Cangmang Asks the Way 1: Guardian of the Lamp

Outside the cordon at the Binjiang New City construction site.

Old Zhang, Da Zhou, Old Li, and others squatted by the roadside, their faces covered in sweat and dust. Little Zhang was still in the hospital, but when they heard that experts were coming to investigate the construction site, they left one of their coworkers there to take care of him, and all rushed over to the site to see what was wrong with the project.

However, by the time they arrived, Song Jinrong and his team had already finished their investigation.

Da Zhou stepped forward to ask the reason, but Song Jinrong retorted with an unfriendly expression, "The reason? Your 'heroic boss' knows best! The expert test report just came out—the concrete grade is seriously insufficient! To save money, Cang Lifeng used inferior materials, almost causing a death! And you still have the nerve to ask?"

His gaze swept coldly across the crowd, finally lingering for a moment on Old Li's face. That glance was brief, but it felt like an ice pick had pierced Old Li; he froze, and nearly dropped the cigarette in his hand.

Da Zhou jumped up, his face flushed, and shouted, "Impossible! Boss would never do such a thing! We always use materials that are graded according to specifications!"

Song Jinrong tossed the "test report" into Da Zhou's arms and sneered, "It's in black and white, signed by an expert, and stamped with a red seal. You, a mere laborer, think you know more than an expert? If you keep causing trouble, I'll sue you for defamation! Then the construction site will be shut down, you'll all be fired, and you won't get a single penny!"

In the distance, a van pulled up, and several people carrying video cameras got out. They were from the television station.

Old Zhang stood up: "Again? Come on, let's go over there and talk. We're workers ourselves, we know best..."

"Don't go." Da Zhou grabbed him. "Are you stupid? Those reporters are here to dig up news. The more you talk, the more excited they'll get. Who knows what the final cut will look like?"

Old Zhang stomped his foot and squatted down again.

Old Li remained silent. He simply squatted there, chain-smoking. His gaze would occasionally drift towards the hospital. He knew Cang Lifeng's younger brother lay there, unconscious. He knew the source of all this. But he dared not speak. He could only swallow all his fear, guilt, and pain, swallowing them down with his cigarette smoke.

---

The next day, the Nancheng Daily published another article.

The title is: "The Price of a Junior Champion – Is Chinese Martial Arts Good for Health or Harmful?"

The article begins by recounting Cang Tianci's collapse after winning the championship, detailing the course of the match, the severity of his injury, and the doctor's diagnosis. Then, it abruptly shifts to "deeper reflection":

"We can't help but ask: Is it normal for a 14-year-old child to vomit blood and fall into a coma from practicing martial arts? Are those 'martial arts skills' that countless parents pursue truly beneficial or detrimental to health? Under the microscope of science, how much value do those mythologized 'traditional martial arts' still retain?"

The article interviewed several "experts"—one of whom was a professor at a sports college—who said, "Modern competitive sports have scientific training methods and protective measures, while traditional martial arts lag far behind in this regard."

Another parent said, "I originally wanted my child to learn martial arts, but after seeing this news, I hesitated."

The article concludes: "Cang Tianci is a junior champion, and we sincerely admire him. But his experience also serves as a wake-up call: In today's era of promoting traditional culture, shouldn't we adopt a more scientific and rational attitude to examine those mythologized 'traditions'?"

People were talking about it in the streets and alleys of the southern city.

At a breakfast stall, a middle-aged man wearing glasses, holding a newspaper, said to his companion, "See? I told you so! All those martial arts champions were just forcing growth. Now look what happened!"

On the bus, two middle-aged women were chatting: "That child is so pitiful, training like this at such a young age. If you ask me, studying is more important; what's the point of all that training?"

At a newsstand, a young man flipped through a newspaper, shaking his head: "Martial arts? Isn't it just fancy moves? No matter how well you practice, can you beat Tyson?"

……

Lin Wei held the newspaper, her fingers turning white from gripping it so tightly. She took a deep breath, composed herself, picked up the interview notebook from the table, and knocked on Zheng Yaoxian's office door.

"Please come in."

Lin Wei pushed open the door and entered, a professional smile on her face: "Editor-in-Chief Zheng, I have a topic I'd like to report to you about."

Zheng Yaoxian looked up, his gaze lingering on her face for a moment, then smiled: "Lin Wei? Sit down. What's the topic?"

Lin Wei sat down opposite him, placed the newspaper on the table, and said calmly, "Regarding this article, I'd like to ask you for advice on how to strike the right balance in the follow-up in-depth reporting."

Zheng Yaoxian raised an eyebrow slightly, took the newspaper, and glanced at it: "Oh, this. What are your thoughts?"

Lin Wei looked at him, her speech steady, but every word seemed carefully measured: "Editor-in-Chief Zheng, I have more contact with the Cang family and know some of the details. Cang Tianci was injured because he was simultaneously juggling the intense academic workload of the gifted youth program and the rigorous training at the sports school, pushing himself to his limits. If our report steers the issue towards the idea that 'traditional martial arts are unscientific,' wouldn't that... deviate a bit from the facts?"

Zheng Yaoxian put down his newspaper, leaned back in his chair, and said sincerely, "Lin Wei, it's good that you came to discuss this issue with me. It shows that you've thought about it seriously."

He paused, then said earnestly, "The 'facts' you mentioned are facts bestowed upon individuals by fate. But as media professionals, we need to look at 'social facts.' A child practicing martial arts to the point of vomiting blood—is there a widespread problem behind this? Are there aspects of the traditional martial arts training system that need reflection? Aren't these things worth discussing?"

Lin Wei's fingers tightened slightly on her notebook, but her expression remained calm: "Editor-in-Chief Zheng, you're right. I'm just worried that publishing this kind of discussion while Cang Tianci is still unconscious might be interpreted by readers as 'rubbing salt into the wound,' and might affect the credibility of our newspaper?"

Zheng Yaoxian smiled, a gentle smile as if comforting an ignorant child: "Lin Wei, you are too kind. But journalism cannot only be about kindness, but also about responsibility. It is precisely because Cang Tianci is a hero that his experience is all the more cautionary. If we don't discuss it for fear of 'rubbing salt in the wound,' that would be irresponsible to the public."

He stood up, walked to the window, his back to Lin Wei, and said in his gentle voice, "I've already communicated with the higher-ups about this matter. The province is very supportive of this kind of 'cultural reflection' reporting. You don't need to worry about the scope of the report; just follow my lead."

Watching his retreating figure, Lin Wei suddenly realized something: this conversation, from the very beginning, was not a "discussion," but an "information." She came as a subordinate seeking instructions from her superior; he answered as a superior issuing directives to his subordinate. She had no room for rebuttal.

She stood up, put her notebook into her bag, and said in a professionally calm tone, "Understood, Editor-in-Chief Zheng. I'll get back to work now."

As she reached the door, she stopped, didn't turn around, and simply said:

"Editor-in-Chief Zheng, Cang Lifeng once told me: 'Heaven is watching what people do.' I think this applies to everyone."

After saying that, she pushed open the door and went out without waiting for Zheng Yaoxian's response.

Zheng Yaoxian stood there, staring at the closed door. The smile on his face slowly faded, replaced by a cold, amused expression.

"What goes around comes around?" he repeated softly, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Heaven? If Heaven had eyes, the Cang family would have perished long ago."

He returned to his seat, picked up the newspaper, and read his article again.

"Deep thinking," he murmured to himself, "is indeed worth deep thinking about."

He recalled his father Zheng Guozhong's words: "For those involved in culture, the most powerful weapon is not swords or guns, but the pen. An article can make someone famous, or it can destroy someone. And it kills without shedding blood."

He recalled Zheng Yonghe's words: "Yaoxian, the reason Japan is strong is because we are good at learning and good at questioning. Your problem in China is that you take tradition too seriously. The real wise people are those who can guide the public to question tradition."

He put the newspaper in the drawer and then took out the "Eastern Learning Cultural Exchange Center" preparation plan.

He added another line to the "Work Goals" column:

"We could plan a series of dialogue events on 'tradition and modernity' in light of recent social issues, guiding the public to engage in rational discussion."

He closed the plan and looked out the window.

Outside the window, the sky over the southern city was still a hazy gray. But in his eyes, that gray was just right.

---

In the hospital corridor, Cang Lifeng was still leaning against the wall.

Cang Xiangyang and Cang Xiaohua had already gone to complete the hospital admission procedures, leaving him alone in the corridor. He looked down at the newspaper in his hand—two days' worth of newspapers stacked together, both front pages filled with news about the Cang family.

One article called him a "heartless contractor," while another questioned whether his brother's martial arts were "harmful to his health."

He recalled the image of Old Li squatting by the roadside at the construction site, smoking incessantly; he remembered Old Zhang's anger when he said, "There's definitely something wrong with that concrete"; and he remembered Wang Lide's hesitant gaze at Yuebinlou that day.

Cang Lifeng closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. He didn't shed tears. He simply let himself sink into a dark silence. In that silence, he tried to piece together all the fragments—Old Li's silence, Wang Lide's evasiveness, Zheng Yaoxian's smile, the rhythm of the newspaper, the speed of the investigation report…

He recalled Professor Shen Moyuan's words: "Economics is not a magic trick that turns lead into gold; it is a pair of glasses that helps you see more clearly the blurry and tangled lines in the workings of the world."

At that moment, it was as if he had put on those glasses. Although he still couldn't see the whole picture, he could already "see" the existence of those lines. They stretched out from different directions, intertwined, and ultimately pointed in the same direction.

At the same time, in Song Jinrong's office.

Wang Lide stood in front of the boss's table, his face somewhat pale.

Song Jinrong leaned back in his boss's chair, holding a document in his hand, and said slowly, "Lide, you did a good job this time. I'll give you credit."

Wang Lide forced a smile: "Chairman, you flatter me. I did everything according to your instructions."

Song Jinrong nodded, put down the documents, and looked at Wang Lide: "However, you know, the fewer people who know about this kind of thing, the better. You're the person I trust most, so of course I trust you. But you also have to put my mind at ease, right?"

Wang Lide felt a pang of anxiety, but dared not show it on his face: "Chairman, don't worry, I'm tight-lipped."

Song Jinrong smiled: "Good, good. I like it when you're so sensible. Go back and work hard, you won't be shortchanged."

As Wang Lide left the office, his legs went weak the moment the door closed. He leaned against the wall and slowly walked out. Song Jinrong's words echoed repeatedly in his mind—"The fewer people who know, the better."

He recalled the conversation he overheard in the teahouse that day, his anxiety when he was assigned to switch the samples, and Song Jinrong's meaningful smile just now. He didn't know if Song Jinrong would harm him. But he knew he had embarked on a path of no return.

Outside the window, the sun had completely set.

Night falls.