The morning after his conversation with Feng Weizhong, Lin Fan woke to a message from an unfamiliar number. It was the president of Fudan University, a man named Professor Chen Zhigang, whose name had appeared in Wang Feng's report as one of the administrators who had quietly signed off on the dismissal of the harassment complaints against Feng Zihao. The message was brief and carefully worded, the kind of communication that a man sent when he had just learned that the largest donor to his university was under investigation and that a young billionaire had acquired the company that managed most of his campus buildings.
*Mr. Lin, I understand there have been some changes regarding the East Gate Residence Hall and the university's property management. I would be grateful for the opportunity to discuss these matters with you at your earliest convenience. Please let me know when you might be available.*
Lin Fan read the message twice. The president's tone was polite, but the desperation beneath it was unmistakable. The Feng family's influence over the university had been built on money and fear, and both were now evaporating. The board members with conflicts of interest would be resigning. The bank investigation would be moving forward. And the young man who had triggered all of this was now, effectively, the university's landlord for a significant portion of its campus infrastructure.
He typed a brief reply: *I'll be at your office at ten.*
---
Fudan's administrative building was a red-brick structure near the centre of campus, its façade weathered by decades of rain and its interior smelling faintly of old books and floor polish. The president's office was on the top floor, a spacious room with a view of the campus green and walls lined with photographs of distinguished alumni and visiting dignitaries. Professor Chen was waiting at the door when Lin Fan arrived, a short, round man in his late sixties with a nervous smile and hands that clasped and unclasped as if he were trying to wring water from an invisible towel.
"Mr. Lin. Thank you for coming. Please, sit. Can I offer you tea?"
"No, thank you." Lin Fan sat in the visitor's chair, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. The God‑Level Card Playing skill catalogued the president's micro‑expressions—the rapid blinking, the slight tremor in his jaw—and concluded that Professor Chen was not a corrupt man. He was a weak man, a career administrator who had spent decades navigating the treacherous waters of academic politics and had learned, somewhere along the way, that the safest course was always to accommodate the powerful. He had ignored the harassment complaints not because he condoned them, but because confronting them would have meant confronting Feng Weizhong, and confronting Feng Weizhong would have meant losing the donations that kept the university's budget balanced. Weakness, Lin Fan had learned, was not the same as malice. But it could cause just as much harm.
"Professor Chen, I'll be direct. I've acquired Fudan Campus Management Services, which gives me oversight of seventeen campus buildings, including the East Gate Residence Hall. I've also acquired certain information about the Feng family's financial situation and their relationship with this university. I'm here to discuss what happens next."
The president's smile flickered. "Yes, of course. I was—I was shocked to learn about the situation with the Feng family. I want to assure you that the university takes all allegations of misconduct very seriously. We have policies in place, and we are reviewing our procedures to ensure that—"
"Your policies failed. Four complaints were filed against Feng Zihao in the past two years. Two were withdrawn because the complainants were afraid. Two were dismissed by your disciplinary committee, citing insufficient evidence, despite detailed testimony from multiple witnesses. All four complainants are now gone—transferred or dropped out. Your policies protected a predator and silenced his victims."
Professor Chen's face had gone pale. "Mr. Lin, I—I was not directly involved in those decisions. The disciplinary committee operates independently—"
"The disciplinary committee includes a faculty member whose research is funded by a grant from Golden Phoenix Properties. The board of trustees includes two members who are also investors in Feng Weizhong's company. The independence of your committee is a fiction, and you know it." Lin Fan leaned forward. "I'm not here to assign blame, Professor Chen. I'm here to fix the problem. The question is whether you're going to help me or whether you're going to become part of the problem yourself."
The president's mouth opened and closed. Then, very quietly, he said, "What do you want me to do?"
"Three things. First, the two board members with conflicts of interest will resign by the end of the week. I have documentation that will be made public if they don't. Second, the disciplinary committee will be restructured to include independent members with no financial ties to donors. The university will also establish a confidential reporting system for harassment complaints, with protections for whistleblowers. I'll fund it myself if necessary."
"And the third thing?"
"Feng Weizhong's name will be removed from the library wing that his donations funded. The donation will be returned, or if return is not feasible, it will be redirected into a scholarship fund for low‑income students, with no naming rights attached. The removal will happen today, at noon."
Professor Chen stared at him. "You want to strip a donor's name from a building? That's—that's unprecedented. The Feng family has given millions to this university. There will be legal challenges. There will be—"
"There will be nothing. Feng Weizhong has already agreed to my terms. He understands that his son's behaviour has consequences, and he's willing to accept them. The library wing will be renamed. Today. At noon." Lin Fan stood. "This is not a negotiation, Professor Chen. This is a course correction. You've spent years accommodating the powerful because you were afraid of what would happen if you didn't. I'm showing you what happens when you do. The question is whether you want to be on the right side of the correction."
The president looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded, a short, jerky motion that was more submission than agreement. "I'll make the arrangements. The sign will be removed by noon."
"Good." Lin Fan walked to the door, then paused. "One more thing. The scholarship students in the East Gate Residence Hall will be informed that their rent is not going up, and that the building will remain affordable student housing in perpetuity. I want that announcement made by the end of the day. And I want it made by you, personally, in the dormitory common room. Let them see that the university's leadership is not just a collection of empty suits."
He left the office without waiting for a reply. As he walked down the corridor, the golden phone vibrated once against his thigh—a soft, brief pulse.
`[Institutional Reform: University accountability enforced. Conflicts of interest removed. Harassment reporting system to be established. This is the compound interest of decency, expressed through systemic change.]`
He put the phone away. The heron would be at the lake when he returned home, he knew. The koi would be swimming their slow circles. But for now, there was something he needed to witness.
---
At noon, a small crowd had gathered outside the Feng Weizhong Library Wing. The building was a modern glass-and-steel addition to the main library, its entrance marked by a brass plaque that bore the donor's name in elegant calligraphy. A maintenance crew had arrived ten minutes earlier, carrying ladders and tools, and were now preparing to remove the plaque. A cluster of students watched from the pathway, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. Some of them had heard the rumours—the young billionaire, the harassment complaints, the sudden fall of the Feng family—but most were simply trying to understand why a building was being stripped of its name in the middle of a weekday.
Lin Xiaoyue stood near the front of the crowd, her backpack slung over one shoulder, her face pale but composed. She had not known this was going to happen. Lin Fan had told her nothing beyond "there will be an announcement at noon." When she saw the maintenance crew, she understood.
At exactly noon, the crew removed the brass plaque. It was a simple, almost anticlimactic act—a few screws loosened, a piece of metal lifted from its mounting—but the symbolism was immense. The name of the man who had enabled his son's predation, who had used his wealth to shield a harasser and silence his victims, was gone. The library wing would be renamed for a distinguished alumnus—an actual scholar, not a donor—and the Feng family's legacy at Fudan University would be reduced to a footnote in an administrative file.
One of the students raised a phone and began filming. Another started to applaud, a single pair of hands that was quickly joined by others. The applause spread through the crowd, not the polite, perfunctory applause of a university function, but the raw, heartfelt appreciation of people who had just witnessed something they had never expected to see: accountability.
Xiaoyue didn't applaud. She stood very still, watching the empty space where the plaque had been, and felt the knot in her chest—the one that had been there for months, for years, since long before she had ever heard the name Feng Zihao—begin, finally, to dissolve.
---
That evening, Lin Fan received a text from his sister. It was a single photograph of the library wing's entrance, the empty space above the door where the brass plaque had hung. The caption, in her usual dry tone, read: *Nice renovation.*
He smiled and set the phone aside. The golden phone on the counter was silent, offering no commentary. It didn't need to. The builder had mended another crack, and the work would continue. But tonight, his sister would sleep without fear, and that was enough. That was everything.