Chapter 18: Do Not Rush Things (Updated for the Male God's Marriage)

Tang Pei whispered, “There are still three months left.”

“Mm!” Linglan nodded, fully understanding what Tang Pei meant. Three months left until the reserve cadre assessment—a crucial step toward joining the Tiancheng Group. In a soft voice, she said, “I’m a little worried.”

“What are you worried about?”

Linglan smiled faintly, discreetly pointing at Mo Zhicheng, who was walking ahead of them. “I’m… afraid of him,” she murmured so quietly that Tang Pei couldn’t help but smile. As if remembering something, Linglan leaned in and asked in a low voice, “What does President Mo like to drink?”

“?”

“I’ll be serving hot drinks to President Mo and the guests later. I’m not sure if he has any preferences or dislikes?”

Tang Pei nodded lightly. “Biluochun. He likes tea.”

“Tea…” Linglan nodded thoughtfully.

“Well played!” A voice of approval rang out not far away. Mo Zhicheng lightly clapped his hands, the perfect host, relaxed and at ease. As he turned slightly, he cast a fleeting glance at the two of them. Tang Pei didn’t look at Linglan, only murmured, “I’ll head over now.”

“Go ahead!” Linglan smiled gently, signing with her hands in a soft gesture.

“President Mo, it’s your turn!” The elder guest gestured invitingly.

Mo Zhicheng replied with his usual polite smile, “Secretary Qin, you’re too kind. My golfing skills are modest—I wouldn’t dare show off in front of you.”

Linglan was startled—was this the father of Young Master Qin? The Tiancheng Group’s cooperation project with the government… Could it be that Young Master Qin’s father was here to make things difficult for Mo Zhicheng? Her brows knit slightly as she listened to their exchange, sensing an undercurrent of contest, a game of wits behind their courteous words.

Mo Zhicheng could not refuse any longer. Linglan watched as he positioned himself, gripped the club, and swung in one fluid motion. His silhouette was framed perfectly against the natural backdrop, a scene of effortless grace. Every movement exuded scholarly elegance—a blend of the refined demeanor of a successful man and the decisiveness demanded by his work. Outwardly calm and composed, he quietly maneuvered beneath the surface, ever aware of his next move to ensure the best possible outcome.

Though Linglan was concerned, she withdrew at the right moment, taking the walkie-talkie from her waist. “Prepare Biluochun for President Mo. Serve the other three guests with different high-quality teas—do not serve Mo’s tea to anyone else.” She guessed, correctly, that with Mo Zhicheng’s temperament, he wouldn’t like to share anything with others. Her gamble paid off.

In the pavilion, after serving the tea, Linglan tactfully took her leave. To win Mo Zhicheng’s trust, she could not be as hasty as she had been before. Only when dusk fell and the guests had departed did Linglan finally exhale in relief. She shed her work uniform, changed into a light pink down jacket. After winter’s arrival, the days were short and the nights long, and the air held a chill. Leaving Night City, she wrapped herself tightly on the way home, looking as delicate as a white rabbit, her steps hurried, softly humming an old, enduring melody:

Beyond the long pavilion, beside the ancient road, fragrant grasses stretch to the horizon. The evening breeze brushes the willows, the flute’s notes linger, the sun sets beyond the mountains.

At the ends of the earth, at the corners of the land, half our friends are scattered. One last cup of wine, a final moment of joy—tonight, farewells abound.

Beyond the long pavilion, beside the ancient road, fragrant grasses stretch to the horizon. I ask you, when will you return? And when you do, do not hesitate.

At the ends of the earth, at the corners of the land, half our friends are scattered. Rare are joyous gatherings in life—partings are far more common.

The familiar, melodious tune seemed to drift through the night air. It was a song she and her childhood friends often sang. The lyrics, written by Master Hongyi after he became a monk, held a boundless poetic beauty tinged with gentle sorrow. Whenever Ye Shenghan left, she would quietly hum this song.

Linglan looked up at the sky, the profusion of blossoms behind her weaving her slender silhouette into the surging tide of night. She sighed softly, as if she had words yet unspoken. Then, regaining her composure, she simply smiled.