Unexpectedly, nothing happened that day. Su Ning hadn’t played any tricks—she actually delivered the penicillin as promised, and it passed on-the-spot verification as genuine, not just water passed off as the real thing.
No one caused any trouble either.
Old Master Qian, beaming with self-satisfaction, rushed out ahead of everyone else, eager to steal the spotlight.
He lifted his head.
Click—the sound of cameras.
A blinding flash of light.
He thought he was going to go blind for a second, tears streaming down his face. Before he could recover, the clicking only grew more frantic—
An unflattering photo makes for better drama, after all.
“Old Master Qian, is it true you’ve actually gotten your hands on the penicillin?”
“Has Miss Su shown her face at all?”
“We heard that when the prize was being collected, Miss Su’s people warned that penicillin carries a mortality rate and advised you not to use it immediately—is that true or false?”
Blocking the lights with his servants, Old Master Qian wiped away the tears the flashes had forced out, steadied his temper, and forced a smile:
“There was indeed such a warning, and I can appreciate Miss Su’s good intentions.”
He paused mid-sentence.
A flicker of sarcasm and impatience crossed his eyes. Mortality rate, mortality rate—how many times have they tried to scare us with that? Has anyone actually been frightened off?
At the very least, they’d need to actually manufacture a real death from penicillin for people to believe it.
A child’s trick.
“However,” he continued, “my son is gravely ill, at death’s door. We have no choice but to take the risk. Miss Su should understand my position, surely—after all, when her own cousin was in a similar situation, the boy came through just fine. I hope my son is blessed with the same luck.”
He couldn’t quite hold back, even if he dared not say anything openly.
Still, the implication stung.
He was feeling rather pleased with himself.
Then, from somewhere in the crowd, a voice rang out:
“Wrong!”
“Miss Su’s cousin had an infected wound. Word is, Young Master Qian has the pox—that’s a different illness entirely. Hard for Miss Su to sympathize with that, isn’t it?”
A burst of laughter rippled through the crowd.
Mind you, these weren’t just Shanghai reporters—journalists from all over the country had flocked here, which is exactly why Old Master Qian had wanted to grandstand in the first place. Outsiders began whispering to one another, fishing for the full story.
Old Master Qian’s face went through several shades of pale and red.
His lips trembled with rage as he glared around, trying to spot who had spoken—but to no avail. He could only splutter, “Rumors! Pure rumors! It is not the pox!”
Yet when pressed to name what dire illness actually required penicillin, he came up empty.
The laughter grew louder.
It drowned out his voice entirely, until all he could do was drop a parting shot:
“Whatever the case, my son will be fine. Once he takes the penicillin, he’ll be right as rain.”
And with that, he fled.
His retreat was a sorry sight.
The atmosphere only grew more animated. Shanghai reporters swapped gossip with their out-of-town counterparts—they couldn’t print any of it anyway, so they might as well do people a favor with the inside scoop.
Zhao Chang stayed out of it, watching the car roar away. His smile gradually faded into a sigh. He had done everything he could.
But public opinion could only embarrass the Qian family for so long.
Once the young man recovered, showed his face all clean and healthy, and threw around some money, people would forget in no time. Young Master Qian would go back to being the glamorous, untouchable rich boy he always was.
…
Back at the Qian residence.
The moment Old Master Qian stepped out of the car, he saw lanterns and decorations everywhere. The servants bustling about were dressed in red, and even those who weren’t had red ribbons tied around their waists.
At a glance, you’d think a wedding was being celebrated.
“What’s all this?”
“Sir, the Old Madam ordered it—she wanted everything festive to pray for the young master’s recovery and blessing.”
Old Master Qian nodded approvingly, muttering, “Not bad at all.” But after looking around a second time, something felt off—though with his mind consumed by saving his son, he paid it no further mind.
Standing on the sidelines, however, Lin Sen spotted the problem in an instant:
The aesthetic was all wrong.
The Qian family were compradors who worked for foreigners, so they lived in a Western-style mansion—white plaster statues, a little fountain, arched European windows, ornate wrought-iron railings.
None of it matched the red robes, red shoes, red sashes on the servants, or the red lanterns hanging everywhere.
Thank goodness it was still daylight.
At night, you’d mistake the place for a haunted house.
Meanwhile, Old Master Qian nearly had a heart attack seeing Lin Sen in his own home.
“Back from the prize collection?”
Lin Sen, as if oblivious to Old Master Qian’s expression, set down his teacup and remarked coolly.
Old Master Qian: …???
Wait a second—this was his house. HE was the master here, wasn’t he?
After a moment of speechlessness, he quickly re-composed himself, plastering on a warm smile:
“Assistant Lin! What brings you to my humble abode? You honor us with your presence. My apologies for not being here to receive you properly—please forgive any neglect.” He immediately ordered the servants to bring out his finest tea and freshest pastries and fruits.
For all his behind-the-back sniping, everyone knew that Su Ning had enormous connections overseas and controlled the Su family shipping empire.
To put it bluntly: crushing a comprador who scraped by on foreign patronage wouldn’t be quite as easy as crushing an ant—but it wouldn’t be far off.
“No need for the fuss.”
Lin Sen swept the room with a glance and said flatly:
“I’m only here as eyes for my mistress. She had intended to come herself, but upon hearing that your son has the pox—well, she found it thoroughly revolting and didn’t want to soil her sight, so she sent me instead.”
The Qian family members present bristled with indignation.
Old Master Qian in particular felt the wound reopened yet again. He was nearly fuming on the spot. He forced an oily smile and said, “Oh, what a pity. And what, pray tell, did Miss Su wish to see?”
“Nothing much, really.”
Lin Sen adopted a slightly troubled look and said:
“It’s just that my mistress is rather annoyed by how everyone stubbornly insists penicillin is a finished miracle drug. She’s warned more than once that people could die from it, yet no one takes her seriously. So she wanted to… demonstrate the point.”
Demonstrate what?
Old Master Qian froze for a beat before it hit him. He snapped his head up, glaring at Lin Sen.
He could no longer hold back.
He stood, grinding his teeth:
“Then Miss Su will be disappointed. My son was told at birth that he would live a life of ease and boundless wealth—and so it has proved, for the family has only grown richer since his arrival.”
“And did the fortune-teller also mention whether he’d live to a ripe old age?”
Lin Sen asked with a faint smile.
That… no, they hadn’t said that. Old Master Qian thought about it, felt thoroughly cowed, and could only retort:
“What matters is that my son has good fortune. Nothing will happen to him.”
He immediately ordered the young master to be brought out.
Moments later, a slender young man emerged—hollow-eyed, dark circles under his gaze, red spots visible on his exposed skin. He paid no regard to anyone else in the room, but his eyes lit up when he saw his father:
“Father! Did you get the penicillin? Quick, let me use it right now! Cooped up in this house day after day with nowhere to go—I’m rotting away!”
“Alright, alright.”
Old Master Qian soothed his son, then reluctantly introduced Lin Sen.
“Oh. Hello, Assistant Lin.”
Barely sparing him a glance, Young Master Qian gave a perfunctory greeting, his eyes full of contempt. Assistant, schmistant—at the end of the day, the man was just a servant, wasn’t he?
The only reason he had any standing was because of his master, Su Ning.
Now, if Su Ning herself had come, he’d have made more of an effort—he’d have liked to get a good look at her, wonder what she looked like. Probably no great beauty, or else people would have praised her looks by now. But that didn’t matter. A rich woman—now that was a title with some allure.
Memorize her face, then go find a girl who looked like her. Oh, the fun he could have…
The penicillin was taken out.
A professional doctor carefully injected it. The medicine was ice-cold, and Young Master Qian frowned in discomfort, which made the rest of the Qian family ache with worry as they hurried to soothe him.
Taking this chance,
Young Master Qian asked for quite a few things, then said:
"I heard this ticket was bought for a thousand silver dollars from those swindlers who tried to blackmail us earlier. Them? They're not worthy. Pah, who knows if they stole it or grabbed it from somewhere. That money has to be gotten back."
"All right, we'll do as you say. I'll have the police arrest them and look into it."
Old Master Qian said, gazing at his son with adoring fondness:
"Let's make this thousand dollars your private allowance, shall we?"
"Hmph, that's more like it,"
said Young Master Qian. But suddenly he frowned, saying he felt terribly itchy, and red rashes spread over his body and face. Then he couldn't speak anymore, clutching his throat as if he couldn't catch his breath.
The Qian family was shocked.
They called the doctor back in, and held Young Master Qian while asking him frantically what was wrong.
