The next day, Qi Song and Yang Jiayue went together to the Southwest District Court. At the time, the pandemic was fluctuating, and public security and judicial authorities everywhere had strict access controls. Lawyers didn’t need to go through security checks, but they still had to show their health codes and present their IDs. A bailiff in full protective gear used a walkie-talkie to guide them inside: “Two for Mediation Room 5, two for Mediation Room 5.” It prompted some odd associations, as if they’d arrived at a bathhouse. By the time they sat down in the mediation room, it was nearly the scheduled time. The plaintiff’s lawyer arrived slightly later, hurrying in with an apology: “I got held up earlier—sorry to keep you waiting.” The judge’s assistant beside them chuckled, “Professor Guan, you just ran over from Civil Division One, didn’t you?” The woman addressed as “Professor Guan” also laughed, catching her breath as she leaned across the table to shake hands with each of them. Qi Song couldn’t guess her age. Partly because of the local rule requiring masks at all times, leaving only a fraction of her face visible. And partly because of the subtle incongruity about her—she wore no apparent makeup, her hair simply tied back in a ponytail, her arms laden with a laptop bag, document folders, and a barrister’s robe, giving her a thin, almost harried appearance. Yet when she extended her hand to him, her palm tilted slightly upward—an inviting gesture, firm and assured, like a seasoned master craftsman. The door closed, business cards were exchanged, and the meeting began. Neither party involved in the dispute was present; aside from the judges, assistants, and clerks from the commercial tribunal, it was lawyer against lawyer. Qi Song liked such scenarios. He had always believed litigation should be rational—calculating the costs, defining the objectives, estimating possible outcomes, weighing probabilities, and determining whether it was worth pursuing—all based on objective judgment. Both sides would assess their positions, knowing when to press an advantage and when to cut their losses. Everything was measurable, controllable. The presiding judge, a balding middle-aged man with a wry sense of humor, remarked, “This case of yours isn’t straightforward. If it actually goes to trial, I’d wager the defendant will first raise jurisdictional objections, the plaintiff will counter with arguments on the application of foreign civil law, then request a reassessment of the assets. After the first-instance verdict, there’ll be a second-instance appeal, and maybe even a retrial—the whole process won’t be short. But don’t think I’m pushing for mediation just because I find it troublesome. I still haven’t reported an exemplary trial this year, and given the caliber of legal representation here—Zhengfa versus Zhicheng—a courtroom showdown would be impressive. Plus, it’s a novel case—I could even publish a few articles in China Law Review.” Qi Song couldn’t help but laugh, suddenly feeling Yang Jiayue had been a little wronged. His initial assessment hadn’t been off the mark—this case…