?For another day, Feng Qianyu was a no-show. Jun Qingcheng’s life settled into a rhythmic, almost mechanical routine of being chauffeured between home and school. The siblings remained quiet, a lull she welcomed; she was more than happy to exterminate the "bottom-feeders" first before carving out time to deal with the real players.
?Her culinary demands had shifted. Xiao Ranran had once preferred a Western palate—elaborate spreads of surf and turf. Jun Qingcheng, however, found those tastes foreign. She sought precision over variety: five specific dishes, but executed with obsessive perfection. If the kitchen staff thought fewer dishes meant a lighter workload, they were dead wrong. She personally vetted every ingredient and replaced the entire battery of cookware with her own professional-grade set. She stood over them, a silent specter, watching every flip of the pan. By the time dinner was served, the staff was frayed, caught between paralyzing fear and simmering resentment.
?In her study, Jun Qingcheng sat before a deceptively simple meal—one protein, four greens, and a soup. At her signal, the butler entered, followed by a procession of eight men lugging stacks of physical files. This was the paper trail she had demanded: the "analog" foundation of her vengeance. The more sensitive, encrypted data resided on labeled USB drives in a large chest, currently being hauled upstairs.
?A sharp knock broke her concentration. She closed her book and sat ramrod straight. The library was vast, filled with volumes that didn't belong to a teenage girl; these were the spoils of Xiao Yuan’s intellect.
?“Enter.”
?The butler gestured for the men to set the documents directly onto the rug. Jun Qingcheng’s brow furrowed.
?“In the future,” she said, her voice dropping an octave, “nothing of mine touches the floor.”
?The floor was scrubbed three times a day, the rug immaculate, but to her, it was a matter of sanctity. Where they should be placed was the butler's problem to solve, not hers.
?“Understood,” he murmured, a cold sweat pricking his neck. The atmosphere was becoming increasingly surreal. He had dressed with extra care today—stiff white linen under a black coat—as if trying to reclaim the dignity of his office. Jun Qingcheng barely looked at him. She noticed, vaguely, that everyone in this house seemed shrouded in dark colors, as if they were already in mourning.
?“That will be all. Dismissed,” she said, rising to close the door. Then, a pause. “Wait. Where is the rest?”
?“It is all here, Miss,” the butler replied as two men in black suits hauled in a heavy trunk.
?Left alone, she began to dissect the dossiers. She wasn't just reading names; she was mapping out their lives, their habits, and their eventual ends. Xiao Ranran’s original vision of revenge had been crude—simple, violent outbursts. But Jun Qingcheng knew better. These people had forfeited their right to mercy the moment they crossed the line. Unless they were truly innocent bystanders, she felt no qualms. Their cause of death would be a direct reflection of the lives they had led—a balance sheet of sins.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
?Yan Ling, ever curious, asked how she planned to proceed. She only offered a cryptic, thin-lipped smile.
?On the third day, Feng Qianyu finally reappeared. She was a vision of understated grace—exquisite features set against a tawny tracksuit. She offered a brief apology for her two-day absence, checked on "Xiao Ranran" with practiced warmth, and departed as quickly as she had arrived.
?Surprisingly, Jun Qingcheng didn't hate her. Feng’s aura was clean—disturbingly so. She was a master of the "long game," appearing only when needed and vanishing before she became a nuisance.
?Xiao Ranran, Jun Qingcheng mused, watching her walk away, you never stood a chance. Feng Qianyu had turned revenge into an art form, a lifestyle where the line between "starting over" and "settling scores" had completely blurred. She had orchestrated a grand tragedy, manipulating relationships and sabotaging the Xiao family from within, all for the sake of a blood debt. Her only mistake was the collateral damage.
?The list contained 206 names. 180 were local; the remaining 26 were scattered. Many were thrill-seekers—degenerates with a penchant for sadism who had flocked to the villa once they smelled blood. To avoid spooking the herd, she would leave the local 180 for last. The strike had to be surgical: fast, precise, and absolute.
?The outliers, however, required her to leave the safety of the school-home circuit.
?Back at the house, she summoned the butler to her study. The driver followed behind, carrying her bag like a footman.
?“When is my father expected back?” she asked, cutting straight to the point.
?“The Master is abroad. He won’t be back for at least a month and a half,” the butler replied, eyes downcast.
?Today, Jun Qingcheng wore a white dress with a crisp collar. She sat with her hands interlaced on the desk—a picture of elegance. She had claimed the room's "power seat," the focal point of the local feng shui, and her natural charisma filled the space like a physical weight. The butler felt an inexplicable pressure in his chest. How? he wondered. She’s just a schoolgirl. But the instinctual fear was real.
?Jun Qingcheng sensed his unease and pivoted. She let her aura soften, her shoulders slumping slightly into a mask of disappointment.
?“Fine. Never mind then.”
?The butler heard the sudden vulnerability in her voice. He looked up, and the terrifying predator was gone; in her place was the girl he had helped raise.
?She turned her back to him, looking out the window. “I’ve been feeling unwell lately. Since Father isn't here, please call the school and request a leave of absence for tomorrow. And if you’re free… accompany me to the hospital.”
