179: promise

Wei Ziqing stared at Shen Mingyuan, his gaze lingering for a long time on those eyes filled with solemnity and unwavering resolve.

His chest heaved, as if weighing the sudden "legal approach" against the burning fire of vengeance in his heart.

In the end, the exhaustion that nearly crushed him, his extreme worry over his Master's condition, and the possibility—different from mutual destruction—outlined in Shen Mingyuan's words made his tightly clenched jaw loosen slightly.

"...I'll trust you this once." His voice was dry, carrying a hoarse, desperate tone. "But if you deceive me, or if the law still can't touch them..."

"Then I'll give you an answer in my own way."

Shen Mingyuan took over his words, his tone calm yet heavy as a promise. "But for now, let's proceed in the most effective way. Tell me everything you know—their usual hangouts, the appearance of their leaders, any possible connections."

Wei Ziqing indeed knew very little. After all, he was just a student forced into this mess, his daily life revolving around the Martial Arts School, school, and part-time work.

Apart from this Bar, he provided information on two other similarly remote Pool Halls, an Internet Café frequented by delinquent youths, and a few nicknames and vague descriptions of thugs he remembered.

No higher-level names, no solid evidence chain, only scattered fragments.

Shen Mingyuan quickly noted it down in his phone's memo, frowning slightly. This information could serve as a starting point, but it was far from enough to shake a potentially organized gray group, let alone trace the specific perpetrators and possible masterminds behind them.

"First, I'll take you back to see your Master." Shen Mingyuan made a decisive decision. For now, calming Wei Ziqing's emotions and confirming the victim's condition were priorities. "As for here..." He glanced at the groaning thugs on the ground. "The Police will handle it."

"Call the Police?" Wei Ziqing instinctively resisted. "They and these people..."

"Precisely because they might be 'familiar,' we must report it, and immediately, in the right way."

Shen Mingyuan's thinking was clear as he whispered, "Listen, when the Police arrive, you say—you came here looking for a friend, were surrounded by these people demanding money for no reason, and then they attacked you. You've trained in martial arts and fought back in self-defense.

Remember, it was 'forced,' 'self-defense,' and they outnumbered you. You're young, look... well, tone down the fierceness on your face, appear more shaken. Leave the rest to me."

Wei Ziqing was stunned for a moment, watching Shen Mingyuan calmly arrange things, seeming to understand something.

He tried to adjust his breathing, straightened his disheveled clothes. Though the grief and indignation in his eyes remained, the murderous Evil Qi was somewhat suppressed, replaced by traces of shock fitting his age.

Shen Mingyuan called the Police with his phone, briefly stating the location and "multiple people fighting, some injured," omitting Wei Ziqing's revenge motive and emphasizing "suspected robbery leading to conflict."

The Police arrived quickly.

As Shen Mingyuan expected, the veteran officer leading the team frowned at the scene and the familiar faces on the ground, his questioning naturally tinged with impatience and preconceived judgments.

Shen Mingyuan showed his Lawyer's Certificate, presenting himself as an eyewitness and professional who "happened to pass by, stopped the conflict, and called the Police," clearly recounting

the version of "Wei Ziqing defending himself after being surrounded," skillfully describing Wei Ziqing as a "Sports School Student passing by, accidentally caught up in it," completely concealing his revenge motive.

Wei Ziqing cooperated with Shen Mingyuan's account, lowering his head, occasionally adding, "They attacked first," "I was terrified," his voice still trembling.

His injured, still-youthful face contrasted sharply with the burly thugs on the ground and the Bar's murky atmosphere.

The officer taking the statement clearly leaned toward this explanation—or rather, was pleased to see these troublemakers who plagued the neighborhood get beaten.

After brief questioning, taking scene photos, and recording the thugs' information, the Police ended it as "mediating a dispute, injured parties to seek medical care themselves," not delving deeper, even subtly warning the thugs to behave.

For Wei Ziqing, they only lectured him a bit: "Report things promptly, don't engage in private conflicts," then let him go.

Leaving the Bar area and getting into Shen Mingyuan's car, Wei Ziqing finally let out a long-held breath, slumping into the seat as if drained, his earlier toughness and anger dissolving into deep exhaustion and confusion.

"To the hospital first." Shen Mingyuan started the car, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "I need to see your Master's condition firsthand. This is the foundation for all subsequent actions."

The car drove toward the hospital in the night. Wei Ziqing watched the fleeting lights outside the window, silent for a long time before whispering, "...Thank you."

In the inpatient building behind the Municipal Hospital's emergency department, outside the Neurosurgery ICU, the lights were stark white, the air filled with the cold mix of disinfectant and silent anxiety. Shen Mingyuan followed the heavy-footed Wei Ziqing through the long, echo-filled corridor.

Wei Qingyuan. Shen Mingyuan noted this name in his mind—the full name of Wei Ziqing's adoptive father, revealed in their brief conversation. A name implying purity and Origin, oddly fitting for a martial artist yet hinting at scholarly integrity.

Through the ICU glass window, an elderly man with graying hair could be seen lying inside.

His head was wrapped in thick bandages, his face pale as paper, an oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose, connected to several monitoring devices. The fluctuating waves and numbers on the screens were the faint battle song of remaining life.

A Nurse was recording data, her movements gentle and professional.

Wei Ziqing stopped before the glass window, like a statue instantly weathered.

He didn't rush forward, didn't cry out, didn't even raise a hand to touch the cold glass.

He just stood there, standing straight—a posture ingrained from years of martial arts training—hands at his sides, fingertips digging deep into his palms, leaving bloodless crescent marks.

His face held no tears, no intense emotional fluctuations, only a near-vacuum silence.

Those eyes that had burned with vengeful fire in the Bar moments ago now held only bottomless darkness, reflecting the faint green lights of the devices in the ward and the old man's still face.

All the grief, indignation, fear, and self-blame seemed pressed back into the deepest part of his being by the thick glass and even thicker reality, ground into silent powder, blocking his throat, extinguishing sound.

At the extreme of sorrow, it was this utter silence.

Shen Mingyuan didn't disturb him. He quietly walked to the Nurse's station, showed his lawyer identity, and professionally yet earnestly requested to review and copy key medical documents, citing "assisting the family in understanding the situation and handling possible future legal and insurance matters."

Within institutional limits, he obtained copies of Wei Qingyuan's preliminary diagnosis, surgical records, and current condition summary.

Those cold medical terms—"Traumatic Intracranial Hemorrhage," "Subdural Hematoma," "Skull Fracture," "postoperative coma, prognosis under observation"—landed on paper, each word heavy as a thousand pounds. He carefully stored the documents; they were potential weapons in future court battles.

After completing this, he returned to Wei Ziqing's side. The youth still held that posture, as if time had bypassed him. Shen Mingyuan gently patted his shoulder, his touch steady. "Let's get some air outside."

Wei Ziqing turned mechanically, following Shen Mingyuan to the stairwell outside the Fire Escape. There were no windows here, only the emergency exit sign emitting a faint green light, relatively quiet.

The moment the door closed behind them, the string stretched to its limit snapped.

Wei Ziqing leaned against the cold wall, slowly sliding down to sit. He didn't wail, just tilted his head back, gasping silently, tears flooding out like a breached dam, instantly covering his young, scarred face.

He bit his fist hard, locking sobs and whimpers deep in his throat, leaving only violent, uncontrollable trembling that spread from his shoulders throughout his body.

Only then did Shen Mingyuan speak, his voice not loud but clear in the silent stairwell, as if each word was carved into the air:

"Stay here, take care of your father. Don't go anywhere."

He crouched down, his gaze like tempered steel, heavy as a cold abyss, firmly locking onto Wei Ziqing's eyes:

"I promise you, Wei Ziqing. I'll pin down the perpetrators, the instigators, all the scum responsible for this, one by one, under the law, and send them to the cages they belong in."

He paused. Xu Lang's terrified face, the youth's silent tears before him, the old man's pale face on the hospital bed, and even more unseen shadows possibly trapped in similar darkness flashed through his cold, clear eyes.

A resolve beyond any single case, colder and vaster, took shape in his heart.

"Not just for you and your father." Shen Mingyuan's voice grew calm, yet held even more terrifying power. "I'll eradicate all the darkness in this world."

He raised his hand, not pointing in any specific direction, but as if touching some intangible gloom enveloping countless people.

"Because," his tone was resolute, without a hint of hesitation, "I don't want to see any good person cry ever again."

"You protect what's most important to you. The rest," Shen Mingyuan stood up, his shadow falling on Wei Ziqing yet seeming to carry light that could split all gloom, "leave to me."