A heretical cultivator in Bureau 749, I'm the fiercest at pulling out tendons and skinning peop

The noise outside the window and the wailing downstairs could only be heard as a blurry background sound through the tightly closed window.

In the office, Zhang Yucheng held a cup of freshly brewed tea in a white porcelain gaiwan, the tea soup clear and bright.

He took a sip, his gaze falling on the mountain of gift boxes on the corner of the table. His expression was unchanging, as if he were looking at a pile of uninteresting decorations.

until a certain moment.

His hand holding the teacup paused almost imperceptibly, as if his ears had caught a few scattered words of conversation drifting on the wind from a great height and distance.

"...Bloody Butcher..."

"...Listening to the Tide Pavilion..."

"...Venus holding a pen..."

Zhang Yucheng lowered his eyes, looking at the tea leaves unfurling in the cup. The usual gentle smile on his lips seemed to have faded slightly.

Instead, there is a very faint, almost invisible, hazy recollection of the past.

He remembered that night.

It was windy that day too, but much colder than today.

What was he thinking when he pushed open the creaking wooden door with the sign "Temporary Preparatory Office of Bureau 749" on it, wearing a faded cloth shirt and walking under the moonlight?

It's about negotiating terms.

It's about weighing your own resources, figuring out how much face you can gain and how much of your family fortune can be preserved in front of this new, unfathomable imperial envoy.

Behind the door, there was neither a solemn government office nor a forest of swords and spears as one might have imagined.

There was only an old man wearing a gray Zhongshan suit, with gray hair, who was writing something on an old desk by the light of a kerosene lamp.

The old man looked up, adjusted his reading glasses, glanced at him, then lowered his head again to continue writing, muttering something under his breath:

"You're here? Have a seat. Help yourself to some water; the kettle's on the stove."

His tone was so casual, as if he were greeting a neighbor who was just dropping by.

All of Zhang Yucheng's prepared rhetoric, his imposing manner, and his plans for the negotiation seemed to have crashed into a soft yet unbreakable wall at that moment.

He sat down silently, without pouring water, and just looked at the old man.

After the old man finished writing the last few words, he took off his glasses, rubbed his temples, and then truly began to examine him closely.

His gaze was calm, neither scrutinizing nor intimidating; he simply looked at her normally.

"Zhang San?"

The old man spoke.

Zhang Yucheng nodded slightly.

"Yeah, you look more energetic than in the photos."

The old man nodded and pointed to a stack of files spread out on the table.

"I've seen everything about your case. From seizing territory at the docks to setting rules to prevent harm to ordinary people... one thing after another, it's all there."

Zhang Yucheng remained silent, waiting for the other party to state their price.

The old man suddenly changed the subject and asked a seemingly unrelated question:

"Why did you set that rule about not disturbing mortals?"

Zhang Yucheng frowned, but still answered in a steady voice:

"If the foundation is ruined, it won't last long. The underworld has its own way of life, and the common people have theirs. If you just muddle through, you'll all go down together sooner or later."

"Hmm, that makes sense, selfish cleverness."

The old man nodded noncommittally, then asked his second question, "Do you think your current set of rules can ensure long-term stability in Jinghai? Can it keep ordinary people daring to go out at night and open their shops like they do now?"

Zhang Yucheng remained silent.

he can not.

He knew he couldn't.

He can subdue people for a time, but not forever.

He can intimidate one side, but he can't intimidate all the restless newcomers.

His rules are built upon personal strength and terror, like a tower built on sand.

The old man didn't seem to need his reply and continued speaking to himself. His voice wasn't loud, but it was like a hammer striking Zhang Yucheng's heart.

"What we at Bureau 749 are here to do is not to take your territory, nor to negotiate terms or take away your assets."

The old man pointed to himself, then to the boundless night outside the window.

"We want to make the rule you set a real rule."

"It's not because of your knife, Zhang San, nor my gun, Li Si."

"It is the law written on paper and the principles engraved in people's hearts that can make a toddler who has just learned to walk and an eighty-year-old toothless woman know what they can do and what they cannot do, and what the consequences will be... rules."

"We need to reduce, and reduce, the messy history that has led to this situation, where you punch me and I stab you in the back."

"It can reduce the number of young people like you were back then, who had no choice but to take a knife and rob the docks to survive because they had no food or roads to go."

The old man looked at him, his eyes still peaceful, yet carrying a heavy weight.

"Zhang San, you're a smart man, you're ruthless, and you still have a shred of conscience left."

"Your knife can carve out a temporary path."

"But I want to build a road that can truly allow more people to go further and more steadily..."

Sometimes, you have to learn to put the knife down first.

"Everyone's knife will eventually become dull, and there will always be a time when it can no longer be wielded."

"But public resources won't."

"The system won't."

"Write the rules into the articles and engrave them into everyone's understanding, so that those who come after will follow the rules and act in accordance with the regulations."

"Today I can use the 749 brand to keep the troublemakers in check. Tomorrow, if Li Si or Wang Wu becomes the director, as long as the brand and the rules remain, the effect may be different, but it won't... cause the bottom line that you care about most to collapse overnight."

He paused, his tone still calm, yet each word clear:

"Zhang San, you saved a generation of people in Jinghai with your knife."

"But some things can only be saved with the pen... generation after generation."

笔？

Zhang Yucheng lowered his eyes, looking at his hands, which were bony and had been used to holding knives and had been stained with blood.

Then, he looked up and glanced at the ordinary, even slightly chipped, fountain pen in the old man's hand.

The details of the conversation that followed that night are now blurred.

But the last line, "Use your pen to save generations," is truly remarkable.

Like a morning bell and evening drum, it resonated in his heart all night long.

It shattered his cunning schemes as a江湖人 (jianghu person, a term referring to people from the martial arts world), and also opened a door he had never imagined.

It turns out that setting real rules isn't about making people fear you.

It's about letting the rules themselves replace you.

Becoming the new fear.

A gust of wind slipped in through the cracks in the window, causing the flame of the kerosene lamp to flicker.

That night, the lights in the temporary preparatory office stayed on very late.

Nobody knows exactly what they talked about.

All that is known is that the next day, Zhang Yucheng hosted a banquet at Tingchao Pavilion.

All that is known is that later, Jinghai lost the ruthless Zhang San and gained Director Zhang Yucheng.

The steam rising from the rim of the teacup blurred Zhang Yucheng's face.

Downstairs, another suppressed, heartbroken sob could be faintly heard. Someone had probably seen an even more valuable gift and had to grit their teeth and increase the price.

As Zhang Yucheng listened to that voice, the last trace of confusion in his eyes disappeared, and he regained his unfathomable calm.

He lowered his eyes, looked at the tea leaves floating in the cup, and smiled silently.

Yes.

His knife can instill fear in people for a time.

But that document, those rules, and those young people he later personally mentored, batch after batch, who wore black trench coats…

Only they can inspire fear and devotion throughout one's life.

The sobbing downstairs seemed a bit louder.

Zhang Yucheng put down his teacup, took out a small notebook from the drawer, opened it, and picked up a pen.

I began to take notes slowly and methodically.

"The Zhao family in the south of the city has a pair of jade cabbages. The quality is decent. They're probably heirlooms. They're willing to part with them."

"Qianji in the north of the city has a thousand-year-old ginseng plant. It's in good condition, so he's quite thoughtful."

"Hey, this fat guy... why is he in line again? This time it's... a deep-sea luminous pearl? It's quite big."

As he took notes, he shook his head, his tone carrying a helpless smile, like an elder watching a younger person try to be clever.

"What does this all mean...?"

"Do you think I, Zhang Yucheng, am the kind of person who, after receiving a gift, would still be concerned about who gave more or less?"

The pen tip made a scratching sound.

He added a small line of text after the name of the fat old man who was queuing twice, and circled it to highlight it.

"Really..."

"You don't understand me at all."