Chapter 1 – What Did I Do Wrong?
"Twenty-one days remain before the Ministerial Selection. The three strongest candidates remain Zhou YuLin, Tan Hou Ming, and Zhang Wei Han. Recent polls show a tightening margin between Hou Ming and Wei Han—"
Click.
The television screen went black.
Zhang Wei Han stared at his faint reflection on the dark surface. Tired eyes. Composed expression. A man who had learned to smile even when he no longer felt like it.
The office felt unusually large tonight. Or perhaps he simply felt smaller inside it.
For the past month, he had visited orphanages, senior homes, factories, rural schools. He shook hands until his palm felt numb. He listened to the same complaints again and again. He promised reforms he fully intended to deliver. He endured subtle insults disguised as questions during debates. He smiled through them all.
Yet the closer election day approached, the heavier the air became.
Politics always smiled in public.
But it rotted in private.
Wei Han loosened his tie and leaned back in his chair. "If this continues," he murmured quietly, "I might die from exhaustion before selection day." It sounded like a joke. It did not feel like one.
He packed his documents carefully, aligning the edges before placing them into his briefcase. Order calmed him. Chaos did not. As he finished, his gaze drifted toward the city lights beyond the glass window. Somewhere within that glowing skyline was his hometown. His family. The reason he stepped into this battlefield in the first place.
He switched off the lights and stepped into the corridor. The silence outside felt heavier than usual. Too clean. Too still.
Ding.
The elevator doors opened. He stepped inside and pressed B. The doors slid shut with mechanical indifference. As the elevator descended, the fluorescent light above flickered once, just once, before stabilizing.
Tut. Tut.
His phone vibrated.
A message appeared.
Wei Han, Hou Ming's movements are strange tonight. He met with underground people. Not business types. I have a bad feeling. Don't go anywhere alone. You know he has never forgiven you.
Wei Han read it twice.
Underground people.
Tan Hou Ming was ambitious. Sharp. Aggressive in debates. He smiled often, but his eyes were calculating. Still, meeting thugs this close to election day? That would be reckless. Unless he believed the outcome was already secured. Or unless someone wanted him to appear reckless.
Wei Han typed slowly.
It's fine. He wouldn't make a move this obvious. If he does, he destroys himself.
He sent the message.
But a thin thread of unease remained.
Ding.
Basement parking.
The doors opened to a hollow silence. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly above, casting pale shadows between the concrete pillars. His footsteps echoed as he walked toward his car.
Too loud.
Or perhaps the silence was too deep.
His mind replayed the message again.
He has never forgiven you.
Forgiven him for what? For winning debates? For refusing to withdraw two years ago? For rising faster than expected?
Politics had no forgiveness. Only replacement.
A faint sound interrupted his thoughts.
Footsteps.
Behind him.
Wei Han did not turn immediately. He listened. Slow. Measured. Not hurried. The sound of someone who was not afraid.
His heart began to pound, not wildly but heavily.
He quickened his pace.
Another shadow shifted near his car.
His breathing tightened.
This could be security, he told himself. It could be anyone.
But instinct whispered otherwise.
He turned,
Too late.
A violent impact exploded at the back of his head.
The world tilted.
Concrete rushed upward.
His knees struck the ground.
Through blurred vision, he saw two figures. Faces covered. Movements precise. Professional.
No shouting. No threats.
One voice spoke quietly, almost bored. "Make it clean."
The tone was unfamiliar. Or deliberately disguised.
Wei Han tried to reach into his coat for his phone. A shoe pressed down on his hand—not hard enough to break it, just enough to remind him how powerless he was.
Then they ran.
Blood slid down his temple, warm against the cold floor. The ceiling lights above blurred into white halos. His thoughts, strangely, became clearer.
Was it Hou Ming?
Or someone who wanted Hou Ming to be blamed?
If Hou Ming wins after this, suspicion follows him.
If Hou Ming loses because of suspicion, someone else rises.
Zhou YuLin?
He never played dirty.
…Did he?
Wei Han felt something colder than fear.
Understanding.
Politics was not a battlefield.
It was a swamp.
And he had walked into it willingly.
Why?
What did I do wrong?
I only wanted a fair competition.
I wanted to change the laws that suffocate families like mine.
I wanted my hometown to feel safe. Stable. Hopeful.
I wanted to serve.
A faint, bitter smile almost formed.
Serve?
Did he truly believe power remained clean?
Darkness began closing in from the edges of his vision.
They said that before death, your memories flash back.
He used to think that was poetic nonsense.
Now he understood.
He saw his mother standing in their old kitchen, the ceiling fan clicking endlessly above her. He saw the peeling paint on the walls they could never afford to fix. His father coming home late, shoulders bent from years of overtime work. They were not poor enough to starve—but poor enough to endure.
"Study hard," they always said. "Change your fate."
No.
Change our fate.
From a young age, Wei Han understood something cruel: effort did not guarantee fairness. Law did not guarantee justice. Power decided which version of truth survived.
So he studied harder than anyone else.
While others slept, he memorized policies. While others partied, he read legal codes. While others complained, he planned.
Not for wealth.
Not for fame.
But to fix the broken system that strangled small families quietly.
Twelve years.
Scholarships. Public service exams. Strategic alliances. Endless compromises. He swallowed pride. He endured humiliation. He played the game without letting it consume him.
And now,
One more step.
One more position.
Then he would finally have the authority to rewrite those stupid, outdated laws.
And what did he receive?
Was this what politics demanded?
Blood in exchange for ambition?
His breathing weakened.
Strangely, he felt no anger.
Only exhaustion.
Maybe the system was never meant to be changed from within.
He imagined his mother hearing the news. His father standing silently, unable to speak. The guilt that would weigh on them.
I hope they won't be sad for too long.
I hope they don't blame themselves.
If there is another life…
I don't want power.
I don't want politics.
I don't want to fight men who smile while sharpening knives.
I just want peace.
His final breath slipped quietly into the empty parking lot.
And somewhere, in the silent darkness
Something answered.
Then there was nothing.