoke softly, walking slowly.
"Ansheng has lived here for many years."
"When he first arrived, he was only three years old. Due to his special circumstances, all assessment reports and treatment records have been preserved very thoroughly."
The volunteer opened the door to the archives room and retrieved a thick folder.
"The child is in the activity room. I'll take you there."
Pushing open the glass door of the activity room, the familiar melody of a nursery rhyme drifted out.
On a cushioned seat by the window sat a small, frail figure. The boy had his back to the door, quietly gazing at the swaying tree shadows outside, showing no reaction to the approaching footsteps.
"These past few days, Mr. Wei hasn’t come, and Ansheng has been waiting for him."
"Sometimes he sits there from lunchtime until sunset, refusing to move no matter how much we coax him."
"Don’t underestimate him just because he’s a child—he has a strong will of his own."
She took a step forward, and the police officers followed, though their steps slowed.
The volunteer crouched down to meet Wei Ansheng at eye level. "Ansheng, the photography club’s brother and sister are here to see you. They remember your award-winning photo from last time and said you took it beautifully."
She subtly signaled to the officers before continuing in a cheerful tone, "They came especially to see your new work."
Clearly, this approach made the child feel safer.
Zeng Yongshan caught on and stepped forward with a smile. "Ansheng’s work has such a perfect grasp of—"
Her voice suddenly faltered.
The faint scar on the boy’s temple wasn’t gruesome, but his right eye seemed veiled in mist, the pupil unfocused. The decade-old child abuse case might not have left a mark on his infant memories, but his tiny body had forever retained the trauma of that violence.
Hearing Zeng Yongshan’s voice, Wei Ansheng lifted his gaze.
His other eye was unnervingly clear, devoid of any emotion.
Only the blurred reflection of the officers could be seen in it.
Zeng Yongshan regained her composure. "Ansheng’s work captures the light just right."
"His right eye… he can’t see out of it anymore," the volunteer murmured, stepping back and lowering her voice for the officers. "When he fell down the stairs, the optic nerve was damaged. He’s completely blind in that eye."
"Mr. Wei always sat here," she pointed to the chair on the child’s left, her tone tinged with sorrow. "That way, Ansheng could see his father clearly with his good eye."
The volunteer held the folder tightly—inside were records of the child’s progress, day by day, month by month, year by year.
In the blink of an eye, Wei Ansheng had spent eight years at Sacred Heart Manor.
"Mr. Wei trusted our rehabilitation team."
"When Ansheng first arrived, he couldn’t even sit upright. Now he can follow simple instructions—that’s incredible progress."
"But… he’s lost in his own world. He’s lost the ability to speak. We’ve tried everything to teach him, but sometimes we can’t tell if he can’t speak or just won’t."
Zhu Qing studied the boy’s profile and asked, "Aside from Wei Huasheng, has anyone else come to visit him?"
The volunteer’s fingers traced the metal clasp of the folder. "No."
By the window, Zeng Yongshan was now kneeling, pointing at the swaying trees outside and speaking softly to Wei Ansheng.
Zhu Qing noticed that even with Zeng Yongshan practically whispering in his ear, the boy’s expression remained vacant. No fear, no curiosity, no reaction.
"Mr. Wei visited regularly, sometimes staying for three or four days," the volunteer said gently. "No matter if Ansheng spent the whole day staring out the window or playing with the same toy over and over, he was always patient with him."
"A couple of years ago, Mr. Wei bought him a camera," she added, her gaze softening as it rested on the boy. "Ansheng seemed to love it—he took to photography. On nice days, the two of them would go out into the garden to take pictures of butterflies and flowers."
Her eyes lowered. "Mr. Wei planned everything for him. Years ago, he even arranged Ansheng’s care plan for after he turned twenty. Back then, we joked that he was thinking too far ahead, but who would’ve thought—"
Zhu Qing pulled out an evidence bag containing a photograph of the note found under the cushion.
"Can he write?" She pointed at the handwriting in the photo.
"An amazing father?" The volunteer studied the photo and shook her head firmly. "No, impossible. He can’t write."
She handed the photo back, her voice suddenly strained. "But Mr. Wei… truly was an amazing father."
…
At 8:40 p.m., little Sheng Fang was riding his bike in circles around the courtyard.
He pedaled furiously, the wheels crunching over fallen leaves. Occasionally, he’d veer into the ball pit, diving in headfirst and sending colorful plastic balls flying.
The hired help came weekly at scheduled times. Yesterday, cleaning up his ball pit alone had taken half the day.
But even with the pit spotless, Sheng Fang was listless, tossing the balls idly. Rolling around alone just wasn’t as fun as playing with other kids.
After a few lackluster throws, he climbed back onto his tricycle.
"Aunt Ping! Take off the training wheels!"
"No, little master, you’ll really get hurt—"
"Then let me get hurt!"
Little Fang pedaled like he was about to take flight, completely fearless.
He whined and wheedled, nearly throwing himself onto the grass in protest.
Just as the standoff reached its peak, the doorbell rang, cutting short the little master’s tantrum.
Aunt Ping went to answer it—and froze at the sight of the visitors.
Pei Junyi and three board members stood there, all smiles. The man in the tailored suit beside them was unfamiliar.
"Aunt Ping, ever the loyal retainer," Pei Junyi remarked as he stepped inside, scanning the courtyard. "From the old estate to the hillside, then to Yau Ma Tei, and now here in Kadoorie Hill—you’ve always been around."
The men behind him chuckled.
Tracking them down had been effortless. A sheltered child and a cop with no connections—at most, the uncle-nephew pair could splurge on cars and mansions. Nothing more.
Pei Junyi nodded to the suited man.
The man promptly retrieved a document from his briefcase and handed it over.
Pei Junyi approached Sheng Fang, his tone gentle. "This authorization needs your signature. The board will handle company affairs for now."
He glanced at the elderly directors and lawyer behind him. "I brought them along to explain the terms clearly."
Beads of sweat formed on the foreheads of the elderly board members.
Taking advantage of someone's misfortune went against the principles they had upheld for decades. But ever since Sheng Wenchang passed away, the Sheng Group had been teetering on the edge, and the board only recognized Sheng Peirong's authority. Now that even she was incapacitated, who would go to bat for a child?
Sheng Fang poked at the document with his finger. "What's this?"
Pei Junyi reached out to pat his head, but the boy deftly dodged by pedaling his tricycle backward.
The lawyer immediately stepped forward, launching into a flood of legal jargon. Pei Junyi took over, followed by a round of elaborations from the three directors.
The young master of the Sheng family shook his head like a rattle-drum. "I don't understand."
"Do you need me to sign?" He looked up with an innocent expression.
"Of course not," Pei Junyi replied, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Your guardian needs to sign this. The lawyer will explain everything to her in detail."
"She's working overtime."
Pei Junyi visibly stiffened, clearly unprepared for this answer.
He quickly recomposed himself. "Then we can wait."
"I can find another grown-up to sign for you." Sheng Fang tilted his head thoughtfully before declaring in his childish voice, "Aunt Ping!"
"Young master," Aunt Ping chuckled, "how could I possibly sign such important corporate documents?"
The room erupted in deep, hearty laughter, the atmosphere momentarily lightened.
Until Sheng Fang made a showy loop on his tricycle and announced in his boyish tone, "Then let my big sister sign it."
The laughter died instantly.
Everyone froze before slowly turning toward where his gaze was fixed—and collectively gasped.
By the floor-to-ceiling window, moonlight outlined Sheng Peirong's razor-sharp silhouette.
Sheng Fang pedaled over with a triumphant little spin, parking his tricycle neatly beside his sister.
Still grinning? A proper villain shouldn’t be this clueless!
