Cangmang Asks the Way 1: Guardian of the Lamp

At eight o'clock in the evening, Cang Liuqing, Cang Lifeng, and Lin Wei sat together in a small teahouse next to the hospital.

Lin Wei spread the materials she had brought on the table. The preparatory plan for the "Dongxue Cultural Exchange Center," which Zheng Yaoxian had privately established, was found in the project documents filed with the newspaper. The transcript of Zheng Yaoxian's recent internal meeting was compiled from memory by a former reporter who had left the newspaper. She had only seen photocopies of the correspondence with the provincial media leaders; she couldn't disclose their source.

These materials were collected bit by bit over the past month. During the days when the public opinion storm was at its fiercest, she didn't chase after the hot topics, but instead worked overtime until late at night every day, inquiring and verifying information everywhere. She knew that these materials, taken individually, couldn't prove anything, but she needed to let Sister Liu Qing see this outline.

The preparatory plan for the "Eastern Learning Cultural Exchange Center" was filed with the newspaper under the name of "cultural industry project." The first page of the plan stated its purpose: "To promote in-depth cultural exchanges between China and Japan, introduce advanced educational concepts, and promote the integration of tradition and modernity." The words sounded grand and dignified, but the more Lin Wei read, the more she felt something was wrong—this was not cultural exchange at all, but clearly a roadmap for cultural infiltration.

She overheard an internal meeting speech from a former journalist, in which Zheng Yaoxian said, "The media's responsibility is to guide the public to think rationally, not to be swayed by nationalistic sentiments. Some traditions should be eliminated." Apparently, there was applause from the audience. Lin Wei recalled the medal Cang Lifeng had risked his life for in the bank, and the blood Cang Tianci had spat out in the ring; her fingers clenched the paper tightly.

What troubled her most was the letter she had only ever seen a copy of. It read, "The series of reports on traditional martial arts could be done in more depth. The public needs to know that some 'myths' don't stand up to scrutiny." The letter was dated three days after Cang Tianci won the provincial competition. She didn't know who wrote the letter or who received it, but she knew the letter existed.

Each piece of information was vague and couldn't prove anything on its own. But when put together, Lin Wei saw a clear outline: someone was systematically guiding public opinion, someone was systematically deconstructing tradition, and someone was deliberately smearing the Cang family.

She made two copies of the compiled materials, locking one at home and bringing the other here.

"How did you obtain these?" Cang Liuqing asked, flipping through the materials.

"Some were found in the archives, and some were organized by others for me," Lin Wei said without going into details.

Cang Liuqing glanced at her but didn't ask any more questions. She put the materials away and took out another document from her bag—it was one she had asked an old colleague to look up before she left, and she had just received it by fax today.

"I have some things here too." She spread out the documents. "My colleagues in the provincial department helped me find out about Zheng Yonghe, a direct descendant of the Zheng family who studied in Japan. On the surface, he is the head of the China representative office of the East Asia Cultural Exchange Co., Ltd., but in reality, he has direct connections with the people behind the Xiqiao Village shooting last year."

She pointed to a photograph on the document. The photograph showed a middle-aged man, well-dressed, with a gentle smile, standing in front of a plaque. In the lower right corner of the plaque was a small emblem.

"This emblem," Cang Liuqing pointed to the emblem, "is the same one as the mark on the physical evidence retrieved from last year's shooting scene."

Lin Wei's eyes widened slightly. Cang Lifeng gripped his teacup tightly.

"Lifeng," Cang Liuqing raised his head, "Now things are very clear. The construction site incident, Tianci's incident, and the Xiqiao Village incident last year were all caused by the same group of people. Their target is not a construction site or a competition, but our Cang family."

"Why?" Cang Lifeng asked.

"For box number 23. For the things that my great-grandfather snatched from the Japanese. They waited almost fifty years, thinking they could take them back. But our Cang family held onto them. They are not reconciled."

The teahouse fell silent. The sounds of cars and people outside faded into the distance.

Lin Wei was the first to break the silence: "Sister Liu Qing, are these materials enough?"

"Enough to launch an investigation, but it will take time..."

She didn't continue.

"We can't wait," Cang Lifeng said.

Cang Liuqing looked at him.

"Sister, what you just mentioned is evidence, legal stuff. But Zheng Yaoxian isn't using the law, he's using public opinion. He's using newspapers to kill people. If we want to fight back, we'll have to use newspapers too."

He turned to Lin Wei: "Lin Wei, you know more about this than we do. What do you suggest we do?"

Lin Wei was silent for a few seconds before speaking: "Zheng Yaoxian controls the pages of the Nancheng Daily, but his control isn't monolithic. He can't get involved in the provincial newspaper, the evening newspaper, or several industry newspapers. We can start from these places."

She paused, then continued, "The problem now is that readers only see Zheng Yaoxian's side of the story—'heartless contractor,' 'martial arts abuse teenagers.' What we need to do is tell the other side: Cang Lifeng's rescue of people in the bank, Tianci's transformation from a stutterer and last place in class to provincial champion and county champion, and the Cang family's four generations of protecting national treasures."

"Every single one of these things is true. True things aren't afraid to be written about. But it takes someone willing to write them, someone willing to publish them. I alone can't do it. I need more journalists, more media outlets."

"I'll figure this out," Cang Liuqing replied. "I know a few veteran reporters in the provincial capital's evening and industry newspapers. They won't listen to Zheng Yaoxian. I'll contact them tomorrow and send the materials over. At the same time, I'll use internal channels to pass on Lao Li's statement and the suspicious points in the construction site investigation report to the right people. Doesn't Zheng Yaoxian like to use 'higher-ups' to pressure people? Let's show him what the real 'higher-ups' are like."

She looked at Lin Wei and said, "Lin Wei, after you go back, first organize the materials. Don't write conclusions, just write the facts. Write about the construction site truthfully—the investigation report was fabricated, some people were threatened, and some people came forward. Write about Tianci truthfully as well—he was a good kid, he worked too hard, he pushed himself to the limit. As for what the readers think, let them judge for themselves."

Lin Wei nodded.

Cang Liuqing stood up and put away the documents on the table. She walked to the door, then turned back and said, "Lifeng, you keep an eye on Tianci. Lin Wei, you're in charge of the public opinion side. I'll handle the rest."

The door closed. Cang Lifeng sat there, watching the closed door. Lin Wei was beside him, gently holding his hand.

"She'll handle it," Lin Wei said.

Cang Lifeng looked down at the hands that were holding his. Those hands were fair and soft, completely different from his own—his hands were covered in calluses, his knuckles were large, and his fingernails were always dirty. These hands had held hoes, steel bars, fists, and also his younger brother's cold hands.

"Lin Wei," he said, his voice a little hoarse.

"Um?"

"Why did you...?"

He didn't finish. He didn't know how to ask. Why help him? Why risk everything to investigate those materials? Why sit here when he was at his lowest point?

Lin Wei did not answer. She simply sat quietly, her hands still on her hands.

After a long silence, she said softly, "Lifeng, do you know why I became a reporter?"

Cang Lifeng shook his head.

"When I was a child, my father was wrongly accused and spent six months in detention. When he came out, he was a completely different person. My mother went to the newspaper to beg them to report on it, but no one paid any attention. Later, an old reporter heard about it, followed him for three months, and wrote a report. On the day the truth came out, my father cried. He said, 'There are still people in this world who are willing to tell the truth.'"

She paused, then said in an even softer voice, "I became a journalist because I wanted to be someone who 'speaks the truth'."

Cang Lifeng didn't speak. He just stared into those eyes—they were bright, like the lights of Nancheng at night, or like the kerosene lamp in front of the old house in Xiqiao Village.

He suddenly remembered something Tianci had once said: "Brother, you know what? Some people's eyes can speak."

He didn't understand then. Now he seems to understand a little.

"Lin Wei," he called again.

"Um?"

"Thanks."

She paused for a moment, then smiled. The smile was gentle, like a breeze rippling across water.

Outside the window, night was deepening. The dim light in the teahouse cast two shadows close together on the wall.

When Cang Lifeng returned to the ward, Su Yumei was still talking to Tianci.

"...When you were little, you were most afraid of thunder. Every time it thundered, you would burrow into your mother's arms and say, 'Mom, I'm scared.' Your father said, 'What are boys afraid of when it thunders?' I said, 'So what if I'm scared? Mom's here.'"

She held Tianci's hand and gently stroked it: "Tianci, can you hear me? Mother is here."

The monitor continued to beep regularly. But Su Yumei felt that her son's hands seemed a little warmer.

Cang Zhenye stood by the window, gazing at the lights outside. Cang Xiangyang and Cang Xiaohua sat on a bench in the corridor, waiting.

Cang Lifeng walked in and sat down by the bed. He glanced at his younger brother, said nothing, and simply placed his hand on the back of his brother's hand.

He remembered many years ago, in the winter of Xiqiao Village, he held his younger brother's hand, walking step by step through the snow. That hand was small and cold, but held tightly.

Now, he's waiting for that hand to clench tightly one more time.

Then he stood up, walked to the window, and stood next to his father.

"Dad, Tianci will wake up," he comforted him.

Cang Zhenye didn't speak. He just stared out the window at the lights, for a long, long time...

The night is still long. But the first ray of light on the horizon has already appeared.