Chapter 11

“I don’t know either.” Wei Shu released his grip and leaned back against the wall. He pulled out a whetstone lighter; the flame flickered against the wall, lighting up briefly before dying out.

He acted as if it were none of his concern. Qiu Baozhu was dragged by the arm into a private room at the end of the corridor.

Wang Bo’s grip was painful, yet Qiu Baozhu didn’t utter a single sound.

Once inside, the door closed behind them. The room was empty. Wang Bo paid him no mind and went over to the water dispenser by the bar, filling a large cup and drinking it down.

The warmth left the back of Qiu Baozhu’s neck, which Wei Shu had held, gradually cooling until it was cold.

He sniffed.

“Are you cold?” Wang Bo turned back, holding the cup. A clear handprint marked his face.

“No,” Qiu Baozhu replied coldly.

“Sit down and wait a bit. Brother Hua will be here soon,” Wang Bo said, pointing to the circle of leather sofas. “Want some water?”

“No.” Qiu Baozhu walked to the farthest sofa and sat down.

No sooner had he settled than the door was pushed open from outside. Loud music spilled in with the opening and closing of the door. A group of people outside greeted each other with pats on the shoulder and back.

Qiu Baozhu remained unmoved, his head bowed low.

The tall young man who towered over the others in the corridor no longer leaned lazily; his gaze easily passed over the crowd’s heads, focusing on the narrow gap between door and wall.

A fluffy head hung low, clad in the same school uniform, yet somehow this person wore it more elegantly than anyone else at school.

But this place was clearly unsuitable for him, utterly unfit and uncomfortable.

The door slammed shut with a bang. Qiu Baozhu lifted his head to see a crowd of people before him. He heard Wang Bo call “Brother Hua” and looked at the man standing at the front.

This Brother Hua wore a black-and-white striped shirt beneath an ill-fitting brown leather jacket, inappropriate for the season.

He was not tall, with a square face that radiated amiability and wealth, his eyes squinting into smiling slits.

“Baozhu,” he said.

Qiu Baozhu felt no honor at having his name called by Brother Hua.

He studied the man closely, an inexplicable familiarity stirring in his mind.

“Pour a drink,” Brother Hua said as he took off his jacket.

Wang Bo, nearby at the bar, opened a bottle of Yamazaki 12 Japanese whiskey. He didn’t add syrup or ice but instead dumped a generous amount of chili powder into the glass.

Qiu Baozhu watched as the chili powder mixed with the amber liquid, slowly recalling.

Brother Hua’s full name was Huang Huazhu.

Huang Huazhu frequented places like bars, arcades, dance halls, and foot massage parlors, owning considerable assets. More importantly, he commanded resources and connections, knowing one or two people from every faction.

He later became one of the Qiu family’s creditors.

Qiu Baozhu had seen him twice in his previous life.

The first time was when Qiu Jinyan had sent him to find Huang Huazhu, hoping to extend the repayment deadline.

But although Huang Huazhu called him “Baozhu” repeatedly, he refused to grant even a single extra day to the Qiu family.

When leaving the community, one of Huang Huazhu’s underlings handed out a business card with his contact info and a private residence not known to outsiders.

“Brother Hua said, if the Qiu family really needs help, you can come here to find him at night,” they said.

Naïve, Qiu Baozhu told Qiu Fei, who tore up the card in anger.

That same night, Qiu Fei and Qiu Jinyan had a furious argument in the living room, joined by He Yingjie’s sharp voice.

Qiu Baozhu listened to the chaos from upstairs.

Even Auntie Wan, clutching her apron, swore for the first time: “Mr. Qiu is truly worthless!”

The second time Qiu Baozhu saw Huang Huazhu was at the Wei family’s home.

He no longer carried the faux-friendliness and condescension from before; he looked disheveled and scruffy, as if business had gone badly, begging Wei Shu for help.

“I heard Brother Hua likes Yamazaki 12 with chili powder; I happen to have some,” Wei Shu said casually.

Huang Huazhu only left the Wei residence after drinking eleven full bottles.

Whether Wei Shu helped him afterward, Qiu Baozhu did not know.

The next time he heard about Huang Huazhu, it was that he had been sentenced for illegal business operations and running a casino.

Wang Bo placed the full glass of Yamazaki 12 with chili powder in front of Huang Huazhu.

Huang Huazhu didn’t drink it but pushed the glass toward Qiu Baozhu.

“Baozhu, I and Mr. Qiu go way back. Otherwise, one drink wouldn’t be enough as an apology.” He also had snacks and fruit plates placed on the coffee table.

Qiu Baozhu hadn’t expected the drink to be for him.

“Why should I apologize?”

“You were the one who called the police,” Huang Huazhu said with absolute certainty.

The police? Qiu Baozhu recalled, puzzled. “Isn’t calling the police allowed?”

Huang Huazhu laughed, nodded emphatically: “Sure, sure, but that’s the general rule. We have our own rules.”

“Besides, it’s only natural for children to repay their parents’ debts. If you call the police, you should tell the officers it’s Wei Shu’s mother who owes money and won’t pay. I’m the victim here!”

“Baozhu,” Huang Huazhu spoke in a patronizing tone, picking up the glass and offering it to Qiu Baozhu, “If you call the police, Uncle Hua supports it, praises you! It shows you’re a good kid who went to school and learned, unlike us guys who never studied.”

“But you must understand, every trade has its own rules. Debts should be repaid. If you just want to call the police instead of paying back, then what about my whole family and the employees under me? Are they all supposed to starve?”

Huang Huazhu spoke earnestly, and all the people standing in the room stared at Qiu Baozhu with disdain.

—Those born with silver spoons in their mouths are always so foolish and ignorant, unaware of life’s hardships and human suffering.

Qiu Baozhu clenched his phone tightly. “I want to…”

“Call the parents?” Huang Huazhu laughed again. “Your dad would be the same.”

Qiu Baozhu’s face flushed hot.

At that moment, Wang Bo took a call nearby. After hanging up, he returned to Huang Huazhu’s side. “Brother Hua, Wei Shu said he can drink today’s liquor.”

“Eh~” Huang Huazhu shook his head vigorously. “Whoever made it is responsible. He better find a way to pay back quickly. You… hey, hey!”

Before he finished, the drink was suddenly snatched away.

The young man tilted his head back and drank from the cup.

The spicy, pungent whiskey burned down his throat, the chili powder amplifying the sharpness like swallowing shards of broken glass.

When finished, Qiu Baozhu slammed the cup down on the coffee table, his green eyes deep and intense. “Is that enough?”

Less than half a minute later, his forehead, eyes, and nose were flushed red.

He didn’t need anyone’s help—not even Wei Shu’s.

He slowly stood, the rapid drinking making him dizzy; he almost fell back down.

But he had endured enough hardship to maintain a calm facade.

As he rose, his gaze fell on Huang Huazhu. His green eyes, tinged with red veins, resembled an animal’s—too pure and innocent, making others uneasy.

“Uncle Hua.”

“Hm?” Huang Huazhu lazily circled his fingers in the air.

“If something like this happens again, I’ll still choose to call the police. As for you,” Qiu Baozhu smiled, “drink more Yamazaki 12. Maybe one day you won’t be able to anymore.”

When he left, the bar was much busier than before, filled with laughing, carefree young people.

Qiu Baozhu passed by the side and steadied himself on the doorframe, swaying as he walked out.

The sky had already darkened.

Qiu Baozhu took out his phone to find multiple missed calls from home.

Qiu Fei had become more concerned than before. Previously, she’d only sent a text message; now she called.

The boy, dazed, dialed her number.

“Just got some wagyu. Auntie Wan said you’re home, so she’s making barbecue for you.”

“Mm, I want the soup made with Valencia oranges, with extra sugar.”

Beyond the bar street, silence fell. The low voice in the receiver seemed to transform inexplicably into speaker volume.

Qiu Baozhu heard footsteps behind him.

They matched his pace—no, they were exactly the same.

Someone was following him again!

Qiu Baozhu switched the phone screen to the dial pad and was about to press a number when suddenly his mouth was covered.

His eyes widened, unable to make a sound.

A bitter, moist scent of herbs flooded his nose.

The alcohol made the world spin dizzyingly. The busy street nearby twisted and stretched like dough being kneaded, lengthening and shortening, shifting left and right, up and down.

Then, his waist was gripped tightly from behind. A broad, solid chest pressed against his back.

Qiu Baozhu’s breath quickened. He twisted and struggled but could only watch himself being pulled farther from the noisy crowd.

The person dragged him to a corner between two bars, where bottles piled high on either side. The cramped space was warmer than outside.

Sweat trickled down Qiu Baozhu’s neck, soaking his back and chest.

He was put down on the ground.

His fingers brushed the floor; he immediately reached for an empty bottle nearby, remembering clearly how Wei Shu had used bottles to strike people.

Until the one who dragged him in squatted leisurely before him.

Wei Shu rested his hands on his knees, stray hair falling on his forehead, his gaze cold and sharp as he stared at the boy sitting against the wall.

“Wei Shu?” Qiu Baozhu faltered, unsure whether to swing the bottle at him.

He didn’t want to interact much with Wei Shu and struggled to stand.

Wei Shu reached out effortlessly and pressed him back down.

Qiu Baozhu glared at him, displeased.

“The floor’s dirty,” he muttered softly.

After that, he noticed a school uniform from Jicai Middle School laid beneath where he sat.

“…” Not his—it was the uniform he wore.

“Underage and not fully developed, can’t drink,” Wei Shu said, his eyes flicking over Qiu Baozhu’s reddened lips and flushed face from the alcohol.

Qiu Baozhu’s back pressed against the wall.

In his past life, he and Wei Shu had been in love since adolescence; this version of Wei Shu was not unfamiliar.

“Oh, so what?” Qiu Baozhu was thirty at heart, but Wei Shu before him was only seventeen, a mere kid.

“There might be additives in the drink; you need to throw up,” Wei Shu said in a flat, emotionless tone, leaving no room for refusal.

Yet he pressed his body against Qiu Baozhu, using his knee to pry apart Qiu Baozhu’s tightly shut legs, kneeling between them. Then, he grabbed Qiu Baozhu’s chin, forcing his mouth open.

To Qiu Baozhu’s disbelief, Wei Shu then slid his cool index and middle fingers into his mouth together.