Chapter 4: The Legendary Professor Guan
The next day, Jiang Yuan came to Qi Song’s office and half-jokingly said, “Did you do this on purpose? Turning a 2 million yuan case into a 20 million yuan settlement?” Qi Song responded with equal parts seriousness and jest, “And you have the nerve to say that to me? Only when I got to court did I realize what a huge pit you’d dug for me. Your team gets all the benefits while we shoulder the professional risks. The client withholding key evidence is one thing, but weren’t you representing the buyer in that Qingshui Cuoluo acquisition deal? Then you handed us the seller’s equity dispute – I spent all night wondering if there was something fishy about this arrangement. Should we report it to the management committee to check compliance?” “Of course it’s compliant,” Jiang Yuan retorted, caught on a sore spot but always finding a way to smooth things over. “The information barrier was properly maintained – that’s precisely why I never mentioned the acquisition to you earlier. I was just making an introduction as a favor.” Qi Song smiled and let the matter drop, knowing things would end here for now, though the M&A team might think twice before trying similar maneuvers in future. Their relationship was actually quite good – they’d joined Zhizheng in the same year, both starting in the M&A group and even sharing an office initially. But now they each served as spear-carriers for different senior partners, delivering messages their bosses couldn’t say directly. That afternoon, Qi Song knocked on Wang Gan’s office door. Wang Gan was bent over documents signing papers, only glancing up and tilting his head slightly in acknowledgment. Qi Song entered, closed the door, sat by the desk, and briefed him about the case. Wang Gan nodded after hearing the report. “Did I interpret your intentions correctly, shifu?” Qi Song asked. Wang Gan kept signing documents wordlessly, his faint smile answer enough. After years as mentor and student, many things went without saying. In the past, the litigation team often relied on the non-litigation group for major commercial cases, taking whatever work came their way. But things had been gradually changing these past few years. Initially people spoke of “Zhizheng’s Twin Stars” – Tang Jiaheng and Zhu Fengran. Later it became “Zhizheng’s Three Stars”, with Wang Gan as the third. Now that Tang Jiaheng had taken the criminal defense team independent, the firm had returned to a two-power structure. Qi Song knew Wang Gan was maneuvering within the management committee to adjust the fee-sharing and profit distribution ratios between practice groups, and likely nursing other plans not yet fully disclosed to him, though that day would surely come. Having finished his business report, Qi Song rose to leave when Wang Gan stopped him. Taking an envelope from his drawer, Wang Gan tossed it on the desk: “Take care of this for me.” Inside was an invitation to the annual Finance and Commercial Law Forum organized by the city bar association. Seeing Qi Song’s reluctance at such functions, Wang Gan clicked his tongue, already anticipating the excuses…

The next day, Jiang Yuan came to Qi Song’s office and half-jokingly said, “Did you do this on purpose? Turning a 2 million yuan case into a 20 million yuan settlement.”

Qi Song responded with equal parts seriousness and jest, “And you have the nerve to say that to me? Only when I got to court did I realize what a huge pit you’d dug for me. Your team gets all the benefits while we shoulder the professional risks. The client withholding key evidence is one thing, but weren’t you representing the buyer in that Qingshui Cuoluo acquisition deal? Then you handed us the seller’s equity dispute – I spent all night wondering if there was something fishy about this arrangement. Should we report it to the management committee to check compliance?”

“Of course it’s compliant,” Jiang Yuan was caught in his weak spot, but always found a way to smooth things over. “The internal information barriers are firmly in place—that’s exactly why I didn’t mention the acquisition matter earlier. I was merely acting as a bridge to connect the parties.”

Qi Song smiled and didn’t press further, knowing this matter could be considered closed. From now on, whenever the M&A team considered similar moves, they’d be more cautious.

He actually got along quite well with Jiang Yuan—they’d joined Zhisheng in the same year, both starting in the M&A group and even sharing an office initially. But now each served as spear-carriers for different senior partners, voicing whatever their bosses couldn’t say directly.

In the afternoon when Wang Gan arrived at the office, Qi Song went to knock on his door.

Wang Gan was hunched over his desk signing documents when he raised his head and saw it was him. Without speaking, he merely tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment.

Qi Song entered, closed the door behind him, and took a seat by the desk before explaining the case.

After hearing him out, Wang Gan nodded.

Qi Song asked, “I didn’t misunderstand your intentions, did I, Teacher?”

Wang Gan continued signing the documents with a knowing smile but remained silent.

Having been master and apprentice for many years, many things went without saying between them—they simply understood each other.

In the past, the litigation team often relied on the non-litigation team to take on major commercial cases, doing whatever work was handed to them. But in recent years, things had gradually changed.

Initially, outsiders referred to Tang Jiaheng and Zhu Fengran as the “Twin Jewels of Zhicheng.” Later, they spoke of the “Three Jewels of Zhicheng,” with the third being Wang Gan. Now that Tang Jiaheng had taken the criminal defense team and branched out independently, the firm had reverted to a two-pillar structure. Qi Song knew Wang Gan was maneuvering within the management committee, seeking to adjust the revenue and bonus distribution ratios among the teams. There might even be other plans not yet fully disclosed to him—but that day would surely come.

With business concluded, he stood up to leave.

Wang Gan called him back again, pulling an envelope from the drawer and tossing it on the table. “Take care of this for me,” he said.

Qi Song drew out the contents—an invitation to the annual Finance and Commercial Law Forum hosted by the City Bar Association.

He wasn’t particularly fond of such events and hesitated for a moment without responding.

Wang Gan could tell he was trying to come up with an excuse to refuse and clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “You’re sharp in some matters, but others won’t budge unless prodded—never taking on pro bono cases at the firm, never attending bar association events…”

“Someday, when I have time,” Qi Song evaded.

Wang Gan finally set down his pen and glanced at him. “I know you think all this is just formalities,” he said, “but you’re likely to be promoted to senior partner next year. Let’s not have a situation where I put your name forward and the management committee votes it down.”

Qi Song immediately changed his tone: “I’ll definitely make time.”

Wang Gan looked at him, shaking his head with a smile, still saying the same thing: “Qi Song, you…”

A day later, a young woman from the administration department brought a photographer to take photos of Qi Song, explaining they would be used for promotional banners, souvenirs, and the forum.

After finishing in the office, they headed to the reception area.

There, Qi Song saw Jiang Yuan posing beneath the Zhicheng logo. Though showing early signs of “happy weight gain,” his well-tailored British fine wool suit with slightly wider lapels created a slimming effect—the complete image of a polished, self-assured elite, smooth and self-contained.

Jiang Yuan also spotted him and they exchanged knowing smiles—both acutely aware they’d been sent as sacrificial lambs to represent their respective bosses.

That afternoon, they arranged to have lunch together and also invited Yang Jiayue, effectively turning over a new leaf to maintain their future collaboration on both litigation and non-litigation matters.

It was Yang Jiayue who brought up the “Mistakes in the Water” case again at the dinner table, telling Qi Song that upon reflection, he had reviewed his tone when communicating with clients, his methods of investigation and evidence collection, and had also studied the opposing lawyer.

He had originally thought there must be a few real experts at the university, though not many. Some renowned professors might earn extra income by writing legal opinions for law firms, but a mere lecturer specializing in family law probably spent their time sitting in at the Women’s Federation, handling pitiful legal aid cases full of tears and misery—mediating domestic disputes, condemning scumbags. For someone like that to meddle in international commercial litigation was practically handing themselves over as cannon fodder.

This mediation confrontation left him utterly astonished. Coincidentally, another case assigned him an intern who drank from a thermos emblazoned with “A City University of Political Science and Law.” He asked the young man: “Does your school have a teacher named Guan Lan?”

The post-00s kid replied, “Yeah, of course,” then showed him a Bilibili account called “The Legendary Professor Guan,” filled with student-edited online course videos.

“Legendary?” Yang Jiayue initially found the title amusing, but as he scrolled through the videos, he unexpectedly got hooked. He was shocked to see how far law school lecturers in domestic universities had evolved—not only explaining theoretical concepts but delving into intricate practical details. Even as a litigation lawyer with three years of experience, he ended up taking copious notes.

Qi Song recognized this as a follow-up to their previous conversation but didn’t engage. Yang Jiayue pulled up the videos, while Jiang Yuan leaned over to glance at them. Qi Song only caught that somewhat familiar voice—clear, concise, free of verbal tics—though perhaps from constant speaking, there was an occasional subtle rasp, a hint of hoarseness.

It covered everything from major aspects like case summaries, mind maps, and how to write legal arguments.

To minor details about work habits.

Such as creating an item checklist in phone notes—original evidence, evidence copies, power of attorney documents, printed defense arguments, cross-examination notes—then setting calendar reminders to review them before each court session.

Also, all verbal communications must be documented. Whether it’s face-to-face meetings or phone calls, write detailed records and email them to relevant parties. This not only protects yourself but also creates an official work trail.

There were even submissions to the court that required paper clips instead of staplers for binding.

Finally, she added self-deprecatingly, “Before sending out any document or email, always proofread it thoroughly for errors. Fellow daydreamers like me who zone out while reading silently can try using AI text-to-speech.”

Qi Song smiled quietly as he sat there sipping his tea.

After the meal, the three returned to their respective offices.

Unexpectedly, Jiang Yuan called again and said to Qi Song: “I just realized it was her.”

“What?” Qi Song asked.

“The plaintiff’s lawyer in the Clearwater Falls case.”

“You know her?”

“We sort of know each other—she also graduated from Shanghai High School, one year below me. When she first entered Peking University, I even went to welcome the new students.”

“She went to PKU?” Qi Song sounded surprised.

Jiang Yuan had an impressive educational background, with several frequently mentioned terms in casual conversations: “Shanghai High School,” “Peking University,” and “HLS.”

Back when they were both rotating through non-litigation practice groups, people like them were everywhere. Those were the peak years of frenzied IPO fundraising, and the non-litigation departments of law firms were packed with workaholics from Tsinghua, Peking University, and Ivy League law schools. The senior partners handled networking and business development, while the junior associates managed mass production—the entire operation had practically turned into a labor-intensive factory.

It was exactly these people who made him realize that with his qualifications and background, continuing in non-litigation work would likely lead nowhere. When it came to academic credentials, he couldn’t possibly compete—no matter how hard he struggled, he’d always end up as cannon fodder for them. Fortunately, he later met Wang Gan and quickly switched tracks.

According to Qi Song’s observation, it’s abnormal if someone you’ve known for more than ten minutes hasn’t told you which university they graduated from.

But Guan Lan was different.

“Yeah,” Jiang Yuan said on the phone, “She was pretty famous at Peking University back then—a campus belle—but somehow ended up doing her master’s and PhD at China University of Political Science and Law.”

Qi Song normally disliked gossip, but this time he chimed in: “Zhengfa University is still one of the Five Law Schools and Four Systems—how come in your words it sounds like she squandered a great hand?”

Only then did Jiang Yuan remember that Qi Song had also graduated from Zhengfa University and hurried to explain: “I’m just telling it like it is. People from our school either study abroad or pursue master’s or doctoral degrees at the same university. For someone like her, of course people would ask why, right?”

“So why is that?” Qi Song played along.

Jiang Yuan continued, “She was quite the standout during university. Rumor has it she started a business with some privileged third-generation heir, got married right after graduation, and had a child. But later it turned out the heir wasn’t actually all that powerful—their venture collapsed, and they divorced… Now, seeing her again, well—age has caught up with her, she looks rather worn out.” His tone wasn’t without pity.

The law school beauty who started a business, had a whirlwind marriage and childbirth, only to fly solo when disaster struck. As Qi Song listened, he thought of the comedic image like Elle Woods in Legally Blonde, yet still couldn’t see Guan Lan fitting that mold.

What came to mind was her wearing a mask—no makeup, real eyebrows, real eyes, an authentic person. And that wrist holding a pen while making calls in the hallway. Or later in the car, when she quietly closed her eyes, breathing slowly, her brows relaxing before opening her eyes again to start the engine.

At the time, through the windshield’s glare, his view had been indistinct—yet now in recollection, that image grew sharper and more defined.