Chapter Eighty-Eight: Deadlock?

That night, Old Li from the Demolition Office brought a special guest to Zejian’s iron-walled office. The mysterious buyer of the resettlement apartments finally appeared. Zhao Zejun accompanied them for over half an hour and sold the seven commercial apartments he had on hand, plus a villa.

Seven units at 1,400 per square meter, totaling 882,000. The villa was a bit different: while the land area was the same, the villa’s built area was several times larger, sometimes ten times more than a regular apartment. Though villas didn’t appreciate crazily in a few years as apartments did, their base price was several times higher. The villa sold at 4,000 per square meter; at 220 square meters, Zhao Zejun had to concede a bit since villas were hard to move—large area, high total price, and the location wasn’t ideal, right on the edge of the future resettlement community, clearly not a luxury villa district. It was evident its appreciation potential was low. If it were a villa in Amber Estate, where Xia Yubing lived, the same size would easily fetch over 1.5 million now.

In the end, they settled at 200 square meters, eighty thousand. Seven apartments plus a villa, Zhao Zejun netted nearly 1.7 million, with no taxes or fees. With the remaining compensation of over 400,000, Zhao Zejun finally had a somewhat substantial sum in hand, enough to try his luck with some promising future projects.

If, within a few years, Zhao Zejun could let this money ride the wave of domestic economic growth and make money from money, he’d certainly profit more than waiting for apartment values to rise. Otherwise, if he lacked that ability, he’d lose out.

Both parties agreed verbally, planning to go to the Demolition Office and the bank tomorrow to finalize paperwork and transfer the funds.

He had just seen off the visitors when suddenly, heavy footsteps sounded outside the iron-walled door, followed by a loud pounding.

Opening the door, Junzi appeared, drenched in sweat, leaning against the wall, gasping for breath.

Zhao Zejun dragged him inside, shut the door, brow furrowed. “What happened?”

“Xiao Xuan...” Junzi’s voice was hoarse, barely getting the words out.

Zhao Zejun quickly poured him a glass of water. Junzi drained it in two gulps, slammed the glass down, and said, “Xiao Xuan was taken by President Song!”

“What exactly happened? Explain!”

It wasn’t a complicated story; Junzi quickly laid out how he and Jiang Xuan had gone home for clothes, encountered Song’s men, a scuffle broke out, and Jiang Xuan was taken away.

As Zhao Zejun listened, his expression grew darker.

Why had President Song suddenly targeted Jiang Xuan? He even drew a gun?

Across two lifetimes, Zhao Zejun had never encountered anything like this. In his previous life, the so-called ‘blades flashing’ were only business rivalries between small companies—street fights were common, but true underworld conflicts with guns and deadly intent had never crossed his path.

He kept reminding himself: now was not the time to panic. If he lost his head, not only would he fail to save Jiang Xuan, but he might drag the company, himself, Junzi, and several families into disaster.

“I’m going to rally the guys!” Junzi, breath recovered, stood up to leave, but Zhao Zejun grabbed his shoulder and barked, “Sit down!”

“Brother, Song Tianming has a body count—he really could kill Xiao Xuan!” Junzi gritted his teeth.

“If he really intended to kill Jiang Xuan, it’s already too late for you to take anyone over!” Zhao Zejun glared. “Besides, do you know where he took Jiang Xuan?”

“No!” Junzi’s face was grim, words squeezed out between clenched teeth. “I’ll take the guys and sweep his turf, and I refuse to believe we can’t flush him out!”

“Nonsense! Before you force him out, you’ll be locked up yourself!”

“What do you suggest then? We can’t just sit here and do nothing!” Junzi protested.

Zhao Zejun threw open the office windows and doors, letting the cold night wind blow through. The chill cleared his head a bit. He asked, “Do you know why Old Song acted? Has Jiang Xuan done anything stupid lately?”

When men get into trouble, it’s either for money or for women.

Money wasn’t a worry; Zhao Zejun trusted Jiang Xuan’s integrity—he wouldn’t steal from Song, especially since Zejian was doing well and there was no need. What concerned him was whether Jiang Xuan had messed around with Song’s woman and fallen into that trap.

“No, lately Xiao Xuan has either been with you or me. Shouldn’t be any issue,” Junzi replied.

Zhao Zejun lit a cigarette, mind racing. His first thought was to call the police. Zejian lacked the strength to confront Song—Junzi’s idea of sweeping Song’s turf was desperate and pointless. Even if the police didn’t intervene, the manpower Junzi could muster was no match for Song’s. If Zejian threw in all its people, and everyone lost their heads and fought desperately, the best outcome would be mutual destruction and prison.

A direct confrontation was impossible.

But calling the police might not help either. Jiang Xuan had been missing less than forty-eight hours—too soon to file a report. Besides Junzi, there was no evidence linking Song to Jiang Xuan’s abduction. Even if the police wanted to investigate, Song could simply deny everything, leaving Zhao Zejun powerless.

He considered reaching out to Yu Jin, hoping to use Yu Jin’s connections with the police.

But Yu Jin wasn’t in charge and might not want to get involved in underworld disputes. Even if he did offer a favor, it would only be a token gesture, nothing deep. After all, Yu Jin was Yu Zhe’s father, not Zhao Zejun’s, and unlikely to risk himself for Zejian.

Old Li? Impossible. The Demolition Office had no jurisdiction, and it was best they didn’t learn Zejian was unstable.

Huayang Group? Not viable—the relationship wasn’t deep enough. At best, they could help with information, but wouldn't get involved.

Stirring up publicity online? Time was too short, no evidence, and since this was an underworld conflict, public attention would only complicate matters.

Jiang Xuan was now something of a celebrity, his heroic halo not yet faded. If he really died, it would cause a stir. But Zhao Zejun could never use Jiang Xuan’s life as leverage against Old Song.

He rapidly ran through several plans, only to dismiss them all.

He had connections, but none could solve the immediate crisis. Right now, Jiang Xuan’s life was all that mattered.

He was still too weak. Zejian looked promising, but when faced with real storms, it had almost no ability to protect itself. And President Song, at best, was a minor squall in Yijiang. What about the true tycoons, the hurricanes to come...

But that was for the future. Right now, as long as Jiang Xuan lived, there was hope.

He pulled out his phone, forcing himself to stay rational and calm, and dialed Jiang Xuan’s number.

The dial tone rang on and on. Just as Zhao Zejun was about to give up, a raspy voice answered, mocking, but not speaking to Zhao Zejun.

“Little Jiang Xuan, your friend’s calling. Should I answer, or should you?”

In the background, Jiang Xuan’s shout faintly came through: “Zhao Zejun, don’t listen to him—”

The words were cut off abruptly, as if someone had silenced him.

Then the raspy voice returned. “Mr. Zhao, is it? I’ve heard a lot about you. My little brother’s gotten out of hand, so I brought him back for a lesson. Hope you don’t mind.”