In Ji Xingyuan’s words, Song Cheng had been a fool until he was twelve.
He did not know how to hide, plead, or resist, resembling the numb, passive Chinese people depicted in Lu Xun’s writings.
Ji Xingyuan oscillated between indifference, frustration, and then detachment. He could not protect himself, let alone Song Cheng. Even standing up for him was a luxury he could not afford.
Yet Song Cheng’s growth outpaced him. The once-dull child had suddenly woken up.
Previously, Song Cheng would not utter a word when in trouble—he would either cry or stand in numb submission. Now, he could speak the words Shen Hanshu wanted to hear, showing genuine sincerity rather than confessing out of fear. The obedient behavior of the past had been rooted in terror, obvious even to Ji Xingyuan, and certainly to Shen Hanshu.
Shen Hanshu did not take pleasure in this. But now, Song Cheng’s apparent closeness to him reduced the frequency of his anger. His punishments became less severe; even when enraged, he simply sent Song Cheng back to his room without physical punishment.
Even more astonishing to Ji Xingyuan was that Shen Hanshu agreed to let Song Cheng attend a boarding school.
This was more surprising than the sun rising in the west, yet Shen Hanshu truly consented, with strict conditions. Song Cheng could remain only within the school grounds, protected and monitored by two bodyguards. Every weekend, he would return home to continue his assigned lessons. Any violation would result in expulsion—not temporary suspension. In families like theirs, where one attended school was irrelevant; the final diploma would be secured regardless.
If Ji Xingyuan had a choice, he would have chosen a regular school. Losing face at home and at school were entirely different. Bodyguards following him to school would make everyone aware of Shen Hanshu’s surveillance. Ji Xingyuan, older than Song Cheng, had experienced junior high life. Adolescents’ cruelty and mockery were relentless, often unintentional yet brutally honest—more humiliating than deliberate ridicule.
Ji Xingyuan wanted to stop it, yet Song Cheng had already agreed. He smiled at Ji Xingyuan, perhaps to reassure him, perhaps without deeper thought. Ji Xingyuan, infuriated by the smile, returned to his room, unable to sleep.
Back then, Ji Xingyuan was young; he didn’t understand why he had been so angry, why that sleepless night had felt so frenzied, as if something was changing that he had no power to stop, no way to witness or accompany.
If it were the present-day Ji Xingyuan, he could answer: the very thing he dreaded had happened.
Song Cheng had lived his life like a puppet, something Ji Xingyuan never wanted to see. And yet, Song Cheng had put on a mask, learning carefully how to please Shen Hanshu—and that he could not bear. He remembered when he first arrived at the Shen residence: Song Cheng had been curious, sneaking over to look at him. When he noticed Ji Xingyuan’s gaze, he froze, then broke into an adorably genuine smile.
That smile vanished almost immediately, replaced by a crestfallen, tearful expression—but that fleeting moment Ji Xingyuan would never forget. In that instant, he had believed he finally had a family, that he had a little brother who didn’t dislike him.
Now, thinking that he might never again see that honest, heartfelt smile, Ji Xingyuan’s face remained calm, yet a storm raged inside him.
Song Cheng was twelve; Ji Xingyuan only seventeen. Neither had reached adulthood—both were still children. One child felt sorrow for another, felt pain, and yet such weighty emotions would only fully manifest once they were no longer children.
Outsiders often see more than those born into a place. Outsiders carry a natural alternate perspective, whereas natives take much longer to step outside their environment and understand their own situation.
Song Cheng never considered himself particularly pitiable. Life simply felt oppressive, uncomfortable. Sometimes he wondered why he alone was this way—but being so young, he didn’t dwell on it long, and carried on with the routine of life.
Ji Xingyuan thought it was dreadful that Song Cheng was trying to please Shen Hanshu. Song Cheng, however, didn’t see it that way. Life had clearly improved; even the air in the school seemed sweet. After enjoying boarding school for a while, Song Cheng’s ambitions grew.
He wanted to go out and play.
People are like that: once one desire is granted, they immediately want three more. The sweet air of school no longer sufficed. Now he longed to leave, escape the watchful eyes of the bodyguards, and step onto the streets to see if those places his classmates always talked about were really that fun.
At this point, vanity and shame grew alongside age. Song Cheng vaguely realized he might seem a little pitiful. He had never played outside, never built sandcastles, never bounced on trampolines, never attended summer camps with other children—he hadn’t even seen a movie.
With a wish in mind, he wanted it fulfilled. He tried to bring it up with Shen Hanshu—but the moment he mentioned it, Shen Hanshu reacted sharply, questioning whether he had met someone, whether classmates or dorm mates had influenced him.
Song Cheng immediately backed down. Going out to play was just a wish; he didn’t want to ruin the privileges he already had.
Shen Hanshu, however, grew suspicious. Over the next nearly three years, Song Cheng had to prove himself, gradually easing his uncle’s vigilance. He never brought up going out to play again. Instead, he requested that the bodyguards be stationed off-campus rather than accompanying him around school.
It took much negotiation, not because Song Cheng was especially persuasive, but because Shen Hanshu realized modern technology allowed him to monitor Song Cheng without leaving his home—making the bodyguards largely redundant.
As people age, they tend to believe they understand the world. Each generation thinks itself the most current, never behind the times—but every generation inevitably falls behind.
Shen Hanshu’s technological surveillance was systematically outmaneuvered by Song Cheng. Yet when Song Cheng finally stepped outside campus, he only lingered briefly at the street corner before turning and running back.
The traffic, the crowds, the everyday evening scenes—mundane to others—felt as terrifying as his uncle to Song Cheng. He was frightened.
The first step is always the hardest. Some move forward, while others shrink back into familiar surroundings. Song Cheng struggled, uncertain what to do.
At four in the afternoon, he walked slowly across the playground. Passing the basketball court, he noticed a jacket left by someone.
A stranger’s clothing made him frown; he didn’t want to touch it, especially here, where sweat was certain to have soaked the fabric.
He picked it up by a corner, furrowing his brow, scanning the embroidered name—unfamiliar: Qin Wunian.
Song Cheng, a member of the student council, had registered all classmates’ names. He was sure no one went by this name. Preparing to bring the jacket to the publicity office to locate its owner, the jacket vibrated.
No—it was the phone inside. Song Cheng paused, then pulled it out.
He answered. Before he could speak, a flurry of words came down the line:
“Did you steal my phone?! Theft is a crime! Believe it or not, I’ll make sure you rot in prison for life!”
Song Cheng’s anxious expression vanished immediately: “I don’t believe you.”
The other party laughed in exasperation: “You little thief, you’re audacious.”
Song Cheng replied calmly: “Stealing a phone carries a maximum three-year sentence. My life is long; unless you can get rid of me in prison, your claim is invalid. Of course, you can’t do that, because I will never go to jail. But you—slandering, defaming, and threatening me—how many years do you think that could earn you?”
“…”
Qin Wunian muttered, “If a thief knows so much, he shouldn’t be a thief. You… what’s your name?”
Song Cheng grew nervous again.
This was the first time he had met an “outsider.” He tried to keep his voice calm, careful not to let this idiot across the line detect how inexperienced he was.
“Song Cheng.”
It came out a bit fast, so he gripped the phone and repeated, “I’m Song Cheng.”