Song Foxiang.
Middle-aged, greasy poet.
Middle-aged literary romantic.
Magazine editor-in-chief.
The brave soul who once pummeled Xie Jinghu.
These used to be Song Foxiang’s only labels. Now, he’s entangled in a major affair, his actions potentially deciding whether Zhao Dong secures the massive amusement park project—a situation that would terrify any normal person.
Song Foxiang isn’t normal. He swings between a literati’s integrity and a street-smart shrewdness.
Holding the “dirt” on Zhao Dong from the conglomerate’s representative, Song Foxiang wanted to roar to the heavens.
That damn Zhao dog!
Last time, at what should’ve been Song Foxiang’s moment of glory during a donation ceremony, he resisted the temptation of a million yuan, following his nephew Song Shao’s advice to donate it all to the Writers’ Association for prestige and spiritual fulfillment.
Then Zhao Dong showed up with reporters, stealing Song Foxiang’s spotlight.
And that wasn’t all.
Since then, Zhao Dong has been flaunting *The Zhao Family Chronicles*, ghostwritten by Song Foxiang, to build his reputation in Rongcheng’s cultural circle. Every time Song Foxiang hears Zhao Dong’s name, he feels sick.
He’s wanted to slap himself countless times.
Why did he ghostwrite for Zhao Dong?
Why chase that filthy ghostwriting fee?
No matter how many times he washes his hands, the stench of shame lingers.
—Damn it, taking Zhao Dong’s money feels like eating crap.
Countless times, Song Foxiang has wanted to expose Zhao Dong. But ghostwriting autobiographies is a half-open secret in the industry. Many celebrities lack writing talent, so their “autobiographies” are dictated and polished by others.
If Song Foxiang revealed he wrote *The Zhao Family Chronicles*, it wouldn’t hurt Zhao Dong much—he doesn’t rely on writing for a living.
But this thick stack of “dirt”? That would collapse Zhao Dong’s entire persona.
Noble Confucian merchant?
Pfft!
A family of freeloaders!
Fine if they just lived off others, but to gild themselves and worm into the cultural elite, corrupting Rongcheng’s literary circle!
Song Foxiang itched to purge this pest from the cultural scene. If he’d stumbled on this dirt himself, he’d have exposed it without hesitation. But since someone delivered it to him, asking him to take the lead… he wouldn’t do it for free.
“This is tricky,” Song Foxiang said, face stern, “I hear Zhao’s at a critical point in the bidding. If I expose his past and he fails, he’ll turn his wrath on me. I’m just a penniless editor, living with my daughter all these years. How can I withstand his retaliation? No, no, I can’t take this on.”
He pushed the dirt back to the suited conglomerate representative.
The representative stayed calm. This wasn’t their first meeting; he knew Song Foxiang’s weak spot.
Song Foxiang was stubborn, soft, and reckless, but his daughter Song Chan was his Achilles’ heel.
Sending her to a top provincial school, arranging her entry in the New Concept Essay Contest, even ghostwriting for Zhao Dong—all for Song Chan’s bright future.
The representative pulled another file from his briefcase.
“Mr. Song, time’s short, so I’ll be direct. We’ve considered your concerns.”
The representative, from a major conglomerate, wouldn’t bribe Song Foxiang with cash. But for a project this big, offering resources to help him was no issue.
A good gift targets the recipient’s desires, not its price, but its thoughtfulness.
This gift hit Song Foxiang’s heart. One glance at the file, and his grim expression turned to grins.
“This is a sure thing?”
“Based on our understanding, your daughter is exceptional. Follow the plan, and success is 99% guaranteed.”
Ninety-nine percent was modest—unless Song Chan didn’t cooperate, failure was near impossible.
Song Foxiang, gleeful as a mouse stealing oil, pocketed the file and picked up Zhao Dong’s dirt, striking a martyr’s pose, “Fine, fine, a cultural scourge like Zhao dog must be dealt with by me, sacrificing myself. As the Buddha says, if I don’t enter hell, who will? I’m the messenger of justice to punish Zhao dog!”
Representative: “…”
—Calling him Zhao *dong* a minute ago, now Zhao *dog*?
Though on the same side, the representative was still put off by Song Foxiang’s greasy theatrics.
Zhao Dong was unlucky to cross the vengeful Song Foxiang.
The representative checked his watch, “Mr. Song, need a ride to the venue?”
Song Foxiang waved him off, “No, no, I need to prepare. You can stall a bit, right?”
No problem at all.
…
Cocktail parties drag on.
The host’s speech kicks things off, then the real mingling begins. Eating and drinking are secondary; the goal is networking.
Zhao Dong, once a fringe figure, now stood at the social center, wine glass in hand, smug.
Jiang Youjia, tagging along with his father Jiang Xuekun for exposure, felt nauseated seeing Zhao Dong.
No culture, yet posing as a cultured man—disgusting.
Zhao Dong spotted Jiang Youjia and raised his glass in greeting.
—See, he made it into this circle without the Jiangs.
Jiang Youjia’s nose twitched with anger.
“What a lowlife!”
His face twisted, looking more villainous than Zhao Dong, “If he succeeds, that’d be truly sickening.”
Though Jiang Youjia initially disliked Wen Ying, Zhao Dong’s repeated bullying of her, a younger target, earned his contempt.
Wen Ying proved herself with her talent—her background didn’t limit her, and she’s earned the right to be Xie Qian’s friend. Though her novel was published by Zou Weijun, Jiang Youjia, steeped in publishing knowledge, knew a book’s quality matters most. No amount of promotion from Rongcheng Publishing Group could save a bad book. A bestseller needs reader approval, and Wen Ying’s *Teen Idol* became a phenomenon because readers loved it.
Jiang Xuekun glanced at his son, not correcting his thoughts.
Zhao Dong mustn’t win the bid, but not for Jiang Youjia’s reasons, like Zhao’s poor character.
That’s secondary; Jiang Xuekun didn’t care.
What mattered was that Zhao Dong’s success meant others’ success, and Jiang Xuekun liked Xie Qian. He didn’t want Xie Qian and his mother forced into retreat by certain people.
