The tap-tap of keys rang out in the silence so profound that he could almost hear his own heartbeat, each strike startlingly clear and urgent. Lu Chen's eyes, bloodshot and stinging from hours of intense concentration on the glowing screen, were rimmed with crimson veins—but he dared not allow himself even a moment's respite. He resembled a lone traveler on the cusp of an unknown journey, feverishly—and almost obsessively—gathering every scrap of information on that mysterious realm, even if it amounted only to the faintest whisper of rumor or a fragmentary description.
He had shut out all external distractions—whether the complex glances of his colleagues, suffused with pity, ridicule, or schadenfreude, or the repeated protests and cries of his own body, worn down by the repeated use of the "Heart-Hunting Chart" and a grievous lack of sleep. Every ounce of his focus was trained on the woman whose whims would determine his fate—Jiang Wanxing—and the colossal business empire she presided over: Wanxing International.
As one of the top enterprises in Star City, FeiChi Group boasted internal networks linked to major commercial databases and high-end industry-insider platforms at home and abroad. For a bottom-tier "office ant" like Lu Chen, it was a rare opportunity to glimpse the hidden facets of the high and mighty. Naturally, his very first search query was "Wanxing International"—the multinational conglomerate renowned for bespoke luxury jewelry and high-fashion accessories. Its headquarters sat in Europe's fashion capital, while Star City served as its most critical strategic bastion and profit center in the Asia-Pacific region. From the public financial reports dense with jargon and intricate charts, to industry analyses and in-depth media exposés, everything pointed to one conclusion: Wanxing International's growth had been nothing short of meteoric, especially among a new generation of young, high-net-worth consumers who prized individuality and distinctive taste. In both brand influence and market share, it stood among the leaders—and whispers even hinted at its ambition to seize the crown as the industry's new overlord. And at the very helm, the soul behind every design and the driving force of its spirit, was the woman himself would soon confront: Jiang Wanxing.
Next, Lu Chen honed in on Jiang Wanxing herself. Almost immediately, his screen was flooded—like a cascading waterfall—with countless photographs and video clips of her in every conceivable public setting. Whether delivering a poised address at a glittering international business forum, grace personified at a charitable gala, or seated front and center as an invited guest at a top–tier fashion house's runway debut, Jiang Wanxing was flawless in every frame. Her makeup was immaculate, as if measured and applied by the most precise scientific instrument; her wardrobe, each ensemble like a living page torn from an elite fashion magazine, accentuated her voluptuous curves with the ripeness of summer peaches, while simultaneously projecting the aura of a corporate titan—aloof, commanding, and breathtakingly elegant.
Most arresting of all were her phoenix-eye gaze—sharp, fathomless, as though capable of reading the subtlest deceit in any soul—and her crimson lips, habitually pressed into a line that was as sensually inviting as it was coldly detached. Even in the rare snapshots that caught the faintest upturn at her mouth, Lu Chen could sense an undercurrent of ice—an ancient chill that seeped into the bone.
"Mid-life siren…venomous beauty…ice queen…" His mind flashed with the myriad epithets whispered in office gossip, each tinged with a blend of awe and fantasy. He had to admit that this woman wielded an irresistible, lethal allure, capable of enthralling any man—but also a destructive power that could obliterate anyone foolish enough to approach.
In a handful of open interviews with top financial media, her manner was polished and eloquent, her logic razor-sharp, her observations on global macro trends and forecasts for the luxury sector revealing a business acumen that bordered on the preternatural. "Genius designer," "Valkyrie of commerce," "Ever-golden Midas of fashion," "Ultimate predator in a world of men"—such superlatives poured in from press outlets at home and abroad, nearly casting her in a divine light.
One detail intrigued Lu Chen even more: in every public forum, Jiang Wanxing made virtually no mention of her private life. Her family background, romantic history, personal preferences—all shrouded in a Bermuda Triangle of mystery that fueled endless speculation while remaining entirely unplumbed. This cultivated enigma only magnified the legend surrounding her.
Yet beneath the gleaming surface, Lu Chen's newfound sensitivity—gifted by the "Heart-Hunting Chart"—had also led him to darker whispers on subscription-only industry forums and in anonymous exposés. He encountered scathing accusations likening Wanxing International's partnership contracts to modern-day indenture: margins squeezed to the bone, defiance punished with ruthless severance, threats of obliteration from her boundless resources for any collaborator who dared resist. Rumors abounded of her volatile temper during negotiations—alternating between beguiling charm and merciless wrath in an instant, publicly shaming or even having security escorts throw a foolish partner out like trash.
"Here's the perfect paradox," Lu Chen muttered to himself: the shimmering public "goddess," and the merciless "serpent-queen" of office lore—at once two entirely different personas, yet eerily unified in one woman. Compiling every scrap of public schedule, media report, and dubious rumor, he meticulously saved it all, aware that these surface-level glimpses—no matter how detailed—could only sketch out her formidable "A-side." What truly decided the outcome of his "death mission" would be her hidden "B-side"—the flaws she herself might barely recognize, her deepest anxieties and secret desires, buried far beneath her icy exterior.
And to unmask that side, he would need the direct, draining contact of the "Heart-Hunting Chart."
He rubbed his temples, freshly searing with pain, a reminder of the toll those early trials had exacted. Each foray into another's mind was like a bracing, extreme endurance sprint on the mental plane—especially hazardous when the quarry possessed a mind as powerful and turbulent as Jiang Wanxing's. The stronger the target, the more searing the backlash: headaches that felt like rending flesh, weariness that sunk into the marrow, threatening collapse.
"It's a double-edged scalpel," he reminded himself. "A surgeon must be calm, precise, swift—and strike exactly at the core, or die trying."
Spreading the freshly printed documents—still redolent with the ink's faint aroma—across his narrow desk like battle maps, he dove into an even deeper analysis. He combed through her landmark business cases, her airtight public statements, even the absurd scandals, hunting for patterns of thought, emotional triggers, and potential cracks in her armor.
Time slipped through his fingers like sand. Outside, the sky shifted from dawn's pale gray to the sun's noon-day blaze, then toward a late-afternoon horizon tinged with bruised red. Colleagues came and went—some off to court clients, some returning with reports, some gossipping by the water cooler, and some summoned for scoldings by Manager Wang. Only Lu Chen remained, motionless as a meditating monk. His brow furrowed in concentration, then alit with sudden clarity as he scrawled cryptic symbols and keywords onto scrap paper, oblivious to hunger, thirst, or the weight pulling at his consciousness.
Only when night enveloped the office did he lift his head, groggy-lidded and heavy. The department lay deserted; beyond the glass walls, Star City's monstrous silhouette lurked under the silent watch of myriad, icy, unblinking lights.
His neck stiff as a snapped twig, his eyes parched and sore, blood vessels like snarled wires—and yet, within those weary pupils flickered a spark as bright as a star's flare in the deepest black: insight and confidence.
Cross-referencing every public datum, he had uncovered a lethal paradox: the iron-willed queen who brooked no dissent nonetheless harbored an unguarded appreciation—maybe even a kind of mentorship—for audacious, radically creative young talent. During her early, scrappy days, a handful of obscure designers and rookie marketers had earned her favor—and even lavish investment—by daring to propose off-the-wall, boundary-shattering ideas that later proved prescient and game-changing.
He'd also sniffed hints—accessible only through discreet channels—of an upcoming milestone: a global brand-upgrade launch slated for early next month, centered on themes like "Heritage Meets Renewal" and "Art Reimagined through Technology." Its ambitious intent was to captivate discerning young high-net-worth clients, yet insiders whispered that the team was struggling to distill those lofty concepts into a message both precise and compelling.
Could these fragments—her secret affinity for true innovation, her anxiety over this pivotal rebranding—be the narrow gateway through which he might crawl, alive, into her inner circle?
His heart thundered in his chest like a hammer on an anvil. He understood that a groveling pitch about product excellence or perfunctory apologies for past mishaps would only harden her steel resolve against him. Instead, he must devise an irresistible "hook"—one that would intrigue her, prompt her to momentarily forget the yawning gulf between them, and sit down as an equal to hear him out.
He rifled through the dossier on Jiang Wanxing's complaint against FeiChi Group—an accusation of core-tech defects delaying her high-stakes international deal and inflicting severe financial loss. In yesterday's high-risk mind-read, he had extracted Wang Hai's panicked inner monologue: the fear that his unauthorized discounts and gray-area deals would be exposed, spelling his professional ruin. That fear, he realized, was the fulcrum upon which he could lever a psychological gambit—and perhaps win the leverage to negotiate from strength.
He needed a direct audience with her—face to face, undisturbed, and seemingly on equal footing. Charging into Wanxing International's impregnable Asia-Pacific headquarters like a brazen salesman was a fool's errand—he'd be treated as a nuisance, maybe even escorted off the premises by security. He required an unorthodox, unexpected channel—an ingenious backdoor.
Breathing deeply, he turned once more to his search engine of choice—the Star City Commercial Intelligence Network—and began entering a cascade of key terms: "Wanxing International," "Brand-Upgrade Launch," "Global Strategic Partners," "Creative Proposals Submission," and so on. He scoured overlooked public channels for a loophole, any plausible mechanism to slip a "special calling card" into the hands of Jiang Wanxing or the confidants who truly wielded influence at her side.
Night stretched on like ink spilled across the firmament. Beyond the glass, Star City's lights shimmered like shards of ice in dark velvet, at once mesmerizing and menacing. On Lu Chen's face, twisted by exhaustion and heightened by an almost frantic fervor, there bloomed a dangerous smile—mysterious, predatory, and utterly resolute.
Wang Hai's three-day "death sentence" loomed like a cocked pistol against his temple, reminding him that each second, each decision, was a matter of survival. From this moment forward, he would navigate a razor's edge, a high-wire act where one misstep spelled annihilation—and one perfect move could turn the tide.
He clicked on a small, unassuming link on Wanxing International's official site: an email address set up for "Global Strategic Partnerships & Creative Campaign Proposals." His finger hovered, then pressed the mouse button with the absolute resolve of a man who had gambled everything.