Chapter 340: Making things easy
It could be said that Fu Jingrong was ruthless—mercilessly ruthless.
He didn’t give Fu Ling even a breath of time to collect himself. No soft words. No gentle explanations. Just cold, brutal truth—delivered all at once.
To anyone else, it might have seemed heartless, even cruel. But to Fu Jingrong, this was the only way.
He knew exactly how Fu Lianhua operated. The woman never went down without a fight. And when she couldn’t reach him directly, she would always find another way. Using her own son as a weapon was not beneath her—it was her favorite move.
So the moment Fu Ling stepped foot into the company that he had so long avoided, Fu Jingrong already knew.
He knew who was behind it.
He knew what words had been whispered, what tears had been shed, and what kind of false picture Fu Lianhua had painted to send her son charging into battle like a blindfolded soldier.
Fu Ling was still standing there, the papers clutched tightly in his hands. His knuckles were white, trembling. His eyes, wide and unfocused, were fixed on the documents but not truly seeing them anymore.
Disbelief clouded his mind.
His chest felt hollow, as if every word written on those papers had turned into knives, stabbing through his heart over and over again.
He had always known—deep down—that there was something in his mother’s nature that wasn’t quite right.
She could be gentle, yes. Loving, yes. But there were moments when her eyes would flicker with something cold, something sharp and calculating. Moments that made him uneasy as a child. Moments he never understood.
He’d brushed them off back then. Told himself he was imagining things. Because how could a son doubt his own mother?
She was the one who raised him. The one who hugged him through every scraped knee and every childish mistake. The one who told him she would protect him no matter what.
So even when whispers about her began spreading—rumors of greed, deceit, and darkness—Fu Ling had chosen silence. He had chosen her.
He never confronted her. Never asked questions. He thought he was being a good son.
But now...
Now those whispers had become screams in his mind. And the evidence in his hands was too clear, too precise, too real to deny.
He felt his throat tighten. His eyes burned. The ache in his chest grew unbearable until a sound escaped his lips—a silent, broken cry.
It was not loud. It was not dramatic. But it was raw.
Painful.
And when it reached Fu Jingrong’s ears, his gaze wavered ever so slightly.
For a brief moment, his expression softened.
Because this was not easy for him either.
Fu Ling was his younger brother. In the other world, the boy had stood by him through everything—loyal, cheerful, protective in his own naive way. He had looked up to him with admiration that was pure and sincere.
And even here, in this modern world, that bond still existed somewhere deep inside them.
Fu Jingrong cared for him. He truly did.
But caring did not mean leniency.
He could not allow emotions to blur judgment. Not now, not when their enemies were circling like vultures, waiting for weakness.
So even as he watched the young man crumble before him, he remained composed.
Without a word, Fu Jingrong reached into his suit pocket, pulled out a small USB drive, and tossed it toward Fu Ling. It hit the floor near his feet with a dull click.
"When you’ve calmed down," he said, his tone cool and steady, "watch this. Then you’ll understand the whole truth."
The words cut through the heavy silence like a blade.
Fu Ling didn’t move at first. His fingers loosened, and a few pages fluttered from his grasp, landing noiselessly on the floor. His head remained bowed, eyes fixed on the USB as if it were some kind of cursed object.
His lips trembled. "Brother..."
Fu Jingrong’s gaze remained distant. "This isn’t about me," he said quietly. "It’s about you finally opening your eyes."
Fu Ling’s throat tightened again. He wanted to shout, to deny it, to scream that his mother wasn’t the monster these papers made her out to be—but no sound came.
The truth was already sinking in.
He had seen things. Subtle things. Conversations cut short when he entered a room. Phone calls taken in secrecy. The strange visitors that came late at night, leaving with envelopes and hidden smiles.
He had ignored them all. Pretended not to notice. Because facing them meant facing the possibility that his mother—the woman he loved most—was capable of evil.
Now, standing here, he felt like that child again. Confused. Powerless. Lost.
Fu Jingrong leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes fixed on his brother. His face was unreadable, but deep beneath the surface, his heart ached.
He remembered another time, another life—when this same young man had knelt before him in the palace courtyard, begging him not to go to war.
He remembered the same desperate eyes, the same voice cracking with emotion.
He had gone anyway.
And now, once again, he had to hurt the very person he wanted to protect.
Fu Ling was not entirely foolish it was just that he thought by staying on the sides, things could get better not knowing the type of people that were surrounding him.
If anything, Fu Jing Rong really wanted Fu Ling to be ruthless and aggressive and not so good to him as he was.
Perhaps, this would make things easier.
Fu Jingrong exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers against his temple. "Go home, Fu Ling," he said finally. "Think carefully before you come to me again."
The younger man stood there for a long moment. The once fiery anger that had driven him here was gone, replaced by emptiness. His shoulders slumped as if all strength had left his body.
After a few seconds, he bent down and picked up the USB.
His movements were slow. Mechanical.
Without saying another word, he turned and walked out of the office. The sound of the door closing echoed through the room like a final note of a requiem.
