Huayu: This director is pretty strong.

Chapter 114 The Palme d'Or lands, but no one dares to greet it at the airport.

The aircraft's landing gear made a dull screech as it touched the runway.

Chen Yan pushed open the sunshade, and outside the window was the typical gray and hazy morning light of Beijing.

There was no blue like the Mediterranean, only a chaotic mess.

The revelry at the top of the world was shut out by this sky.

"Director Chen, the exit is packed with people."

A flight attendant approached, her voice low but brimming with barely concealed excitement, "TV stations, newspapers, and film distributors from all over the country have completely blocked the arrival gate!"

Su Wan looked at Chen Yan with a questioning look in her eyes.

Chen Yan unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up.

"Not using the VIP lane."

He straightened his suit collar, his movements unhurried. "Lin Qingqiu will exit through the regular exit. You accompany her."

Su Wan frowned slightly: "She'll be torn to shreds by those reporters."

"Won't."

Chen Yan walked towards the hatch. "Wu Gang, protect him. You don't need to say anything, just lift that box containing the golden palm a little higher, that's all."

Su Wan understood.

This is a diversion.

She used the newly crowned Best Actress and that gleaming trophy to lure away all the sharks.

"You want to divert the media and see whoever you want to meet?"

Chen Yan did not answer and stepped out of the cabin.

The dry and biting north wind instantly filled the covered bridge.

Exit hall.

The sound of shutters clicking incessantly, the network of flashes creating a blinding light.

"Lin Qingqiu is out!"

A low growl came from the crowd, and they surged forward in a dark mass.

Su Wan held the deep red velvet box high, while Wu Gang, like a moving black wall, used his body to cut a path through the frenzied crowd.

"Ms. Lin, how did you feel when you won the Best Actress award?"

Why didn't Director Chen appear with you?

"What are your thoughts on Lu Haiming's death?"

The microphone was practically poking Lin Qingqiu's face.

She kept her head down, not uttering a word, and following Chen Yan's instructions, took each step with great force, pushing through the crowd with an overbearing attitude to walk out.

At the same time, in the airport's underground parking lot, level two.

Chen Yan opened the car door and got into the back seat of a black Passat.

In the driver's seat, Yan Huaizhong was wearing a faded jacket, and his hair at the temples was even more disheveled than when they last met.

"We won the Palme d'Or, and the school is very satisfied."

Yan Huaizhong started the car, and the steering wheel made a slight scraping sound.

"But the ministry is not satisfied."

Chen Yan leaned back in his chair, watching the concrete pillars rushing past the window with a calm expression.

"Because of the Tianjin incident?"

"You've exposed your family's dirty laundry on the international stage."

Yan Huaizhong shifted gears, and the car slowly pulled out of the parking space. "He Ping was taken away; the commotion was too great. The higher-ups mean this is the end of it."

He glanced at Chen Yan in the rearview mirror.

"Lu Haiming is dead, and you've handed over the account books. Why keep harping on this?"

Chen Yan turned his head and stared at Yan Huaizhong's profile, speaking each word clearly.

"Teacher Yan, Lu Haiming committed suicide."

"He has paid back what he owed me. But he still owes those seven workers under the clock tower."

Yan Huaizhong slammed on the brakes, the wheels screeching across the ground.

"What are you trying to do? If you dig any further, some people in the capital will lose their positions!"

"I just want to collect my debts."

Chen Yan pushed open the car door and got out.

"The trophy will be sent to the school's exhibition hall by the Su Wan Hui."

He slammed the car door shut with a loud bang.

"I have to settle my own accounts."

"Chen Yan!"

Yan Huaizhong rolled down the car window and shouted, "You'll ruin your future!"

Chen Yan did not turn around, and his figure quickly disappeared into the shadows of the elevator lobby.

The parking lot on the third floor.

Su Wan was standing next to a black sedan waiting for him; Lin Qingqiu and Wu Gang were already sitting inside.

"Did you shake them off?"

Chen Yan asked.

"We've shaken them off."

Su Wan handed over the box of the Golden Palm from her arms. "Those reporters are still in Terminal 2, surrounding an empty car."

Chen Yan took the box and casually tossed it into the trunk.

"Walk."

The car exited the airport expressway.

Su Wan's phone kept ringing, so she immediately silenced it.

"Lin Shufen, Wang Jianguo, Zheyan... they're all looking for you."

Chen Yan looked out the window at the roadside trees rushing past, their shadows twisting and deforming in the night.

"Would someone who could kill seven workers and get away unscathed commit suicide with a toothbrush over an account book?"

He seemed to be talking to himself.

The carriage was deathly silent.

As the car drove into the residential area near the Beijing Film Studio, Chen Yan asked Wu Gang to stop the car.

"You guys go back first, I'm going to see a friend."

He walked into a dimly lit alley and pushed open the door of a run-down braised food shop.

There were no customers in the shop, only an old man wearing a greasy apron cutting meat behind the stove.

"A bowl of braised pork belly, with extra lung."

Chen Yan sat down in the corner.

The old man brought over a bowl, with a crumpled newspaper pressed against the bottom.

Chen Yan picked up the newspaper and turned it to the back.

A circle was drawn in red in the blank space, and inside the circle was an address: No. 14, Laochang Street, HQ District, Tianjin.

He picked up his chopsticks and stirred the soup in the bowl.

At the bottom of the bowl, a small, transparent, sealed bag lay quietly.

Inside the bag was a toothbrush handle, its tip sharpened to a point, stained with dark red blood.

Chen Yan stuffed the sealed bag into his pocket, buried his head and took a bite of lung, the scalding soup making his throat tighten.

Someone asked me to pass on a message.

The old man had his back to him, and his voice was hoarse, as if it had been sanded.

"The child isn't dead yet, but he's dying."

Chen Yan stopped moving.

He put down his chopsticks and took out a tissue to wipe his mouth.

"Who?"

"The one surnamed Liang."

The old man turned around, his cloudy eyes looking like two dry wells in the dim light.

"He was in a hole under the clock tower, where cement was poured into him."

Chen Yan stood up, the chair legs scraping against the floor with a screeching sound.

He pushed open the shop door and rushed toward the car parked on the side of the road.

"Wu Gang! Come back!"

The black sedan roared and reversed from the intersection.

"Something happened?"

Wu Gang pushed open the car door and saw Chen Yan's expression; his heart sank.

Chen Yan climbed into the car and fastened his seatbelt behind his back.

"We're not going to the hotel."

"Go to Tianjin."

The car suddenly turned around, crashed through the pile of dead leaves by the roadside, and sped off towards the outskirts of the city.

Su Wan gripped the armrest and turned her head to the side.

"Aren't you waiting for domestic box office data?"

"I'm not waiting anymore."

Chen Yan stared at the ever-increasing pointer on the instrument panel. "Data is for living people."

2:00 AM, Beijing-Tianjin Expressway.

An eerie dark red tinged the sky in the distance.

Wu Gang slammed on the brakes.

Ahead, a white van was blocking the middle of the road, its hazard lights flashing rapidly in the darkness, like a dying insect.

Chen Yan pushed open the car door.

The wind was strong, making his clothes flutter loudly.

The van's door was wide open, and the driver's seat was empty.

There was a black and white photo pasted on the windshield.

The photo shows the old clock tower in Tianjin twenty years ago, before it collapsed.

At the top of the clock tower stood a blurry figure.

Chen Yan flipped through the photos.

On the back was a line of hastily written words, written with such force that it almost tore the photographic paper.

"Liang Qinian is still breathing, but he doesn't have much oxygen left."

At the end of the writing was a huge red cross, the bright red ink still damp.

Chen Yan clutched the photo tightly.

Wu Gang walked up behind him, holding a wrench used for removing tires.

"There was no one in the car. The engine was warm; it had just left."

Chen-Yan looked around; the highway was flanked by seemingly bottomless protective forests.

"He didn't leave."

Chen Yan stared into the darkness in the distance. "He's watching me."

He got back into the car and grabbed the steering wheel.

"Su Wan, call Yan Huaizhong."

Chen Yan slammed on the gas pedal, and the car squeezed through the gap of less than a meter between the bread truck and the guardrail.

The metal rubbed against the guardrail, sending out a long string of blinding sparks.

"Tell him that if Liang Qinian dies, I will not donate the Palme d'Or."

The car transformed into a black shadow and plunged into the thick night fog ahead.

"I smashed it and buried it in the ruins of the Tianjin Clock Tower."