At the funeral

Jiangcheng’s previous-generation “Ship King” was named Zhao Qiushi.

It was a plain, almost overly straightforward name.

Back when Zhao Guipu’s grandfather chose it, he must have hoped that the Zhao family would flourish under his son—like autumn harvests, full and abundant.

But things didn’t turn out that way.

The Zhao shipping business had once been powerful enough to earn the title of a “Ship King family.”

That wealth hadn’t come easily.

It was built generation after generation—starting from an ancestor who carried goods on a shoulder pole, slowly accumulating everything from nothing.

At its peak, Zhao Shipping owned:

Twenty medium-sized oil tankers.

Seventy medium and small cargo ships.

Five ultra-large cargo vessels.

Money flowed in endlessly.

But over time, things changed.

Some ships were scrapped for being too old.

Some were sold.

Others were simply lost to bad luck—swallowed by storms in one of the four oceans.

By the time it reached Zhao Qiushi’s generation, the once-glorious “Zhao Global Shipping” had dwindled to:

Twelve small and medium oil tankers.

Thirty-five small cargo ships.

Fifteen medium cargo ships.

Three ultra-large cargo vessels.

Like a setting sun, slowly sinking.

And then—without warning—Zhao Qiushi, a man with little sense of responsibility and even less paternal instinct, handed this crumbling empire to Zhao Guipu.

At the time, the Zhao family was already on the brink—

Like a lone boat in a storm, ready to capsize at any moment.

…

If you talked about filial affection—

Back when Zhao Guipu was a child, sitting on his father’s shoulders, believing he could see farther and higher than anyone else—

Maybe it existed.

But now he was thirty-two.

He had personally raised his younger brother since the boy was five.

No matter how busy he was, he never missed a single parent-teacher meeting.

Through that, he learned what a responsible guardian actually looked like.

And compared to that—

His relationship with Zhao Qiushi simply didn’t hold up.

Zhao Qiushi was a man obsessed with love.

Every part of his heart belonged to his late Omega wife, Lin Chanqin.

There was no room for anyone else.

Not even his sons.

Once Zhao Guipu realized this, it was like a switch flipped.

All that complicated, unnecessary “filial affection”—

Gone.

To him, Zhao Qiushi was nothing more than:

A useless man who couldn’t be helped.

A laughable romantic.

Someone who would be a liability even as a secretary in his company.

And yet—

Even when a pet dog dies, people feel something.

Let alone a human being connected by blood.

So when Zhao Qiushi suddenly died—

Even if it was predictable—

The emotions were… messy.

Loss.

Relief.

And mostly—

A long, hollow silence.

…

By the time Zhao Guipu came back to himself, the call had been silent for nearly two minutes.

The housekeeper on the other side of the ocean had waited quietly the entire time.

Then Zhao Guipu finally said, calmly—

“I understand.”

And hung up.

…

He knew he still had responsibilities.

Even if unwillingly.

After all—

People always say: filial duty comes first.

Even if you don’t mean it.

…

The next morning, as expected, he was alone at breakfast.

His routine was precise, unshakable.

The butler brought coffee and the day’s newspaper.

Zhao Qiushi dominated two sections of the front page.

One headline screamed:

“Former Ship King Commits Suicide for Love.”

It looked more like gossip than news.

The second was a small obituary, formally inviting acquaintances to attend the funeral at Diyuan Cemetery in three days.

Zhao Guipu skimmed it all in under five minutes.

If this was front-page news, then nothing else important must have happened.

Even the NATO–Sloc trade conflict was buried in the international section.

He set the paper down and opened his email.

Among the flood of ship leasing requests—

He found Zhao Qiushi’s suicide note.

It had been handwritten with a fountain pen.

Old-fashioned.

But Zhao Qiushi had always had good handwriting.

He read it quickly and summarized:

One—

His father had long suffered from severe depression.

He had spent his days lost in memories of his wife, rereading an old photo album until it fell apart.

Two—

In recent months, he had begun hallucinating.

Sitting in summer sunlight, he believed he smelled Damascus roses—his wife’s pheromone scent—

Even though such flowers couldn’t possibly bloom there.

Three—

He wished to “return to his roots.”

He asked Zhao Guipu to arrange transport so his and his wife’s ashes could be buried together back home.

Four—

He admitted he had failed as a husband, a businessman, and a father.

He apologized to both his sons.

Five—

He chose to die on his wife’s memorial day—

To reunite with her.

And asked his sons not to mourn him.

…

Zhao Guipu closed his laptop.

His only thought—

What a waste of time.

He could’ve spent that time finishing breakfast.

Still, on the way to work, he instructed his secretary to arrange a private flight—

To fulfill that final request.

…

“Sir… the funeral arrangements?”

His secretary, Jiang Wei, spoke carefully.

Zhao Guipu didn’t even look up.

“Follow standard protocol. Send out notices to the list.”

Then—

A sharp click as the iPad locked.

The secretary stiffened instantly.

“Jiang Wei.”

“Yes?”

“Do I need to remind you not to miss important names?”

“…No.”

“Then act like a secretary.”

“…Yes, sir.”

The man nearly broke into a sweat.

Zhao Guipu leaned back, eyes closed, pressing his fingers to his brow.

He let out a quiet sigh.

Not for Zhao Qiushi.

For Zhao Shu.

…

Last night, he had told his brother the news directly.

No preparation.

He forgot—

Zhao Shu had been protected too well.

He had never truly seen the collapse of their family.

Maybe…

He still held some naive hope about their father.

The light in Zhao Shu’s room stayed on all night.

Until near dawn—

Someone knocked on his door.

Wu Qie.

He stayed inside for about ten minutes.

Then the lights finally went out.

…

Zhao Guipu thought about Wu Qie’s expression when he heard the news.

That moment of blankness—

And regret.

Probably regretting coming over at all.

Zhao Guipu almost laughed.

…

Three days later.

Diyuan Cemetery.

Wu Qie stood in a black suit, speaking quietly to his mother.

“I’m telling you, drowning in my own bathtub might’ve been the smarter choice.”

Around them, people in black gathered.

Prominent figures from across Jiangcheng.

Even Pei Qingyu’s father was there, dressed in formal military attire, standing beside Zhao Guipu.

The atmosphere was solemn.

But strangely—

Wu Qie couldn’t see much grief on Zhao Guipu’s face.

…

When he looked up—

Their eyes met.

Even from a distance, the pressure was real.

Like being watched by a predator.

Wu Qie felt it—

That instinctive submission, buried deep in biology.

Then Zhao Guipu smiled faintly.

And it vanished.

Like it never happened.

…

Wu Qie turned—

And saw Zhao Shu.

Dressed in black.

Holding a ceremonial umbrella with the Zhao family crest.

No longer the reckless boy.

There was something colder now.

More controlled.

More like Zhao Guipu.

Wu Qie walked toward him.

Lin Zuwen was already there, speaking softly.

“…Your tie is crooked.”

Zhao Shu replied casually.

Then—

Without hesitation—

He stepped past Lin Zuwen and stopped directly in front of Wu Qie.

Bending slightly.

“Fix it.”

Right there.

In front of everyone.

Wu Qie adjusted the tie.

“We’re still in the process of canceling our engagement.”

“You should break this habit.”

Zhao Shu didn’t move.

“Hands full. Can’t see.”

Wu Qie’s fingers brushed his jaw by accident.

And just like that—

The tension in Zhao Shu’s expression softened.