One person said: The essence of Wuhou Qimen lies not in Qimen, but in Wuhou.

He leaned back in his chair, interlaced his fingers on the table, and spoke as if it were casual conversation, but every word was barbed: "This Chairman Zhao—Zhao Fangxu—is pushing all the blame onto me. No wonder, he's an old fox. Of course, he followed the proper procedures; there's nothing wrong with it."

Zhuge Zheng frowned slightly, a glint of shrewdness flashing in his eyes.

He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice: "Xiao Ming, are you saying that Zhao Fangxu pushed that report about the Luo Tian Grand Ceremony to you? He's worked at the company for so many years, what hasn't he seen? Why would he pass this hot potato to you at this critical juncture? Is this fat Zhao trying to give our Wuhou Sect a hard time?"

"Third Uncle, there's no need for that."

Zhuge Ming waved his hand, his tone as calm as if he were talking about a trivial matter, "Whether it is or not, it's all following the normal procedures. It's just that I haven't even taken office yet, but he's already started working—he doesn't want to take responsibility, which is normal. After all, he's been in the chairman's position for so many years, walking on thin ice, so he prefers to avoid trouble. With a new person coming, the responsibilities that can be shared will naturally be shared. This is the norm in officialdom, it's not targeting anyone in particular."

He paused, then added casually, "I've already approved that report. It should be posted publicly tomorrow."

Zhuge Zheng remained silent for a moment, then tapped his fingers lightly twice on the table.

Then he spoke, his voice now tinged with seriousness: "For Zhao Fangxu to act in this way—this Luo Tian Grand Ceremony is rife with intrigue. I originally thought it was just a matter of giving the Old Celestial Master face, doing him a favor. I never imagined there were so many twists and turns behind it all. Xiao Ming, will this affect you?"

He paused again, his brows furrowing even more deeply, as if struggling to piece together a complex jigsaw puzzle: "What the higher-ups mean... I have a feeling they want you to get involved in this mess?"

Zhuge Ming smiled, a smile that carried a hint of genuine appreciation.

Old ginger is spicier. As expected of my great-great-grandfather, he figured out the ins and outs in just a few words.

"You're right."

He moved his teacup aside, leaned forward slightly, and lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret he couldn't tell outsiders. "The higher-ups said—I need to train myself and clean up the bad practices in the superhuman community. Superhumans are people too, they are also legal citizens of China, they can't always operate outside the rule of law."

He repeated the old leader's last words, each word resounding: "The leader also said—'These eight extraordinary skills are all intangible cultural heritage.'"

The main room was silent for a full three seconds.

Zhuge Zheng and Zhuge Gong exchanged a glance, and a look of understanding flashed in their eyes at the same time—a true understanding.

Neither of them are fools. One is a town party secretary, and the other is a village party secretary. Both are grassroots cadres who have worked their way up in the system and have a deeper understanding of the concept of "intangible cultural heritage" than ordinary extraordinary people.

Heritage is what you need to protect.

An estate is what you are meant to manage.

An inheritance is something you can't let rot away or grow uncontrollably.

If the state calls it heritage, then it is the state's heritage.

It doesn't belong to you, it doesn't belong to him, it doesn't belong to anyone—it belongs to the country.

This means the government is about to take action and clean up the world of supernatural beings.

Zhuge Ming observed the changes in the expressions on the two elders' faces and knew that they had understood.

He leaned back in his chair, picked up his teacup, and spoke with a hint of lighthearted banter—he didn't want the atmosphere at the family dinner to become too tense because of this heavy topic: "Sigh, actually, I didn't want to get involved in this mess. It's too much trouble, and not interesting at all. If I don't do a good job, I might get criticized. Doing my military research is pretty good too. The lab is quiet, no one comes to ask you for favors, and I don't have to deal with all sorts of powerful figures. It's just that last time I didn't handle things well and overdid it at a critical point in the experiment, and I got injured. My boss insisted that I take a break. You know what my boss is like—if I'm going to take a break, I should just take a break, but he still insists that I train a bit."

The words had barely left his mouth when Zhuge Gong spoke up reflexively, his tone carrying a habitual reprimand—except this time the target of his reprimand wasn't his rebellious son, but rather, "How could this child speak like that?": "You child! How could you speak ill of the organization behind its back? How could you complain? You must uphold the leadership of the Party organization! We're giving you training so you can improve; the organization has high hopes for you! Don't you understand that—"

He wanted to continue, his mouth was already open, and his next line was clearly ready.

But Zhuge Zheng did not give him that opportunity.

"Is it your turn to speak?"

Zhuge Zheng slammed his hand on the table, his voice suddenly rising in anger. This time, he was truly furious, a completely different level from when he was scolding Zhuge Ming for drinking. "Whose ideological awareness is higher, yours or Zhuge Ming's? Don't you know? Zhuge Ming is the youngest bureau-level cadre in China! A recipient of the National Science and Technology Progress Award (Special Prize)! A model soldier for strengthening the military through science and technology! He is highly valued by the leadership and is a pillar of the nation!"

Zhuge Zheng grew increasingly agitated, his mustache bristling with anger, and a finger nearly poking Zhuge Gong's forehead: "Is his political awareness inferior to yours? You're just a village party secretary! You're infuriating! The head of a clan, and you don't even have this much awareness—he's your son! You don't care about his health, didn't you hear? He's injured! He just said he's injured! You didn't say a word of concern, instead you launched into a lecture! You're a complete scoundrel!"

After a series of punches, Zhuge Gong was blasted to a crisp.

His face flushed from red to purplish-red, then faded to a dark brown. He slumped into the chair, his back visibly curving more, his neck almost tucked into his shoulders.

His mouth was open, as if he wanted to explain something, but he swallowed every word before it came out, because he knew that whatever he said would be wrong.

He just wanted to disappear into a crack in the ground—but there was a new tablecloth on the table and the floor was swept clean, not even a crack.

Zhuge Bai, standing to the side, was barely able to contain himself.

His little face turned bright red, his lips were pressed tightly into a line, and his cheeks puffed out like two little balloons.

He dared not cover his mouth with his hand—there were too many elders present, and any unintentional movement could bring about his demise.

His mind was frantically trying to recall sad things: the lame stray cat at the village entrance, the succulent plant that died last month, the most tear-jerking episode of the cartoon... but it was no use. Tears were already squeezing out from the corners of his eyes, glistening on his eyelashes, not at all like tears of emotion.

He had no choice but to lower his head and pretend to be concentrating on eating his rice, but his shoulders were shaking uncontrollably.