Chapter 0003: Three Years

Though classified as a second-tier city in Yansha Nation, Bianzhou possessed cultural depth that rivaled first-tier metropolises. Poets sang of it as "heaven above, Bianzhou below" – a realm of weeping willow-lined canals and tragic love legends that bled into its very cobblestones. If cities were women, Bianzhou would be the refined aristocrat sipping tea while composing sonnets.

Bianzhou University ranked among the nation's top ten academic institutions, its gates admitting only the brightest minds and wealthiest scions. Yet Chen Liuhe paid no heed to these elite as he loitered by his scrap-laden tricycle, savoring the parade of youthful beauty – lithe legs in pleated skirts, fresh faces glowing with intellectual vigor. A feast for the eyes that could substitute dinner, he mused.

The campus gates parted to reveal a girl who commanded attention despite her wheelchair. Not conventionally beautiful (Chen's strict scale granted 85/100), her magnetism lay in an aura of tranquil confidence – the still waters masking unfathomable depths.

Spotting her, Chen stubbed out his Red Plum cigarette and hurriedly fanned his breath. "Little sister's nose is sharper than a bloodhound's," he chuckled inwardly.

"Brother, you promised to cut back." Shen Qingwu's voice held no reproach, only quiet authority.

"Right, right. Cutting back." The man who'd faced down mercenary armies became putty in her hands. Shen Qingwu – last blood descendant of the Shen family, sole inheritor of its legacy, and the only soul Chen would unhesitatingly die for.

Their departure formed a surreal tableau: the disheveled scrap peddler effortlessly lifting wheelchair and occupant into his cart, pedaling past luxury sedans with proletarian pride.

"Professor Zhang called today," Chen grinned as they navigated canal bridges. "Said you eviscerated his Machiavellianism lecture with 'sophistry.'"

"Truth requires no adornment." Shen's lips quirked. "Though the old scholar did resort to tattling like a schoolboy."

Laughter echoed off ancient walls until Chen's tone sobered. "You should've stayed at Jinghua University. National top scorer reduced to this..."

Shen gazed at lanterns reflected in black waters. "You came back from hell. That's gift enough."

The tricycle's chain creaked through sudden silence.

"Grandfather made me promise," Chen finally said. "Three years away from the capital."

"And after?" Shen's whisper barely carried over street noise.

Chen's knuckles whitened on handlebars. "The Shen lineage ends with you. Their 'illness'," he spat the word, "that stole your legs... debts remain unpaid."

"Three years..." Shen traced the wheelchair's armrest. "They say when you return to Yanjing, three will die."

"Three?" Chen's chuckle held winter's bite. "Hardly sufficient."

At their cramped tenement – shared courtyard reeking of communal toilets – Chen prepared braised pork while Shen annotated Kant's critiques. After ancestral prayers before a worn spirit tablet, moonlight found Chen staring at the inscription:

*Shen Zhongshan (1903-1994)*

*A pillar unyielding, even as the roof crumbled*

"Three years to temper me?" Chen addressed the tablet. "But Grandfather, I'm no statesman. Just a man balancing ledgers in blood."

The shrine flickered as if in reply.

His reverie shattered by a garish ringtone – "Your grandson's calling!" – Chen adopted a service-sector cadence: "Full-service handyman speaking. How may I—"

The voice on the line froze his theatrics. Fingers instinctively brushed the crescent dagger hidden beneath pillows.

"Mr. Chen," spoke a velvet female voice laced with steel. "Your BMW acquaintance requires... specialized housekeeping."

Shen stirred in her sleep as Chen's eyes narrowed. The game, it seemed, was afoot.