Lost in thought, Gao Fan walked to the elevator lobby on instinct and reached out to press the button. However, after pressing it, no descending elevator appeared.
The doors opened directly, but there was no carriage inside. Instead, a seemingly endless, pure white corridor stretched out before them.
Gao Fan led Ming Po through the elevator doors. The path was impossibly long, with no end in sight. A profound silence hung in the air, broken only by the sound of their footsteps.
They did not know how long they had been walking. It felt as though ti had stagnated here, or perhaps only a fleeting mont had passed.
Suddenly, the flat corridor developed an incline. At so point, the level ground had transford into an upward slope, making their progress slightly strenuous.
"...I see. This is a dream," Ming Po realized.
He felt he was beginning to understand the structure of a palace. This appeared to be a dream of the palace's master, but it was certainly not a pleasant one, nor one that offered any peace of mind.
If an Anchor Point was the most reassuring thing, then the palace extending from it seed to be the most unsettling. Why, then, did that colossal palace he once recalled in his own dream look so beautiful?
The mont Ming Po realized this was a dream, a door abruptly materialized to his right.
Ming Po imdiately grabbed Gao Fan, who had completely missed the door and was subconsciously continuing forward.
Pulled back by Ming Po, Gao Fan followed his gaze to the side and finally noticed the newly appeared door. He was absolutely certain he had not seen it before.
"I will do it," Ming Po said in a serious whisper, grabbing the back of Gao Fan's collar just as he reached out to push the door open.
He slowly opened the door.
Inside was the CEO's office—or rather, a section of it.
Within the massive, unpartitioned space of about one hundred and forty to one hundred and fifty square ters stood a wet bar, a desk complete with a computer and a comfortable sofa, a seven-seat long table for discussions, and a tea area furnished with a television, a sound system, a sofa, and a coffee table.
Compared to the sheer scale of the company, it looked sowhat excessively modest.
Just then, a clear voice rang out. "Ah, Little Fan has brought a friend. Find a place to sit."
Unlike Gao Fan's standard, crisp Mandarin, this was heavily accented with a strong regional dialect. It was not Shanghainese, but Wenzhounese, so thick that even Ming Po struggled to understand it.
"...Uncle." Gao Fan let out a soft sigh. "It has been a long ti."
There was not a trace of fear in his voice. Now that he was truly face-to-face with Gao Song, his apprehension seed to have vanished.
Ming Po looked toward the source of the voice and saw a rather elegant... young man?
Gao Fan himself was a delicate-looking youth, his tender features appearing quite androgynous. His uncle shared about fifty to sixty percent of those features, looking sowhat like Fei Yu-ching but with larger eyes, or perhaps Zhao Dongchu from 'The Dyehouse'.
Dressed in a sharp suit, with his black hair slicked back and gleaming, he looked youthful and handso. It was impossible to tell he was Gao Fan's uncle, who should have been in his sixties or seventies by now; instead, he looked like a young, successful man in his early thirties. One could easily believe he was the uncle's son. He looked nothing like the middle-aged man Ming Po had seen in his earlier research.
At this mont, Gao Song was standing near the wet bar, drinking alone from a glass of golden liquor. He turned around, his slightly rounded chin lifting as he raised his head.
Gao Song offered a polite yet highly affable smile. He extended a hand, palm open, in a welcoming gesture. "Please, sit!"
"Your family is truly fascinating," Ming Po remarked, sitting down without standing on ceremony. He grabbed a glass and poured himself a drink. "Little Fan is almost thirty but looks thirteen. You should be over sixty this year, but you look like you are in your early thirties.
"Your family's genetics act like promotional discount coupons: spend thirty, get eighteen off; spend fifty, get thirty off. It is truly enviable."
"Hahahaha!" Gao Song laughed heartily. "Well, you are not entirely accurate there! Little Fan is not quite thirty yet."
He glanced at Gao Fan, the corners of his lips turning up slightly. "It is a pity... he probably will not make it to that age either."
"...Uncle." Gao Fan did not sit. Instead, he stood beside Ming Po. Even standing, he was slightly shorter than Ming Po, who was seated on a barstool. Looking earnestly at Gao Song, he asked, "I have a question for you."
"Oh?" Gao Song turned to Gao Fan, imdiately switching back to that heavy dialect Ming Po could barely decipher. "I suppose you must ask, otherwise you would not die in peace. Go ahead, ask. I am guessing you want to know how you died?"
Before Gao Fan could speak, Gao Song broke into a bright smile and raised his glass to him. "You guessed correctly, Little Fan. I killed you."
"...Why?"
"Ah, now that is your second question." Gao Song's smile grew exceptionally cheerful and delighted. "I only said I would answer one question, not that I would answer everything."
"Did you kill my father, too?" Gao Fan ignored Gao Song's reaction and reply, simply staring at the uncle who had once doted on him. "Why?"
"Little Feng..." Gao Song smiled, still ignoring the question. He picked up his glass and spoke as if to himself, "What would you like to drink? I only keep the good stuff here."
Gao Fan's father was Gao Feng. Little Feng was Gao Song's affectionate nickna for him.
"Uncle Song."
"Yes, I am listening!"
"What exactly are you trying to gain? Killing all these people... is it really just for the company?" Gao Fan retorted. "Since you have already beco a Deceiver, if it is just money you want, there are plenty of other ways, are there not?"
"Just?" Hearing Gao Fan's words, Gao Song's tone shifted for the first ti.
He paused mid-sip, turned back to look thoughtfully at Gao Fan, and could not help but chuckle.
"You see this, rich boy," he said, pointing at Gao Fan and speaking politely to Ming Po. "It must be exhausting for you. Playing around with a kid born with a silver spoon in his mouth must be quite a chore, right?"
"It is alright," Ming Po replied tersely, swirling his glass with a half-smile.
Gao Song paid Ming Po no mind. He simply turned back to Gao Fan, his expression one of earnest, almost painful advice. "Things are not like they used to be. You have left ho; there are not that many people looking out for you anymore. We are all adults, and we are all very busy. Everyone has their own family to take care of..."
Mid-sentence, his voice abruptly cut off. He slowly lowered his head.
Without him noticing, a dagger had been buried deep into his heart. It was the very gift Gao Fan had presented to him earlier.
Gao Song looked up at Ming Po, taking a good, hard look at him for the first ti.
"Impressive, young man," he sighed in admiration. "I did not even notice when you made your move... What does your family do?"
"Family, family..." Gao Fan suddenly exploded, losing control of his emotions. "Why does it always have to be about the 'family'?! If you are good at business, it is because of the family. If you are good at studying, it is because of the family. If you are good at killing, is that the family too?! Did you learn how to murder from the family?!"
This was the first ti Ming Po had ever seen Gao Fan lose his temper. How should he put it...
It was still a bit too polite. He was not sure if it even counted as cursing; his aggression felt more like throwing a tantrum.
Faced with Ming Po's assassination attempt and Gao Fan's fury, Gao Song remained unhurried. Slowly, inch by inch, he pulled the dagger from his heart.
"Ah, it is this knife," Gao Song smiled. "Did I not give this to Little Feng back in the day? Talk about causality and karma, retribution never fails..."
He looked at Gao Fan, the radiant smile on his face shifting slightly. Though it looked identical to before, Ming Po suddenly felt the smile had grown sowhat 'pale' and hypocric.
"You are absolutely right, Little Fan." The corners of Gao Song's lips curled up, but his voice turned ice-cold. "I did learn how to kill from our family. I learned it from your grandfather."
As his words fell, two crisp claps echoed through the room.
Space and ti warped simultaneously.
When Ming Po and Gao Fan regained their senses, they realized they were still in the sa space. They were now seated at the seven-seat long table they had seen upon entering.
An incredibly beautiful woman with raven-black hair had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, at the side seat of honor. Gao Fan sat to Ming Po's left, while the seat to his right remained empty. Directly across from Ming Po sat Gao Song, with empty seats on either side of him.
"A pleasure to et you both..."
She crossed her hands in front of her, stood up, and bowed respectfully to the three n at the table. Her voice was gentle, her tone tender, yet her slightly mispronounced Mandarin carried a strange, mocking undertone that seed perfectly designed to infuriate.
"Allow to introduce myself. I am [Twenty Faces]."
"I am the Host for Mr. 'Mistletoe'. I look forward to our ti together."
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