Song Mufang’s face turned even redder as he left, throwing out a parting shot: “If you don’t study hard, no one’s going to want you even for bricklaying after graduation!” With that, he dashed away quickly.
Once he reached the small garden inside the school, Song Mufang slowed down. He glanced back toward the athletic field, confirming that Jing Zhao was indeed out of sight, before leaning against a tree and patting his flushed cheeks: [1111, I’m so embarrassed.]
The System, 1111, accustomed to such situations, comforted Song Mufang: [It’s okay, you’ll get used to it.]
Kicking a small stone at his feet, Song Mufang sighed, losing the mood for a walk. He strolled slowly back toward the classroom, idly chatting with the System in his mind.
[1111, I want to know, in the novel, why did the original Song Mufang keep provoking Jing Zhao to raise his hatred value?]
The sudden system task reminded Song Mufang that, although he knew he was bound to die as malicious cannon fodder, he at least wanted to understand the reason for his demise. Otherwise, it would be too unjust to die without knowing why the original Song Mufang tormented Jing Zhao.
Perhaps the novel explained it, but he hadn’t read the original, only heard his cousin mention it. All he knew was that, after constantly provoking the male lead Jing Zhao and courting disaster, “Song Mufang” had later been set up by the male lead in a car accident that broke his legs. The crippled “Song Mufang” lived in a daze and met a tragic end in a fire two months later.
As for the entanglements between the male lead and him, and why the male lead orchestrated his accident, Song Mufang was completely in the dark.
Perhaps not expecting Song Mufang to ask this question, the System paused for two seconds before mysteriously saying: [As a villain, courting death doesn’t need a reason.]
Song Mufang: “?”
Song Mufang couldn’t believe what he was hearing: [Are you joking?]
The System insisted: [No! Just remember, targeting the male lead is the right move!]
Fine, then.
Song Mufang changed the subject: [When am I supposed to exit the stage?]
The System paused again: [When the male lead is thoroughly annoyed with you, you can pack up and prepare to leave.]
Song Mufang was silent for two seconds: [1111, do you have a feeling?]
[What feeling?]
Song Mufang said quietly: [It seems like you said a lot, but actually conveyed no useful information.]
[No, dear.] 1111 replied, sending an emoji. [I’m just a simple, cute, and kind little system.jpg]
Song Mufang was left speechless, abandoning the idea of extracting information from the System. Just then, he arrived back at the classroom: [I need to study now, you can leave.]
[Yes, Your Majesty, your humble servant withdraws at once.]
*
The bell signaling the end of the second evening self-study session rang, and the previously quiet school building suddenly became bustling. Some students from Class 8, Grade 2 began packing their bags to go home.
Yangcheng No. 1 High School didn’t require students to board, so those who lived nearby usually chose to commute, and commuting students didn’t have to attend the third evening self-study session.
In the corner, Jing Zhao was quietly packing his bag. But calling it packing was an overstatement, as there wasn’t much to pack. Without even looking, he tossed two books into his bag and slung it over one shoulder with one hand.
Jing Zhao moved quickly, and before leaving the classroom, he glanced back. The new transfer student was sitting at his desk, leisurely putting books into his bag while chatting cheerfully with his deskmate, his face bright with a smile, untouched by any gloom.
Jing Zhao looked silently for a moment before turning away and striding out of the classroom.
In the bike shed, Jing Zhao pulled out an old bicycle. It was visibly worn, with rust covering much of the frame. Running a hand over it left his palm stained with brown rust.
This bicycle was one he had saved up for and bought at a second-hand market during middle school. It was so dilapidated that it was cheap, costing him only forty yuan. But because it was so old and worn, many parts were loose, and every time Jing Zhao rode it, it creaked and groaned, grating on the nerves.
But there was no choice. The place he lived now was too far from school, with no direct bus or subway. Walking would take at least an hour and a half, while cycling took only half an hour.
The bicycle was still usable, and Jing Zhao didn’t have much spare money to spend on a non-essential new bike. Besides, if he bought a new one, his aunt would surely question where he got the money, and Jing Zhao had no doubt about that.
The night air in Yangcheng was no longer as stifling as it had been at noon. The evening breeze was cool and comfortable, dispelling the day’s heat. Yet Jing Zhao remained troubled, or rather, the thought of returning to that dark, oppressive house made his mood even gloomier.
The western district of Yangcheng was an old part of town. While other areas developed rapidly, the western district seemed forgotten, stuck in the past, disconnected from the city’s progress.
Jing Zhao cycled through, the buildings along the way gradually becoming lower and more rundown. When he reached an old six-story building, the creaking bicycle came to a stop.
Jing Zhao got off, parked, and locked the bike in a small shed in front of the building. He climbed the stairs, stopping on the third floor to unlock the door with a key.
The other people inside hadn’t gone to bed yet and were having a late-night snack. As Jing Zhao opened the door, the three inside turned their gaze toward him.
“Jing Zhao, you’re back,” his uncle, Jing Jiangong, greeted him, his hands and mouth greasy from eating. “Do you want to…”
Before Jing Jiangong could finish, his aunt, Wang Huidan, pinched his arm and whispered angrily, “Jing Jiangong, what are you trying to say?”
Jing Jiangong, in a good mood from a pay raise and feeling a bit flattered by Jing Xin earlier, snapped back to reality with the pinch and awkwardly changed his words: “You should rest early, you must be tired from studying all day.”
Jing Zhao saw their little actions clearly: “Got it.”
With that, Jing Zhao turned to leave. His cousin, Jing Xin, glanced at the half-eaten bowl of noodles and called out to Jing Zhao: “Jing Zhao, are you hungry? I can’t finish this bowl of fried noodles, so you can have it.”
Jing Zhao didn’t even turn his head: “Eat it yourself.”
“Mom, Jing Zhao is so rude. I saved him some supper, and he didn’t even say thank you,” Jing Xin complained to Wang Huidan.
His voice was just loud enough for Jing Zhao, who had taken a couple of steps, to hear clearly.
Wang Huidan responded with a sarcastic tone: “Why bother with him, Jing Xin? You should know, Jing Zhao is just an ill-bred little wretch, an ungrateful brat. Why let him upset you?”
Jing Zhao had heard such words many times before, and now they stirred no emotion in him. He didn’t even pause.
Behind him, Jing Xin agreed, suddenly adding: “Mom, I know, I won’t bother with Jing Zhao. You’re right. After all, he wasn’t taught by his mom, so it’s no wonder he…”
Before he could finish, Jing Zhao’s fist landed hard on Jing Xin’s face, cutting him off. No one expected Jing Zhao to suddenly hit someone.
Jing Xin was stunned, and Wang Huidan and Jing Jiangong took a long moment to react. Once they realized their precious son had been hit, and especially when they saw the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, Wang Huidan screamed and lunged at Jing Zhao, trying to scratch his face: “Jing Zhao! You hit my son! Why did you hit my son?”
The boy dodged Wang Huidan’s attacks, his expression fierce, his eyes venomous: “If he dares mention my mom again, I’ll hit him again, and I’ll hit you too if you aren’t careful.”
Jing Zhao often came home with injuries, known as a troublemaker who frequently fought, though he’d calmed down a bit this year. Remembering Jing Zhao’s past exploits, Wang Huidan hesitated.
She didn’t dare approach again, only pointing at Jing Zhao and scolding with false bravado: “You heartless brat, get out of here.”
Her answer was the sound of Jing Zhao slamming the door shut.
Jing Zhao’s room was a converted storage room, very small, with just enough space for a single bed, a desk, and a one-meter-long wardrobe, leaving barely any room to walk.
Thinking for a moment, Jing Zhao went to the desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a paper envelope, slowly counting the contents.
Inside were the savings Jing Zhao had accumulated from part-time jobs over the years. Seven red bills and some loose change, plus 8,000 in his bank account, totaling 8,921.5, were all he had.
Jing Zhao’s eyes were clouded as he half-closed them.
If it hadn’t been stolen, it might have reached ten thousand by now.
He had developed a habit of saving money early on, initially hiding his savings in the farthest corner of the wardrobe. But after he bought the bicycle in middle school, Wang Huidan had a sudden whim to ransack his room, taking all his savings at the time.
After several such incidents, Jing Zhao learned his lesson. One day, when Wang Huidan and Jing Jiangong were out, he secretly changed the lock on the storage room door. The next day, when Wang Huidan found she couldn’t get in, she was furious.
The noise outside continued, and Jing Zhao turned over in bed. The old house had poor soundproofing, and he could easily hear the arguing in the living room.
It wasn’t really an argument, more like Wang Huidan’s one-sided tirade against Jing Jiangong, occasionally interspersed with Jing Xin’s pleas for them to stop.
In the darkness of his room, Jing Zhao lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, a mocking smile on his lips. In this house, there wasn’t a single decent person, including himself.