Spring brought a different kind of wind to the city. The chill of the winter boardroom battles was still there, but there was also the faint scent of something new. Lin Ze stood by the window of his twentieth‑floor office and watched the cars stream along the avenue like threads weaving an endless tapestry. The internal investigation he had helped launch more than two months before was reaching its climax. He and Zhang Yu had spent countless hours combing through ledgers, audit reports and contracts. Salt and sleep had been replaced by numbers and names. He had learned to read between the lines, to spot the extra percentage points hidden in the notes. In that time he had come to recognise allies he had never expected and betrayals from people he had once trusted. The scholarship fund had become more than just a financial vehicle; it had become the axis upon which a community's integrity spun.
News of the audit had leaked beyond boardroom walls. Students from small towns who had received scholarships wrote open letters thanking anonymous donors. Parents of applicants sent messages asking whether the trust would survive. Meiqi's video, which had once seemed like a prank, had evolved into a documentary about transparency. Comment threads were filled with stories from recipients whose lives had been changed, and with indignation from donors who discovered that their generosity could have been siphoned. What had begun as gossip columns about Lin Ze's personal life had shifted into a public debate about accountability. The scholarship fund's reputation was now a battleground of narratives: on one side were those who insisted on preserving appearances, on the other were those who demanded reform.
On a windy afternoon Lin Ze received a short text from Han: "Tonight, he's meeting with his inner circle at the riverside restaurant. Topic: personnel adjustments. Are you going?" It was less an invitation than a warning. Lin Ze stared at the glowing words on his phone, thought of the faces that would be at that table, and typed back: "I'll be there, but only to watch." Han replied with a thumbs up and an address. Lin Ze slipped the phone into his pocket and looked again at the folders on his desk. Facts were shields, he reminded himself. But sometimes you need to watch how the other side plans their moves.
Before the evening, he met Professor Qin for tea at a small shop near the university. The silver‑haired scholar who had spoken up for him during the contentious board meeting welcomed him with a smile and a pot of hot brew. "You look thinner," she said as she poured. "These months have taken their toll." He shrugged and thanked her. In this small haven, away from conference rooms and screens, he allowed himself to admit exhaustion. She listened as he recounted rumours of a plan to replace him as the public face of the trust. "They'll argue I cause division," he said. "They'll say I'm too outspoken." Professor Qin set her cup down and leaned forward. "Division from whom? From those who misuse public donations? If so, be proud. You have done what scholars teach: you have questioned power. The fund isn't Mr. Huang's inheritance. It belongs to every child who studies because of it. The moment people forget that, the fund loses its soul." Her words steadied him more than any contract clause.
As dusk settled, he walked to the riverside restaurant. The place was upscale but discreet. Han was already there, sitting at a table near the window, his back to the private dining rooms. Through frosted glass he could make out silhouettes: Mr. Huang, two members of the finance committee, and Mei Zhao leaning forward in animated discussion. A waiter brought tea that neither of them touched. "They're discussing 'stability'," Han whispered. "Their plan is to present an alternative narrative: the audit results are exaggerated, the fees were for legitimate research, the donations have been safe. They want to nominate Mei Zhao as the new face. She'll promise to keep profits steady and relations smooth. Then they'll shift the remaining funds into a new vehicle where scrutiny is harder. It's a classic diversion." Lin Ze watched the blurred gestures behind the glass. He could almost hear Mr. Huang's authoritative tone and Mei Zhao's polished assurances. A flicker of cold anger ran through him. He remembered the faces of students who had hugged him in thanks and he pictured their names being used as cover for private enrichment.
"What will you do?" Han asked quietly. The question hung between them like the soft jazz playing over the restaurant's speakers. "What I've always done," Lin Ze answered after a moment. "I'll put the truth in front of everyone. They can spin their narrative inside that room, but outside, donors and students will see the numbers. We're past the point of private persuasion. This is now about public accountability." Han nodded. "Be careful," he said. "Mr. Huang doesn't like losing. He might attack you personally. He might try to smear your family." Lin Ze's jaw tightened. He had considered that possibility. "I'm prepared," he said. "And I'm not alone. They can't silence everyone who cares."
The following week the decisive board meeting was held not in a quiet office but in the largest conference hall of Harbor Tower. This time, transparency was not optional; representatives of major donors, lawyers from the audit firms, and even journalists were invited. At the back of the hall sat a group of scholarship recipients, some of them wearing faded jackets, their hands folded tightly on their laps. A sense of solemnity pervaded the room. Mr. Huang entered flanked by Mei Zhao and their legal counsel. The entire board took their seats around a long table, while cameras recorded.
The chair of the independent audit firm spoke first. With calm precision he projected slides showing where money had gone. He described consulting fees to companies that existed only on paper, payments for market reports that had never been delivered, and a consistent pattern of funds flowing into accounts linked to Mr. Huang's relatives. Each slide made the air heavier. When a flowchart appeared that traced donations from the scholarship fund to Tianyu Management, through a chain of shells, and into a personal account, there were audible gasps. Mei Zhao stood to object, claiming confidentiality and context, but the moderator insisted that facts be shown. Zhang Yu, sitting among the board members, leaned forward but remained silent. His expression was one of restrained satisfaction.
A major donor from Singapore rose to speak. "Our foundation donated millions because we believed in the cause," she said, her voice trembling with emotion. "We did so believing our funds would help students, not enrich the directors. Why should we continue if there is no guarantee of integrity?" Her words were followed by murmurs of agreement. A young scholarship recipient then stood. His suit jacket was frayed but he held his head high. "I was able to finish my engineering degree because of this fund," he said clearly. "My mother still sells noodles at a market stall. She would never dare misappropriate someone else's money. Why should those with power do it?" His sincerity pierced the manufactured decorum. Applause broke out, and in that moment the dynamic of the meeting shifted. It was no longer a technical audit; it was a moral reckoning.
Mr. Huang attempted to defend himself. He spoke about decades of service, about building relationships with donors, about the complexity of managing large sums. He insisted that any irregularities were procedural mistakes. But with each word his authority seemed to shrink. When asked specifically why contracts were awarded to companies controlled by his family, his only reply was that they provided "necessary market insights." The board members who were not implicated exchanged glances. Professor Qin quietly took notes. After Mr. Huang sat down, the room remained tense.
The compliance committee chair stood and proposed a vote: "In light of these findings, we recommend that Mr. Huang be removed as chairman and that the fund be placed under interim management by an independent non‑profit. We also propose restructuring the board to include representatives from donors and scholarship recipients. Do any oppose?" Mr. Huang leaped to his feet to argue procedural unfairness, but the majority no longer listened. One by one, hands were raised. Nine votes for removal, two against, one abstention. The motion passed. The gavel's strike was final. For the first time, Mr. Huang's control was broken not by whispers but by formal decision.
The aftermath was a mixture of relief and realism. Reporters rushed to call their editors. Donors conferred with lawyers, pledging continued support under new governance. Students hugged each other. Zhang Yu allowed himself a rare smile. Lin Ze sat quietly, feeling fatigue wash over him. He knew this was not the end; rebuilding a trust takes more than ousting one person. Processes needed overhauling, new oversight mechanisms had to be designed, and relationships had to be mended. But a door had opened. As he left the hall, several students came up to him. "Thank you," one said. "Not just for us, but for standing up." He shook their hands humbly. He was only one piece in a mosaic of voices.
Back at his office, he allowed himself a moment to breathe. He opened the window and let the city's evening sounds filter in. A message buzzed on his phone. It was from his mother: "I saw the news. I'm proud of you. Remember to eat and sleep." He smiled at the familiar maternal concern and replied, "I will. Thank you." Another message arrived, this time from Han: "Round three is over. Was it a draw or a win?" Lin Ze typed, "Neither. It's a beginning. And I still have the salt." Han responded with a laughing emoji. The exchange brought a warmth he hadn't felt in weeks. Conflict sometimes forges unlikely bonds.
Later that night he met Meiqi and a group of students at a small café near the river. Laptops, notebooks and makeshift placards crowded the tables. The group buzzed with ideas: improving the trust's website, creating a student advisory council, organising public talks about ethics in philanthropy. They asked Lin Ze for his opinion on who should lead the interim board. He shook his head. "It shouldn't be one person," he said. "It should be a diverse group: donors, students, educators, legal experts. No one should have unchecked power again. Decisions must be transparent." A young woman, her eyes bright with possibility, asked, "So ordinary people like us will have a say?" He nodded. "Yes. That's the point of transparency and community ownership. The fund exists for you, not for boardroom egos." The students looked at each other and smiled. They began dividing tasks and setting timelines. Laughter mingled with earnest debate.
Outside, the mist rolled over the river, wrapping the city in a soft veil. Lin Ze stepped onto the café balcony, breathing in the damp night air. He remembered Mr. Huang's question months ago: "Are you ruthless enough?" He now understood his own answer. Victory did not require ruthlessness, it required resilience and allies. He thought of Professor Qin's steadfastness, Meiqi's creativity, Zhang Yu's legal precision, Su Yanli's media acumen, Han's pragmatic risk‑taking, E. Liu's quiet bravery, and his mother's unwavering support. Together, they had tipped the scale. The chapter of secrecy and complacency had ended. A new one of scrutiny and shared responsibility was beginning. As the lights on the river shimmered, he whispered to himself, "This is just the start." With that, he turned back inside to join the others, ready to help build what would come next.