Chapter Twenty-Five: Entering She Mountain by Night

Sheshan Forest Park is one of the most renowned tourist destinations in Shanghai-Hai City. Not only does it boast cultural landmarks such as an observatory and a clock tower, but it is also home to a celebrated Catholic church. The mountain is steeped in religious significance, known as the Sacred Mountain within Shanghai-Hai.

Owing to the legend of Jesus stumbling several times, the roadways here are exceedingly rugged and complex, with nine daunting bends that must be traversed both ascending and descending the mountain. By day, the area bustles with tourists; by night, when the mountain is closed, it transforms into a paradise for street racers. No other place in Shanghai-Hai offers such intricate routes.

At nine-thirty, the midnight races are about to commence.

At the intersection of Waiqing Song Road and Huan Shan Road, lights blaze brightly, illuminating a crowd of various sports cars, their sleek bodies lined up at the roadside. On a makeshift stage nearby, a troupe of vibrant, youthful car models are energetically swaying their hips in provocative dances.

Yet, at this moment, the attention of the crowd below is not on the stage, but on a limited edition matte grey Lamborghini, its sharp lines radiating a fierce aura. However, what truly captivates them is not the globally limited-to-400 vehicle, but the woman seated atop its hood.

She is a woman of unparalleled beauty, clad in a vintage Tang-style dress, its delicate fabric barely covering her curves, revealing just enough of a soft, inviting valley. Beneath the hem of her skirt, a pair of long, shapely legs catches the eye. Her smoky makeup lends her an air not of vulgarity, but of ethereal elegance, as if she had stepped out from a landscape painting.

Her shoulders and back are adorned with black tattoos that, paired with her smoky eyes, merge into a harmonious whole, steeped in ancient charm. She pays no heed to the stares of those around her, calmly sitting on the car hood, smoking a slim, feminine cigarette.

Most men dislike women who smoke, often associating them with vulgarity or promiscuity. Yet in her, there is nothing repulsive; her smoking exudes an aura of gentle sophistication. This woman is none other than the renowned “Black Widow,” Zhuo Qinglian.

A man standing beside a Bentley not far from her smiled, clearly intrigued. Even placed among the beauties of Beijing-Tianjin-Tang, she would stand out as a rare gem. He hadn’t expected to encounter such a stunning woman on his very first night in Shanghai-Hai.

“Who is she?” he asked quietly, turning to another man beside him, never taking his eyes off Zhuo Qinglian.

“I’m not sure, Young Master Tang. Let me find out!” replied the man, a strikingly handsome figure—the kind who would be the heartthrob at any university. This was Qiao Yifeng. After being beaten by Xiao Cheng last time, he had spent quite some time recuperating at home; his facial wounds had healed, though his legs still felt weak.

“Didn’t you say you knew all the beautiful women in Shanghai-Hai?” quipped a bodyguard-like figure standing next to Young Master Tang, unable to resist a jab.

Qiao Yifeng offered an embarrassed smile, humbly apologizing. Though he had heard of the “Black Widow,” he had never seen her in person.

It was hard to imagine that the young master of the Qiao family could be so deferential to someone—what kind of identity must she possess?

“Tiger, go ask her if she’d like a drink later,” ordered the youth known as Young Master Tang.

Tiger took the order and approached Zhuo Qinglian, finding that she didn’t even glance up. Unfazed, he handed her a plain business card, embossed with three words—Tang Qianfan.

That Young Master Tang was none other than Tang Qianfan, one of the famed Four Young Masters of Beijing, a young scion with connections throughout the capital and a formidable background.

“This is my young master’s card. He’d like to invite you for a drink!” Tiger said, a touch of pride in his voice. Surely, few women in the entire city would refuse a drink with Young Master Tang.

Zhuo Qinglian turned her head, cast a cool glance at the card, and showed no intention of accepting it. She elegantly took a drag from her cigarette, then pressed the stub onto the card, burning a small hole through the paper—leaving only the name Tang Fan.

“I have no interest,” she murmured, blowing out a thin veil of smoke.

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Tang Qianfan was familiar to her—just another privileged second-generation, living off his ancestors' fortune, nothing special. Compared to Xiao Cheng, he was somewhat better, but her bond with Xiao Cheng was forged in life-and-death circumstances. The benefits from Xiao Cheng’s dispersal of his martial arts had all gone to her; without that, she wouldn’t have reached the level of a master in internal boxing at such a young age, no matter her talent. Tang Qianfan could not compare.

Tiger had expected Zhuo Qinglian to be delighted by the card and eagerly accept Tang’s invitation, but… did this woman not know who he was?

“My young master is from Beijing…” he began.

Zhuo Qinglian cut him off disdainfully, “Tang Qianfan, heir to the Tang Group, blood type AB, unmarried, graduated from Huaqing University, born April 1986… If you say one more word, I’ll tell you that Tang Qianfan died at twenty-eight! Get lost!”

A firebrand like Zhuo Qinglian feared nothing. She lived her own life, free and unencumbered—never someone to be controlled. At worst, she could simply leave, and the Tang Group had no power over her.

“You!” Tiger’s veins bulged with fury, and in his anger, he reached to grab Zhuo Qinglian’s hands to drag her away.

Her expression turned cold; she raised her foot and kicked lightly—without even looking—and Tiger flew off like a severed kite.

He scrambled up from the ground, astonished by her skill. Realizing he had met a formidable opponent, he returned to Tang Qianfan, grumbling as he exaggerated the whole incident.

Tang Qianfan’s face darkened; that a woman dared to disrespect him was infuriating. He snorted coldly—women were meant for men’s amusement, so why the airs? In Beijing-Tianjin-Tang circles, he would show some restraint, as officials were everywhere. But outside the capital, there was no force he needed to fear; here, he was the master.

“Give the word—find some men, and tonight deal with that woman. When I’m done, I’ll reward you all!” Tang Qianfan said with a cold smile.

He was not one to show mercy. If she refused to grant him face, he would take it by force.

Just then, Qiao Yifeng returned, having investigated Zhuo Qinglian’s identity.

“I found out—this woman comes to race here every so often, and she always wins. She’s known as the Sheshan Racing Goddess, but no one knows her real name. She never interacts with anyone…” Qiao Yifeng recounted breathlessly.

“Oh? She likes racing? Then let’s play with her,” Tang Qianfan replied.

Racing was his specialty. He hadn’t inherited his elders’ humility, but he had picked up plenty of unconventional skills, and his driving prowess was famous in Beijing-Tianjin-Tang circles.

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Zhuo Qinglian sat on the hood of her sports car, having smoked several cigarettes and fended off countless would-be suitors, feeling tonight would be dull. The race wouldn’t start until ten-thirty; perhaps she should arrive later next time. As boredom set in, she suddenly heard a familiar engine roar—a wild yet magnetic sound.

She looked over and saw a deep yellow Lamborghini speeding toward her—her own car, recently lent to Xiao Cheng.

The engine’s thunder drew many eyes. The car, once racing at high speed, suddenly slowed, becoming gentle and subdued—an odd transformation, like a lion morphing into a kitten. The car came to a slow halt before Zhuo Qinglian.

Xiao Cheng was surprised to find Zhuo Qinglian here. His feelings toward this woman who never wore underwear were complex—affection, gratitude, and guilt. Though she wasn’t as close to him as his sisters-in-law, she had always treated him well, yet he had never truly cared for her in his previous life.

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“Qinglian!” Xiao Cheng stepped out, smiling as he called to her. In his past life, he would have addressed her as Sister Qinglian, but now, by age, he was actually a year older.

“What brings you here?” Zhuo Qinglian sashayed over, her smile radiant, naturally linking her arm with his.

To them, this was nothing special, but to onlookers, it was astonishing. News of her rejection of Young Master Tang had already spread; even Tang Qianfan, heir to the Tang Group, had been turned down—who else could possibly be worthy of her embrace?

Could this man’s background be even deeper than Tang Qianfan’s?

Tang Qianfan’s face was dark; she had just rejected him, and now was so intimate with another—wasn’t this a slap in the face?

“Who is this guy?” Tang Qianfan asked Qiao Yifeng angrily.

“Oh, that’s Shanghai-Hai’s most infamous playboy, Young Master Xiao Cheng of the Xiao family,” Qiao Yifeng said with a sinister tone.

Since being dealt with by Xiao Cheng last time, Qiao Yifeng had harbored resentment. After returning home, his father had scolded him, warning him to provoke anyone but Xiao Cheng. Since his father insisted, he dared not defy him. But now, seeing Tang Qianfan’s growing animosity toward Xiao Cheng, he seized the opportunity.

“He’s just a brainless second-generation, nowhere near your level. Who knows what luck brought him this beauty’s favor,” Qiao Yifeng added.

“Ha, so he’s just another useless second-generation—the Xiao family?” Tang Qianfan sneered. He’d never heard of the family; surely they were insignificant.

“Tiger, tonight when you deal with that woman, bring this guy along. Let him watch us do our work! Ha!” Tang Qianfan laughed recklessly—nothing could be more exciting.

Qiao Yifeng, seeing Tang Qianfan’s ignorance of the Xiao family’s true status, inwardly chuckled.

Xiao Cheng, meanwhile, was unaware he had already been targeted as a second-generation fool.

Accompanied by Zhuo Qinglian, Xiao Cheng found the bookie and wagered his Lamborghini as the stake. The rule here was simple—any property that could be taken away could serve as a bet.

Zhuo Qinglian shot him a glare; the car was worth over seven million, and he hadn’t even blinked when staking it. Though wealthy, that sum was no trifle to her.

She wondered, did this brat have such confidence in her driving?

Yet she remained unperturbed; she had never lost a race here, and the bigger the bet, the greater the reward.

As for which car Xiao Cheng wagered—it was the deep yellow Lamborghini. When he reported the license plate to the bookie, the man was stunned—the plate was so audacious: Shanghai A-BC748. Xiao Cheng glanced at Zhuo Qinglian; only she, this lawless enchantress, would so adore such a bold plate.

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