Chapter 82: The Tower That Never Falls

Forgetting is hard, unless there's something wrong with your mind—only then can you truly leave the past behind. But you can bury countless memories deep within your heart, refusing to disturb them. With enough time, perhaps those memories will fade, until you can no longer recall the other person's face; or perhaps, left to ferment, the bitterness will evaporate, leaving only the mellow aftertaste.

Zhao Zejun had Zhou Yuanyuan’s phone number on hand, but in the end, he didn’t call her and threw himself back into work. In just a few days, Ren Bida had found him three properties: a newly developed apartment and two fully furnished secondhand homes, the largest being 132 square meters, the others just about a hundred. Zhao Zejun hadn’t gone to see them yet—these were for his parents, and he planned to wait until they returned so they could visit together.

He himself was still learning to drive. Knowing how to drive and being able to drive were two different things; he’d been driving that beat-up van without a license every day, and sooner or later, the traffic police would catch him. He decided to use the summer holiday to get his license, knowing it would come in handy.

By now, seventy or eighty percent of the residents in Gaogang Village had signed the compensation agreements and handed over their keys. Most of the shantytown was deserted, save for a few particularly stubborn holdouts, clinging to their small plots of land and refusing to move. The demolition team had already moved in, and the work was well underway.

Tearing down the shantytown houses was simple. Wearing a hard hat, Zhao Zejun watched from the sidelines, feeling as if he were witnessing a tank and infantry assault: bulldozers rolled forward, flattening everything in their path, while a swarm of workers in hard hats followed behind with sledgehammers, smashing whatever the bulldozers had missed in the ruins.

Jiang Xuan, also in a hard hat and holding blueprints, stood beside Zhao Zejun, explaining the demolition process to him. The demolition crew was the first to enter the site, and also the first to skim some profit. Their main income came from the old furniture, doors and windows, and all manner of miscellaneous household items left behind. The demolition office didn’t pay them; in fact, the crews had to bid for the right to enter and pay for the privilege.

Zhao Zejun had misunderstood one thing: he’d thought the small profits earned by the demolition crews were simply a matter of scrap collection.

Jiang Xuan explained, “The demolition crew is just the first step—they skim a layer off the top. But our profits are even greater. Each step has its own rules. The bricks, tiles, and metal scraps from the houses are off-limits to the demolition crew; those go to us, the waste collectors. There’s a time limit too: they can only pick through things for two days. As soon as they’re done, we move in.”

Zhao Zejun grunted in acknowledgment, gazing at the vast sea of ruins before him. Thinking of the profits skimmed off during demolition, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret—it would be false to say he didn’t mind at all.

For each ton of construction waste, accounting for transportation, Zejian, as the middleman, might make less than three hundred yuan. But forty percent of that would go as “sponsorship.” Every truckload was weighed and registered by the demolition office; the profits and market price for waste collection were transparent, with little room for manipulation.

After thinking for a moment, Zhao Zejun said, “Here’s what we’ll do: rent a dump site. After the trucks haul the waste away, don’t send it directly to the processing plant. Take it to the dump first and let our own people sift through it. With a pile of ruins this size, I refuse to believe the demolition crew can pick every last scrap.”

“How do we sift it? I can recognize gold, silver, and cash, but as for other things, no one in our company knows what’s valuable,” Jiang Xuan replied.

“I’ll find someone,” Zhao Zejun said, immediately thinking of Shen Lian.

But Shen Lian alone wouldn’t be enough—he couldn’t be allowed to have the final say. There were plenty of savvy small shopkeepers in the antique market; they could gather a few more experts.

“Alright, I’ll have Junzi take care of it. His father worked for the city recycling company, so he knows people at the dump,” Jiang Xuan said.

“Good.”

In barely a day, half of Gaogang Village had already been reduced to rubble. A few holdouts’ homes stood alone in the wasteland, conspicuously out of place. Rumor had it that some had filled their houses with gas tanks and gasoline, prepared to go down with their homes if necessary.

One of the houses was a three-story building belonging to He Dapeng, a local thug who had earned some notoriety through sheer ferocity but had no real connections. According to Old Li, He Dapeng was adamant—he demanded relocation on the original site and a compensation of six or seven hundred thousand, and negotiations with the demolition office had been tense, nearly coming to blows several times.

Zhao Zejun had seen it himself: the first and second floors of the house were lined with over a dozen gas tanks, the yard’s walls strung with barbed wire, and a fierce wolfdog kept on guard. The scene was intimidating—whenever demolition officials approached, if more than two people got close, He Dapeng would appear on the second floor with gasoline and a lighter, shouting threats to keep them at bay.

From a distance, Jiang Xuan frowned at He Dapeng’s house. “That building must have at least dozens of tons of scrap. If he refuses to move, we’ll lose ten thousand or more in profits.”

“Different positions breed different attitudes. As bystanders, it’s easy to sympathize with the holdouts, but once our own interests are at stake, we can’t wait for them to leave,” Zhao Zejun said with a smile, taking the blueprints from Jiang Xuan. This particular holdout was on the southeast edge of Zejian’s contracted area, so it wouldn’t hinder the main work.

“Do you think he’ll really blow up those gas tanks?” Jiang Xuan asked uncertainly. “Isn’t all this just about money? If he actually kills himself, what’s the point?”

“It’s hard to say,” Zhao Zejun replied, shaking his head. From He Dapeng’s perspective, he likely didn’t intend for things to go that far. But people are emotional creatures—when pushed to the brink, anything can happen.

If everyone could remain rational their whole lives, there wouldn’t be so many tragedies in the world.

Silently, Zhao Zejun calculated the date, then told Jiang Xuan, “Here’s what we’ll do: starting tomorrow, set up morning and evening shifts—not two alternating shifts, but one day working in the daytime, and the next at night, so the workers can rest. Also, let everyone know: when working, especially at night, stay away from the holdout’s house. If something really goes wrong, we don’t want our people getting hurt. Whatever troubles they have with the demolition office, that’s their business. Let’s not get dragged into it.”

Jiang Xuan muttered, “None of them are any good. If they all blew themselves up, it’d serve them right.”

Just then, Junzi called.

Ren Jifu had been discharged from the hospital.

Last time, Zhao Zejun had asked Junzi to keep an eye on Ren Jifu, and ever since, Junzi had acted like a programmed robot, no matter how busy, making time every day to visit the hospital.

This morning, when he checked in, Ren Jifu’s bed was empty. The nurse said his injuries hadn’t fully healed, but he’d snuck out the night before, still owing thousands in medical bills.

“It takes a hundred days to heal from bone injuries, and he broke several bones. It’s not even three months yet, but he dared to check out—he’s just asking for a disability. Do you think he’ll come looking for trouble again?” Jiang Xuan asked.

Gazing at the ruins of Gaogang Village, Zhao Zejun said quietly, “There are green hills everywhere in life—why insist on returning to your old home to rest in peace?”

“What do you mean?”

Flicking his cigarette butt far into the distance, Zhao Zejun stood up and brushed the dust from his pants. “Any patch of earth can bury a man.”