178: Wei Ziqing

The young man panted heavily, the rise and fall of his chest gradually shifting from a violent tide to heavy surges.

He raised his head, and his eyes, which had previously been red with fury, were now clouded with a layer of deep pain and struggle.

He looked at Shen Mingyuan for a moment, appearing to weigh his options, or perhaps simply too exhausted to maintain full vigilance.

"...My name is Wei Ziqing," he finally spoke, his voice hoarse and dry as he uttered his name.

"Shen Mingyuan," Shen Mingyuan replied, giving his name once more in a calm tone. He made a "please continue" gesture, his body relaxing slightly, though his observant gaze never wavered.

He caught the slight tightening of the other's jawline as he spoke his name—a mixture of stubbornness, pride, and his current vulnerability.

Wei Ziqing took a deep breath, as if trying to suppress a bellyful of grief, indignation, and bitterness to organize his words.

His gaze swept over the groaning thugs on the ground, especially the bald one. A cold light flashed in his eyes, and his fists subconsciously clenched again, his knuckles turning white as his nails dug deep into his palms, leaving several crescent-shaped red marks.

But this time he restrained himself, forcing his gaze back and casting it into the Void Realm as he began his narration, his voice low and suppressed:

"Things... started with those scumbags on the street." He didn't speak fast; every word seemed squeezed out from between his teeth. "They specifically pick on the weak—middle schoolers, elementary schoolers—collecting 'passage fees,' 'protection fees'... I knew about it before, but... I didn't want to get involved. Better to avoid trouble."

His fists tightened again, a hint of self-loathing entering his tone: "I've been in an Orphanage for as long as I can remember."

His voice remained flat, but beneath that flatness, a dull pain began to seep in—one that remained impossible to fully erase even after many years.

"Because of my legs... I was born underdeveloped, essentially a paraplegic.

Forget running or jumping, I couldn't even stand steady on my own. I needed help wherever I went, or I just sat in that broken wheelchair. Perhaps that's why my parents abandoned me."

His gaze became somewhat vacant, as if traveling through time and space to see that thin, small figure who always sat in the corner, watching the Orphanage gate.

"Back then... what I feared most was 'Adoption Day'."

"Watching the other children in the Orphanage being led away one by one by strange uncles and aunts, smiling so happily, calling them 'Dad' and 'Mom'... while I was always just watching."

The corner of his mouth twitched into a near-self-deprecating arc, his fist unconsciously clutching his pant leg. "I didn't even dare to get too close, fearing my appearance would offend others and cut off even that minuscule... possibility."

"Over time, I became numb. I thought I'd probably stay like that, in that courtyard, watching the seasons change and people come and go, until I grew up, or until..."

He didn't finish, but that sense of abandonment and doubt about his own self-worth, deeply rooted in his childhood and almost branded into his Soul, still inadvertently leaked out.

"Then... he came." At the mention of "him," Wei Ziqing's voice and expression underwent a strange transformation.

That cold self-deprecation and numbness were replaced by an extremely complex emotion—there was disbelief, deep gratitude, and a heavy, mountain-like reliance that had reshaped his life.

"My Master, who is also my adoptive father. I remember that day; he stood next to the director, listening to the director introduce my situation... then he walked up to me, squatted down, and looked me in the eye.

He didn't show sympathy or pity like some people; he just looked into my eyes very seriously and gently squeezed my withered legs."

Wei Ziqing took a breath, his voice trembling slightly—a sign of uncontrollable surging emotions:

"He said, 'The bones are mostly fine, but the meridians are blocked and the Qi and blood aren't flowing. Are you willing to endure hardship? It might be very painful.'

I at the time... I had no idea what 'hardship' and 'pain' meant to me. I only knew that he was the first person who didn't look away because I was in a wheelchair, but instead asked if I was 'willing'."

When mentioning "Master" and "adoptive father," Wei Ziqing's voice changed subtly. The cold hardness he forced himself to maintain cracked, revealing a bone-deep reliance and reverence.

"In my state... forget practicing martial arts, even walking normally was difficult. But he didn't give up. Medicinal baths, acupuncture, stretching my tendons and activating my meridians bit by bit... he forced me to stand, forced me to walk... he scolded me, but he felt for me even more."

His Adam's apple bobbed. "Without him, I would... probably still be a cripple. The Martial Arts Hall is my home, and he... is the father I recognize in my heart."

"The Martial Arts Hall's business wasn't good; it's a traditional craft, it doesn't make much money," Wei Ziqing continued, his tone turning cold and hard again. "I'd spend my spare time carrying bricks and doing odd jobs, earning whatever I could to help keep things going. The money didn't come easy; every cent was earned with drops of sweat."

His gaze suddenly became sharp as a knife, shooting toward the thugs on the ground as his suppressed anger rose once more. "So, when those scumbags cornered me and asked for 'tribute,' how could I possibly give it? I beat them up. I knew it would cause trouble... but I didn't expect..."

His breathing suddenly quickened, and his body began to tremble slightly—not from fear, but from a suppressed, erupting grief, indignation, and self-blame:

"I didn't expect them to be so despicable! They didn't dare come for me again, so... so while I was away, they scoped out the Martial Arts Hall, gathered a gang, and went to corner my Master! He's over seventy! Just to force me to bow my head, or purely for revenge!"

Wei Ziqing's voice suddenly rose, then he forced it down, turning into broken sobs. "They... they shoved him and called him terrible names... Master... he's old, but he still has his pride. He wanted to reason with them, wanted to drive them away... and then..."

He closed his eyes as if unable to bear the memory. When he opened them again, they were bloodshot, tears welling up but being held back by sheer force of will, leaving only a burning hatred that threatened to incinerate his reason. "...He was pushed down. The back of his head hit the steps... he lost consciousness on the spot, and there was so much blood..."

He slammed a fist onto a lopsided table nearby with a dull "thud," the wood splitting a crack.

His shoulders shook violently, no longer able to suppress it, his voice trembling with a sorrow as if weeping blood. "Sent to the hospital... intracranial hemorrhage... surgery... he's still in the ICU! The doctor said even if he wakes up, he might... he might..."

He couldn't finish the rest, only biting his lip hard.

Shen Mingyuan listened to the details of bullying, abandonment, redemption found in despair, and then being cruelly pushed back into the abyss. It felt as if a hard stone was lodged in his chest.

Especially when Wei Ziqing described his Master being pushed down and hitting his head on the steps—that suppressed trembling and the hatred on the verge of collapse made Shen Mingyuan's gaze exceptionally sharp and cold.

As a lawyer, he had seen too much evil in court, but every time he faced such atrocities directed at the weak and the kind—acts that completely trampled the basic dignity and boundaries between people—a personal, not entirely calm anger would still sprout from his heart.

This anger was not like Wei Ziqing's—a blazing, outward flame intent on destroying everything. Instead, it was an undercurrent sinking into the depths of a cold pond, making his expression more solemn and coloring his words with a touch of uncompromising resolve while maintaining his rationality.

"I understand," Shen Mingyuan's voice was lower than before, but heavier, like a compressed spring.

The lines of his jaw tightened slightly, and he took a brief breath as if to transform that cold anger into a more solid strength.

"I feel your anger. This is not your fault; it is they who have trampled on the most basic boundaries."

He stepped forward, his gaze falling like a physical weight on Wei Ziqing's face, which was etched with pain and confusion. His words were clear and powerful, no longer mere consolation but an analysis carrying a promise and a path:

"Wei Ziqing, listen to me. Violent retaliation will solve no fundamental problems; it will only turn you into a prisoner and leave your Master with no one to care for him, adding to the pain. But this matter absolutely cannot be left at that! They must pay the price—not a single one will escape!"

"I am a lawyer." He emphasized the weight of this identity as if stating a weapon about to be deployed. "My job is to use the rules to put those who should be inside behind bars, and to make those who should compensate pay until they are bankrupt!

Your Master is in the ICU, and every day requires money. Follow-up treatment and rehabilitation will require even larger sums. Maintaining the Martial Arts Hall, your life—anger cannot solve these practical problems, but the law can!

Financial compensation is one of the most direct prices they must pay for the harm they have caused you!"