The Billionaire's Multiplier System-Chapter 85 - 86 – Echoes in Glass, Fire in Silence

Lin Feng didn’t retaliate with noise.

He retaliated with focus.

The moment the documents from the underground meeting hit his encrypted terminal, he didn’t forward them. He didn’t leak them. He studied them.

Thread by thread.

By noon the next day, he had a roadmap—not of revenge, but of narrative leverage.

At 2:00 p.m., a private invite-only panel went live at the Shanghai Institute of Strategic Communication—a think tank that rarely made headlines, but whose talks quietly shaped them.

The theme?

"Public Trust in Emerging Leadership Models."

What the media didn’t expect was Lin Feng’s presence.

Dressed in a crisp charcoal-gray suit with no tie, Lin sat at the end of a sleek stage, beside industry veterans twice his age. The room was all glass and soft-light paneling. No filters. No distractions.

Just words.

He didn’t open with charm. He opened with facts.

"Let’s talk about fear," he said calmly. "Not the kind that explodes, but the kind that drips—leak by leak, word by word, headline by headline."

He held up a printed article: one of the hit pieces from two days prior.

"This was published 48 hours ago. It cited ’anonymous sources’ and implied regulatory violations."

He turned it around, showing a red underlined paragraph.

"What wasn’t disclosed? That the legal reviewer listed here has a known affiliation with a shell group connected to Zhang Renshu’s media network."

A visible ripple passed through the crowd.

Lin set the paper down. "I’m not here to cry foul. I’m here to offer a model of transparency that includes accountability—starting with my own decisions."

The moderator, a professor known for being difficult to impress, leaned forward.

"Are you accusing a legacy figure of narrative manipulation?"

"I’m not accusing anyone," Lin said. "I’m just reading what’s already public—if you know where to look." ƒгeewёbnovel.com

That same hour, Yuyan’s new visual piece dropped quietly on her professional platform: a minimalist digital painting titled Inheritance on Fire.

At first glance, it showed a golden dinner table wrapped in velvet flame. But the caption delivered the message.

"Power built on fear will always burn.

I stand beside people who earn, not inherit."

Within the hour, it was shared by ten influential art bloggers and reposted by two investment insiders with huge followings.

Meanwhile, Guo Yuwei held an unplanned press Q&A on the Celica rooftop garden—deliberately unpolished, deliberately real.

The cameras caught her in a storm-gray blazer, wind tousling her hair as she spoke firmly.

"I won’t respond to vague insinuations. But I will say this: Lin Feng’s investment in this company saved over forty analytics jobs and positioned us to become a pillar in ethical data analysis. Anyone trying to undermine that isn’t protecting the market—they’re protecting their monopoly."

The clip was raw.

Unedited.

And devastating.

By evening, the #StandWithImpact hashtag trended across professional networks. Not viral like pop scandals—viral like quiet respect. Like professionals reclaiming their space from corporate manipulation.

Zhang Renshu’s team didn’t issue a statement.

But two of his affiliated PR blogs went silent.

And one of his minor holdings had its press privileges revoked from an influential board.

Back in Lin Feng’s private office, Luo Bingqing lounged on the leather sofa, scrolling through her tablet.

"You know what’s fun?" she asked without looking up.

"What?"

"You didn’t defend yourself. You dismantled them."

Lin sipped from a small glass of cold-brew tea. "It’s not over."

"No," she said. "But now they know you don’t bleed from whispers."

She stood, walking over to the projection board where several headlines and data reports had been pinned.

"You just changed the tempo. So they’ll switch tactics."

Lin nodded. "They’ll either escalate or try to discredit the girls."

She tapped the photo of a shadowed conference room from a week-old blog.

"This is their next move. Discredit the idea that women beside you aren’t pawns."

"Then we fight it."

Bingqing smiled. "Then let me shoot it."

The next morning, the city woke up to a twelve-minute digital feature titled:

"Five Women. One Partnership. No Apologies."

Produced by Bingqing. Narrated softly by Yuyan. Executive-commented by Guo Yuwei. Featuring real clips, real team moments, real history.

The video wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even framed around Lin.

It was framed around them.

Their work. Their projects. Their choices.

And in the middle of it, a five-second clip of Lin Feng sitting silently at a table as the four women spoke around him.

Not commanding. Not interrupting.

Just listening.

By noon, investment forums exploded with commentary.

"Whether you agree with him or not, this isn’t manufactured loyalty."

"I’d kill to work under this leadership structure."

"He’s building something different. That’s what scares the old guard."

By 2:00 p.m., Lin received a private message from a known industry intermediary.

"Zhang Renshu wishes to ’pause escalation’ and reassess portfolio alignment. Considered a soft flag of truce."

He didn’t reply.

Instead, he walked down from the executive suite and into the second-floor co-working hub—where junior teams were finishing product mockups and building new client proposals.

He didn’t speak.

Just walked.

They looked up. Not in fear. In acknowledgment.

Then something surprising happened.

One by one, some of the junior team members stood.

A silent show of solidarity.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.

But it meant more than any hashtag.

Later that evening, Ruoxi arrived at the suite without her usual armor—no lipstick, no earrings, no curated intensity.

Just herself.

"Impressive," she said, setting her phone down. "Very few people know how to reverse a narrative storm."

Lin looked up from his tablet. "I didn’t reverse it. I handed them a better story."

"You weaponized credibility."

He nodded. "And I didn’t do it alone."

She studied him for a long second.

"Good," she said. "Because the moment you think you can, I walk."

He smiled faintly.

"I remember."

She poured herself a glass of still water and took the armchair opposite him.

"I came for two reasons," she said. "One, to say well done."

"And the second?"

She sipped, then placed the glass down gently.

"To warn you."

Lin leaned forward.

"There’s one more player who hasn’t moved," she said. "Someone who didn’t send word. Didn’t test you. Didn’t engage."

"Zixuan?"

She nodded.

"He’s watching. And when he plays, it won’t be through PR."

Lin stood, slowly.

"Then it’s time I prepare the pieces he can’t see."

Ruoxi smiled.

"Now that sounds like the man I stood beside in red."

By midnight, Lin Feng stood at the edge of his private rooftop, wind pressing against his coat.

Behind him, the city hummed—slightly changed.

He hadn’t just survived the first attack.

He’d answered it with elegance.

But the war hadn’t ended.

It had evolved.

And now, the real enemy would begin to stir.

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