The chill of the boardroom battles never fully left, but spring brought a softness to the city that made even the stiffest suits relax for a moment. Streets once cloaked in grey were now lined with flowering trees. New banners hung outside Harbor Tower, and for the first time in weeks, pedestrians stopped to read them. "Transparency, Accountability, Opportunity," they declared in bold print above the trust's logo. Inside, the marble floors echoed with a different kind of footfall—students in worn sneakers walking alongside corporate lawyers and philanthropists. The scholarship fund's halls had opened their doors to the very people it was meant to serve, and the air carried equal parts excitement and tension.
Lin Ze stood at the edge of the lobby and watched the movement with a mixture of satisfaction and apprehension. The emergency session that had removed Mr. Huang had also mandated the creation of an interim board. That board was meeting for the first time today. It included donors, educators, legal advisors, and, for the first time, two student representatives. Each member carried their own perspective; each also carried scars from the past weeks. Lin Ze himself had been nominated to join the board, but he had declined a permanent seat. Instead, he asked to serve as an advisor to ensure that new voices filled the positions he once occupied. He had learned that leadership was as much about stepping back as it was about standing up.
The conference room the board used today was larger than the one where Mr. Huang's gavel had once ruled. Long windows offered a view of the river, and sunlight flooded the polished table. At the far end sat a woman in her fifties whose hair was pulled into a low bun. She introduced herself as Dr. Song, an economist from a local university and now the acting chair. "Before we begin," she said, tapping her pen lightly on the table, "we need to establish what we will and will not be. We are starting from clean paper, but not from a clean world. Our choices over the next weeks will set precedents. I want us to draw lines now so that we do not cross them later."
Zhang Yu nodded approvingly. He had agreed to stay on temporarily to handle the legal aftermath of the audit. Next to him sat a soft-spoken man named Mr. Chao, representing one of the larger donors. Across from them were the two student representatives: Lian, a third-year engineering major, and Xiaoming, a literature student who had grown up in a fishing village. They appeared nervous but determined. At the back, Lin Ze occupied a chair against the wall, ready to speak if called upon but content to listen.
"First," Dr. Song continued, "we will not accept donations from entities whose business practices contradict our mission." A murmuring rose around the table. Mr. Chao adjusted his glasses. "What constitutes contradiction?" he asked. "We rely on donations to expand scholarships. If we refuse funds from companies with imperfect records, we may reduce our capacity." Lian cleared her throat. "There has to be a line," she said timidly. "If we take money from a company known to harm the environment or exploit workers, aren't we complicit? Students like me rely on this fund to do good. We don't want to build our education on the suffering of others."
A heated discussion ensued. Some argued that every large organisation had skeletons, that absolute purity was impractical. Others cited examples of foundations that thrived while adhering to strict ethical codes. When Dr. Song finally asked for Lin Ze's opinion, he spoke carefully. "We have learned that money without oversight can corrupt," he said. "We have also learned that purity tests can be weaponised to destroy. Instead of a blacklist based on headlines, we should develop a framework. Evaluate potential donors on measurable criteria: environmental impact, labor practices, legal compliance. If a donor falls below a certain threshold, we either reject the funds or require remedial action. We do not launder reputations. We accept funds only when we can transparently show that the benefits to students outweigh any harm and when we can influence the donor to improve." The principle passed with an uneasy consensus. It was the first line in the sand.
The next agenda item was investment strategy. Under Mr. Huang, the fund had invested heavily in sectors that offered short-term gains but were often volatile. After Zhang Yu presented the audited performance charts, a financial analyst proposed allocating most assets to low-risk bonds and socially responsible equity funds. Some donors wanted a portion in higher-yield ventures to grow the fund. Lin Ze proposed a compromise: set a floor return target to cover scholarships and operations, cap high-risk investments, and build a reserve. "Our mission is education," he said. "We cannot invest money needed for next year's tuition into something that might evaporate." The board adopted this hybrid approach, limiting speculation and ensuring stability. It was another line no one would cross without consensus.
Outside the glass, clouds gathered, casting moving shadows on the river. By midafternoon, the agenda turned to public relations. Su Yanli, invited to advise, walked into the room. "You've done something unprecedented," she told the board. "But there is another story being told." She showed opinion pieces accusing the trust of being infiltrated by radicals and whispers of conspiracy. "You cannot fight every rumor. Publish the audit summary, introduce the new board, host open forums. Let recipients speak for themselves." The board agreed. Within days, the trust's website featured videos of students explaining how scholarships changed their lives, charts showing how funds were allocated, and statements from donors explaining why they supported the reforms.
Meanwhile, outside forces gathered. Mr. Huang, through his attorneys, filed a lawsuit claiming defamation and wrongful removal, signalling he was willing to fight. More troubling was a quiet visit Lin Ze received from an official at the municipal education bureau. Director Wei suggested the bureau could provide legitimacy to the trust if it allowed government representatives a veto over decisions. "Consider it a partnership," he said. Lin Ze declined. "Collaboration is welcome, but our donors give for a specific purpose. Government oversight should ensure compliance, not direct our investments." The official warned that donors might dry up without official endorsement. Lin Ze left the meeting knowing a new battle line had been drawn.
At home that evening, his mother waited with stew. She had heard rumors and seen strangers near their apartment. "You don't have to fight everyone," she said, worry threading her voice. "The world doesn't always reward honesty." He took her hand. "If we stop now, the scholarships might vanish. Or worse, the trust becomes a tool for agendas we never intended. We have to stand for something." She nodded, reminding him that lines in the sand are washed away by tides. "Be prepared to draw them again and again."
Elsewhere, Han faced a similar debate with his mother, the chairwoman of Dongyang Shipping. She wanted to integrate the trust's operations with their logistics business. "It demonstrates our contribution to society," she argued. Han disagreed. "We're a business. The trust is a charity. Mixing them invites accusations of self-dealing." She warned that loyalty to friends might not profit the family. Han replied that some profits aren't measured in money. The conversation was tense but ended with mutual, if reluctant, respect. He knew he had drawn another line.
Public engagement continued. The trust hosted its first town hall meeting at a university auditorium. Students lined up behind microphones to ask questions about representation, donation ethics, and scholarship criteria. Board members, including the student representatives, answered openly, inviting further participation in drafting policies. Every answer seemed to draw new boundaries: on what money could be accepted, who could receive it, and why.
Zhang Yu focused on the legal front, providing evidence to investigators while ensuring the case didn't become a vendetta. He answered detailed questions about audit procedures and chain of custody, stressing that the goal was lawful resolution. "If this was personal," he told them, "we would have leaked rumors instead of conducting an audit." He left knowing the process would be slow but believing in the rule of law.
Lin Ze found himself thinking often about lines drawn in all aspects of his life. At work, he negotiated boundaries with donors, government, and colleagues. In personal relationships, he explained to his mother, Han, and even Meiqi what he could and could not do. He refused to allow his advocacy to be used as leverage for unrelated business deals. He also refused to allow his name to be used to attack the families of those he opposed. When an anonymous blogger posted pictures of Mr. Huang's children, insinuating they benefited from the scholarship, Lin Ze publicly condemned the tactic, defending their privacy. In doing so, he drew a line between fighting corruption and targeting innocents. Some supporters called him naive; others respected him more for it.
The chapter closed on a quiet evening by the river. After a long day of meetings and calls, Lin Ze took a detour to the embankment where he had once argued with Mr. Huang. The sky was streaked with the last colors of sunset. The walkway was empty except for a few joggers. He found a patch of damp sand and bent down. With a stick, he traced a line, then another, parallel marks stretching toward the water. The tide would erase them soon, he knew. He wasn't drawing to make them permanent. He was drawing to remind himself that boundaries exist because people consciously put them there, even knowing they must be redrawn. He whispered names to the wind: the students who had inspired him, the donors who had trusted him, the friends who had helped him, the adversaries who had forced him to articulate his values. Behind him, the lights of Harbor Tower glowed. Ahead, the river flowed endlessly. He stood up and smiled. Tomorrow, the tide would come, and he would draw again.