Yu Zhenghao contacted them immediately.
His information network was always the fastest, almost at the exact moment KB released their statement, he had already met up with Ji Qiu.
“They really did give me some money back then.” Ji Qiu spun his phone lazily between his fingers. “But I kept the transaction record, and I didn’t spend a single cent.”
“That’s good.” Yu Zhenghao let out a breath of relief, then looked toward Liang Yan.
The Omega had been quiet ever since he walked in. Only when he noticed Yu Zhenghao’s gaze did he finally lift his head.
“Let’s settle this quickly.” Liang Yan frowned, looking exhausted, yet still obviously worried about Ji Qiu. “There’s evidence, right? I’m evidence.”
“We also have the pheromone samples…”
Yu Zhenghao cut him off. “One isn’t enough. The power imbalance is way too big. If we can’t turn public opinion around, we might not even make a ripple before we get crushed.”
Silence fell for a few moments.
He looked at Liang Yan again. “And if you become evidence, your information will inevitably be made public.”
“That’s not an issue.” Liang Yan paused. “And I’m not the only one. We collected another person’s sample too…”
Xu Yishu.
Yu Zhenghao had come in such a rush that they hadn’t had time to notify Xu Yishu before meeting him. Xu wasn’t present now, and although he had said last semester that he was willing to help, giving legal testimony under his real identity was another matter. Without asking him first, neither Liang Yan nor Ji Qiu could be certain he would agree.
And going through legal channels wasn’t impossible. But the case would be nearly unwinnable. Even if their side held the advantage, the timeline would be swallowed by endless procedures and evidence submissions. By the time the case ever reached court, who knew what year it would be.
The fastest route was public opinion.
So how were they going to turn the tide?
They would need to tell the public the truth and directly refute KB’s claims, starting from Ji Yang’s case, revealing that a small number of Omegas have always had different physical constitutions, that they did nothing wrong, yet suffered from the inhibitor’s side effects.
But no matter how logical this was—
they were still just students.
How much influence could they really have?
Yu Zhenghao looked at them with worry.
Ji Qiu seemed to understand his concern and smiled again.
“Don’t worry about me. I already have an idea.”
“I’ll contact Xu Yishu too and get his consent,” Liang Yan added.
Yu Zhenghao had other matters to attend to, so the discussion ended quickly and they went their separate ways.
Since they were all from a medical university and the school had many overlaps with the involved company, both students and staff cared deeply about the issue. So it wasn’t long after KB’s statement went out that discussions shifted direction… though they were still centered on the same person.
Not just the campus—once the statement spread online, netizens across the country turned their attention to it in shock.
Public opinion split into two camps.
One camp suddenly “realized” they had been deceived:
A big company like KB could never make such mistakes. Someone must have been trying to extort them. And of course they’d do it before 3.0 hit the market because once it launched, extortion would be harder.
The other camp sympathized with the weaker side:
Releasing a deceased Omega’s personal information and their family’s details was incredibly inappropriate, no matter what.
Voices rose one after another:
“Does human blood steamed buns taste good?”
“Does scammed money feel good to spend? You delayed the inhibitor’s launch—does your conscience not hurt?”
“Looks like this person was related to the deceased. Ran out of money?”
“Are people always this cruel? KB is also eating ‘human blood steamed buns,’ you know.”
“Weibo Justice Committee is here again?? Facts first, emotions later. The facts are already out.”
But Ji Qiu himself behaved as if none of this had anything to do with him. His life and studies continued as usual. The stares from those around him didn’t seem to affect him at all.
The way people looked at him began to change.
Some started doubting whether they had misjudged him—
How could that sunny, cheerful little O have such scheming?
They quietly “un-fanned” him.
Others felt even more pity—
He’s already suffered so much, and now a giant company publicly exposes him like this?
They couldn’t help but feel protective.
Unfortunately, most of it was cheap sympathy.
But not entirely useless.
In their eyes, Ji Qiu now looked even more pitiful. People stared at him in class, outside class, constantly watching him.
Some braver ones even walked right up to him to ask directly whether he really extorted money from KB.
Usually at times like this, Ji Qiu would look at the person in front of him with teary eyes, his whole face full of grievance, yet trying so hard not to cry. He would shake his head, looking on the verge of tears, and deny softly: “I didn’t.”
Things he couldn’t say would, under the assumptions of their classmates, transform into something else entirely—everyone believed he had been threatened by a big corporation, had nowhere to complain, and could only swallow all his grievances silently.
It made him look especially pitiful and heartbreaking.
Quite a few people were softened by that appearance of his. Some who originally wanted to blame him couldn’t bring themselves to speak harshly, even wondering why a company would go after such a weak and pitiful Omega.
At least within the entire school, his image as a fragile white lotus being bullied slowly solidified, and students from other universities in the college town had even heard about it.
Many media outlets started camping out to interview him, but he acted the same way he did with his classmates, once the camera turned on him, his eyes would instantly fill with tears. He couldn’t get two sentences out before he looked like he was about to cry. Then he’d shake his head, end the interview, and leave silently.
He looked every bit like someone crushed by injustice.
Even though KB remained tough publicly stating that they would continue pushing the suppressant to market and might even take legal action against him, more and more people began to sympathize with him.
And at that moment, Ji Qiu himself finally spoke up for the first time. He agreed to an exclusive interview with a highly authoritative and well-known domestic media outlet, and the interview date was set.
He said he would apologize for his previous actions.
An apology basically indicated KB’s claims were true.
But because Ji Qiu appeared so delicate and vulnerable in front of the public, everyone insisted that KB shouldn’t go too far, and many quietly began looking forward to the interview.
“Not bad, you’re acting pretty convincingly,” Lai Qiutong said, amazed at how Ji Qiu managed to shift so many people’s attitudes with sheer performance. “When’s the interview?”
“Next week,” Liang Yan answered from beside him.
He shot Ji Qiu a sideways glance and took a sip of the warm porridge Ji Qiu had cooked for him that morning.
He had to admit—this guy was impressive.
After hearing about their plan, Yin Tongguang was a bit worried, but still used his main account to stir up discussions on major forums, riding on KB’s statement to amplify the pity narrative. He helped shape Ji Qiu into someone who made a small mistake but was being crushed by a powerful corporation, earning even more public sympathy.
What they needed to do next was contact Xu Yishu and ask him to testify.
They hadn’t been able to reach him for two days. They even went to the art institute once but couldn’t find him at his dorm; his classmates said he had something come up and hadn’t attended class.
Today, they tried calling him again—this time, someone finally picked up.
But just their luck: when they reached Xu Yishu, he happened to be in heat.
So the reason they couldn’t reach him the past two days became clear.
The moment Liang Yan heard his voice through the phone, he immediately sensed it—Xu Yishu was holding back, but clearly in pain. And since he was naturally soft-spoken, his voice even carried a hint of a sob.
“…Hello?”
When he spoke, his voice trembled. “Is… is this Liang Yan?”
Hearing his voice, Liang Yan couldn’t bring himself to continue with his original plan.
He knew that feeling too well even talking was exhausting, let alone thinking straight.
“It’s me,” Liang Yan steadied his tone.
“Did you… need something?” Xu Yishu asked, apologetically. “I… I might not be able to go anywhere right now, I…”
“You’re in heat, right,” Liang Yan said for him.
“Mm…” Xu Yishu answered, then coughed twice.
Last time, he had forced himself through it just to give them samples. And since he also reacted poorly to suppressants, this time probably wasn’t any better.
Liang Yan still had Ji Qiu to care for him. Xu Yishu had no one, he had to endure it alone.
Noticing the tension in Liang Yan’s brow, Ji Qiu instinctively reached out and placed a hand on him, gently patting in comfort.
“I…” Liang Yan hesitated. He originally intended to explain their plan and ask Xu Yishu to testify under his real name. But judging from his condition over the phone, Xu Yishu clearly wasn’t okay. Even if Liang Yan explained everything, an Omega in heat might not understand, much less give meaningful consent. Asking him now felt unfair—almost coercive.
“Forget it,” Liang Yan sighed. “We’ll come to you once your heat is over.”
There should still be enough time.
“Just rest for now.”
After hearing a faint “okay,” Liang Yan finally hung up.
The sound of Xu Yishu’s labored breathing lingered in his ears, tugging painfully at his chest.
But just before the call ended, he thought he heard something else in the background like a knocking sound… or maybe not.
They set aside the matter of Xu Yishu for now. Just as they were preparing to try another approach, someone unexpectedly came to them only half a day after the phone call.
Liang Yan was a little surprised.
After all, the last time they saw Jiang Xinglan, he had still been the legal representative sent by KB.
This time, he hadn’t contacted them beforehand. Instead, he came straight to the school and found them himself.
Jiang Xinglan seemed somewhat rushed, but his composure was still intact, only his brows and eyes revealed a faint, unguarded trace of anxiety and concern.
For an Alpha who had always calculated everything with precision, such an expression was almost unheard of.
“I know things are difficult for you right now,” he said slowly, though without the slightest hesitation.
“And I… want to help you.”
