Rebirth
Qi Jun had never imagined, not even in his dreams, that one day he would attend his own funeral. Then again, perhaps no one in this world had ever experienced anything so theatrical. The feeling was complicated, to say the least.
Qi Jun really had died. He had died completely and utterly, falling from a building more than ten stories high, his brains spilling out. There was no chance he could have survived. And yet, at the same time, he was still alive, living in this world as Song Bai.
Qi Jun didn’t feel much about having come back from the dead. He didn’t know whether he was relieved or regretful. It had been the same in the few seconds he’d spent falling from the building: he’d felt neither joy nor sorrow.
Qi Jun watched from a distance. He didn’t go over. He watched people, familiar and unfamiliar, come in and out, their faces grave as they went in, grief-stricken as they came out. Once they were a little way off, they would start chatting and laughing with the people beside them.
That was how people were. You couldn’t expect someone who wasn’t close to you to feel joy or sorrow on your account. There was no shortage of people willing to kick you when you were down, and it would be ridiculous to let the death of one person make you lose all desire to live.
A black Bentley screeched to a halt in front of the funeral hall’s courtyard. Everyone cried out in surprise. The car door flew open, and someone stumbled out. He managed only a couple of steps before collapsing face-first onto the ground. The people nearby were startled. Two men rushed around from the back of the car and hurried to help him up.
“Young Master Qiao! Are you all right?”
Qiao Yi shoved his hand away and stared fixedly at the funeral hall. His voice was hoarse and stiff. “He… where is he? Where is he?”
He looked around in a daze, then his pupils suddenly contracted. “Where is he? Damn it, where the hell is Qi Jun!”
The hysterical roar sounded like the dying howl of a beast. Everyone nearby jumped back, staring at the newcomer in bafflement and thinking, The man’s dead already, and you still come here to cause a scene? What a piece of trash.
“Young Master Qiao… Teacher Qi, he… he’s already…”
With a thud, Qiao Yi kicked him. Eyes bloodshot, he started kicking the man like a madman. “Say that again, you bastard! I’ll kick you to death! I’ll kick you to death!”
Everyone fell silent. They stared wide-eyed, hardly daring to breathe, as Qiao Yi lost control. The man being beaten had a dent kicked into his skull. Blood covered his face, making for a horrifying sight.
Another man had come with Qiao Yi, but he didn’t stop him. He knew that even if Qiao Yi kicked the man to death right then and there, no one would dare say a word. The man had only himself to blame for running his mouth. When the person in charge had been about to notify Qiao Yi of Qi Jun’s death, he’d even made arrangements for his own funeral. But the moment Qiao Yi heard the news, he’d gone numb. He just stood there, forgetting even to breathe. That was the only reason the man in charge had escaped disaster then.
After a while, the crowd grew noisy again. People shouted for him to stop, but no one dared step forward until Qi Jun’s father, Qi Luyuan, came out.
Qiao Yi stopped. He looked as if he’d lost his soul. Grabbing Qi Luyuan by both arms, he clung to him as though he’d found a lifeline. “Qi Jun… where is Qi Jun? He’s hiding, isn’t he? I know he never liked me. He was always trying to get as far away from me as he could. You’re all lying to me, aren’t you?”
Since Qi Jun’s death, Qi Luyuan seemed to have aged ten years overnight. His face had taken on the weariness of a man in his sixties or seventies. He frowned at Qiao Yi. He had no idea when Qi Jun had met this man, or why he was so devastated.
“Would you… would you like to see him one last time?”
“Ah…” Everyone cried out. Qiao Yi shoved Qi Luyuan away. If no one had been standing behind him, he would have taken a nasty fall.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“How can he act like that? That’s awful!”
“The man’s dead, and he’s still making trouble for everyone…”
“Call the police. Scum like this is a menace to society…”
…
Qiao Yi held himself ramrod straight. He spoke slowly, one word at a time. “I’m not going in to see him. I know he isn’t dead. You’re all lying to me. I’m still alive, so how dare Qi Jun die? I didn’t give him permission. How dare he die!”
With that, he turned and left, as swift as a gust of wind, as if he really had come to wreck someone’s funeral.
Song Bai stood there for a while, then shook his head in self-mockery and stopped watching the spectacle of human life.
Qi Jun was dead. There was no longer anyone in this world called Qi Jun. Now there was only Song Bai, a Song Bai who had never known Qiao Yi.
* * *
When he was alive, Qi Jun had been a French lecturer in the foreign languages department at X University. He had also been the homeroom teacher for Class 3 of the French program, Class of 2010. He was an educated man, with both parents still alive: his father was an archaeology professor, and his mother taught at a middle school. His family was comfortably well-off, and he’d had a nanny at his beck and call ever since he was a child. He had grown up without a hitch, and aside from meeting Qiao Yi, his life had been so smooth it was enviable.
Apparently, God had decided that twenty-three years of good luck was more than enough, so he sent a bastard to wreak havoc on Qi Jun’s life. It went on for three years. You couldn’t quite say that Qiao Yi had killed him, but he certainly couldn’t claim to have had nothing to do with it.
Qi Jun didn’t like Qiao Yi. He really, really didn’t.
Qiao Yi was scum, the sort of scum who made you feel dirty just breathing the same air as him. But no one dared lay a hand on him. In fact, people bent over backward to curry favor with him, all because he had a grandfather who had helped found the nation and a father with overwhelming power.
So no matter how rotten he was, nobody said a word. They just laughed it off. The princeling was certainly one of a kind.
But who didn’t know? Qiao Yi was sick. Mentally ill, and seriously so.
So why was a piece of trash like him still alive, while Qi Jun had died first?
Song Bai returned to the place that could only be called a condemned building.
For the first time in his life, he understood how important money was.
The place wasn’t far from the city center. A row of old, rundown houses stretched along the street. Supposedly they were going to be demolished before long, but plenty of people still refused to leave. Song Bai had no choice but to stay.
He had no money. If he left, he would have to sleep on the street. And he was sure he’d never find somewhere else this cheap. So he stayed put, dragging things out as long as he could.
When Song Bai got back, the lock was open. The door had an old-fashioned latch and padlock, hardly any security at all. But no one would bother stealing from a place like this. It was practically a slum. Back when he was still Qi Jun, he would never have believed that people lived in such backward conditions anywhere in the world.
Cheng Jiaqi was Song Bai’s roommate. He was only sixteen, but he had a terrible temper. When he saw Song Bai come in, he gave him a cold, unpleasant look and snorted.
He looked down on Song Bai. Or, more precisely, Song Bai disgusted him. Because Song Bai… the Song Bai from before, to put it nicely, had been a freelance male escort. To put it bluntly, he sold sex, specializing in being the bottom for men.
When Qi Jun had first woken up, he’d been in bed. His whole body felt as though a tractor had run over it, and his bones were out of place. There had been a stack of money on the bedside table. Clearly, the room had seen a night of sex beyond anything an ordinary person could imagine.
Even now, Qi Jun still didn’t know who had worked the real Song Bai to death. But the mess Song Bai had left behind was giving him a massive headache.
Song Bai hadn’t gone to nightclubs or bars, but plenty of people knew him. Everyone in that crowd had his number. He took clients through his phone, and was notorious in the business for caring more about money than his life, let alone his dignity. As long as he was paid, he didn’t care how low or filthy he had to get.
There wasn’t a single number saved in his phone, but people kept calling to ask for “services.” After the thirteenth call with the same request, Qi Jun pulled out the SIM card and flushed it down the toilet.
“Rent and utilities are due today. Remember to leave the money on the table later.” Cheng Jiaqi turned and went back to his room, as if even looking at Song Bai for another second would leave grime in his eyes. The wooden door slammed shut, nearly coming off its hinges.
A little while later, the slow notes of a guitar drifted intermittently from his room.
The soundproofing here really was terrible.
Song Bai slowly made his way back to his tiny, ramshackle room. He deeply regretted being so bewildered when he’d first woken up that he’d forgotten to take the stack of money from the bedside table. It might not have been money he’d earned, but at least he’d endured three whole days of being unable to get out of bed.
The room was a complete mess. It had already been messy when Song Bai came back, and then he’d rummaged through everything looking for money and made it even worse. But he hadn’t thought about cleaning up. He didn’t know how.
Song Bai had no idea where the person before him had hidden his money. He couldn’t find a single bank card or passbook. He really didn’t have a cent.
Song Bai knew perfectly well that if he didn’t pay the rent, Cheng Jiaqi would throw him out without a second thought.
He felt around in his pocket. All he had was the seventeen yuan left over from the cab fare, barely enough for a meal. Song Bai went out and knocked on Cheng Jiaqi’s door. The guitar stopped. A moment later, something thumped against the door, probably because Cheng Jiaqi had thrown something at it. Song Bai frowned. “I’m going out to get lunch. Do you want me to bring you anything?”
There was another thump. Song Bai shrugged and left.
In his previous life, seventeen yuan had been no more than the cost of a bottle of water. Now it was enough to buy him a big bowl of noodles and a portion to take away, with one yuan left over.
When he got back, he set the noodles on the table and knocked on Cheng Jiaqi’s door once more. Before anything could come flying at him, he left.
Now he was truly broke.
That evening, someone pounded on Song Bai’s door and shoved it open. Cheng Jiaqi stared at him coldly. Song Bai took the hint and stood up to leave.
It was already December. Song Bai had forgotten to grab a coat when he went out. He wore only a pale shirt under a wool sweater, and his slightly messy hair stuck up in places. He stood beneath a streetlight, though it was impossible to tell what he was looking at. From a distance, he looked like a statue.
Suddenly, a sports car slammed into a tree across the road from Song Bai. The crash was deafening. Song Bai’s unfocused gaze sharpened a little, and he looked over, somewhat blankly. He was just wondering whether he should call the police when the car door opened and someone stepped out.
The car was so well built that the person inside didn’t seem badly hurt. He stood across from Song Bai, staring at him from a distance as if he’d seen a ghost, his eyes fixed on him without blinking.
Song Bai shuddered, glaring at the man as though he’d just seen something disgusting.
The man was drunk, dead drunk. He staggered toward Song Bai. If the streets hadn’t been nearly empty, he’d have been lucky to avoid another accident.
“Qi Jun… is that you?” His voice was hoarse, his eyes red.