[Cloud City · Long Teng Tower · 18th Floor · Long Wei Group]
A wave of leather and cigar smoke hit Yin Wuwang the moment he pushed open the dark wooden door.
The receptionist was a young woman in a black suit, makeup immaculate, the curve of her lips measured as if drawn with a ruler. She saw two people walk in and swept her gaze over them—half a second on the clothes, half a second on the shoes—then made her judgment: whether they were worth standing up for.
Yin Wuwang flashed his credentials.
"Major Crimes Unit. Jiang Ye." He said. "Here to see Director Long."
He didn't have an appointment. But he said it like he did.
The receptionist's expression hitched for an instant, then reset. She picked up the desk phone, pressed a number, spoke a few low words, and hung up.
"Director Long is in the reception room. Please follow me."
Yin Wuwang noted that she said "reception room," not "office." The space they were being led to carried a different message—Dragon Brother had drawn the boundary from the start. You are guests, not people who get access to the inner sanctum.
She led them down a corridor carpeted in dark gray. Calligraphy scrolls hung on the walls—bold strokes, expensive but tasteless, the kind you paid a lot of money to have someone write for you. The corridor forked at the end: left toward a closed set of double doors—probably the real office—right toward an open reception room.
Two men stood at the reception room entrance.
One was roughly six-foot-one, shoulders wide as a door frame, his stance carrying the trained steadiness of a professional. The other was shorter but more solidly built, a practiced alertness in his eyes.
Yin Wuwang swept them with a glance.
The one on the left kept his weight toward his heels, a slight habitual hunch—combat-trained but light on real experience, a power type. The one on the right stood looser, hands hanging naturally, but his thumb was angled subtly outward—a relaxed posture that could shift to action in an instant. More seasoned than his partner.
Combined threat level: roughly equivalent to one adult spirit rabbit in the cultivation world.
No. He'd overestimated. Half a spirit rabbit.
The receptionist stopped at the door and gestured them in. Yin Wuwang and Xie Qingyan walked through.
The reception room was more considered than Yin Wuwang had expected. Someone had taken deliberate pains to stack "taste" into every corner—a dark wood long table, a set of Yixing clay teaware, a splashed-ink landscape painting on the wall, jade pieces arranged on an antique display shelf. Against the opposite wall sat an enormous fish tank. Four golden arowana glided through the water in slow, languid circuits, their scales catching the light with a cold metallic sheen.
But Yin Wuwang could smell the room's real scent. Money. Every object in this space was delivering the same message: I have more money than you can imagine. Think carefully before you open your mouth.
The man behind the long table rose.
Dragon Brother.
Early fifties, in better shape than Yin Wuwang had anticipated—no middle-age spread. Hair combed without a strand out of place, a few silver threads at the temples that added authority rather than age. He wore a well-tailored navy dress shirt with the cuffs rolled halfway up his forearms, revealing an understated, expensive watch with a dark dial on his wrist.
Yin Wuwang had lived three thousand years and seen more people than this city had residents. He read Dragon Brother in half a second—shrewd, but not dangerous. Every line of expression arranged in precisely the right place, his entire face performing "welcome," while his eyes were as cold as the water in that fish tank.
"Well, well—two officers!" Dragon Brother came around from behind the long table, his manner warm but his pace unhurried, every step measured as if walking a red carpet. "Xiao Wang up front said Major Crimes was here, and I thought, what's the occasion? Sit, sit, sit—"
His gaze swept between Yin Wuwang and Xie Qingyan, lingering on Xie Qingyan's face half a second longer—the old businessman's habit of sizing up a counterpart.
Yin Wuwang didn't sit.
"Director Long," he cut straight in, tone steady but without courtesy, "we're here about Chen Wan."
Dragon Brother's expression didn't change. He settled into his seat at the long table and picked up the Yixing pot, beginning to pour tea with the unhurried ease of a man entertaining old friends.
"Chen Wan." He sighed. "What a shame. Such a promising young man."
He pushed two cups of tea across the table, then looked up at Yin Wuwang: "But I don't quite understand—what does his situation have to do with me? I didn't kill him. The night it happened, I was in another province at an investment forum. Two hundred-plus people in the room, I was there start to finish. Didn't hear about it until I got back."
Opening move: throw out the alibi unprompted. Yin Wuwang mentally bumped Dragon Brother's shrewdness up a notch.
"We're not here about your alibi." Yin Wuwang sat down across the long table, his posture even more relaxed than Dragon Brother's—a man who controlled the conversation choosing a comfortable position.
Xie Qingyan didn't sit beside Yin Wuwang. He chose a seat at the side of the long table—an angle that covered both Dragon Brother and the two men at the door.
Sword cultivator's instinct—never put all threats in the same line of sight. Yin Wuwang noticed, but didn't dwell on it.
"Director Long," Yin Wuwang picked up the teacup without drinking, just holding it, "Chen Wan owed you money. He's dead now. What happens to the debt?"
Dragon Brother's pouring hand paused for an instant.
Just that instant. Then he set the pot down and leaned back.
"Officer Jiang is a sharp man," he said. "Ask what you really want to ask."
[End of V2_Chapter 53]
Next: "What Did You Do?"—This Sovereign Lays All the Cards on Chen Xiulan's Table