Chapter 93 Visiting the Door
The vehicle slowly drove into a Chinese-style courtyard. It was far from the city center, with a quiet environment and evergreen pines on both sides of the road.
After getting off the bus, Cong Chun saw the man standing at the door and stood there dumbfounded.
Duan Mingxiao's eyes held a hint of a smile, but he still gently patted Cong Chun's shoulder, trying to bring him back to his senses.
"Hey, it's your idol~"
[You idiot, you're so happy you've gone crazy.]
Standing in front of the mahogany door, Xu Binzhou was the first to speak, his tone tinged with a hint of teasing.
"What, we're so familiar now, do I have to carry this old man in?"
"Aren't you going to bring your friends in?"
As soon as Xu Binzhou finished speaking, Cong Chun came to his senses and realized that he had been somewhat impolite. The boy wanted to greet him, but saw Xu Binzhou walking ahead.
Although the old man was old, he walked briskly and not slowly.
Cong Chun had no choice but to turn his gaze to Duan Mingxiao, with a hint of pleading in his eyes.
He really didn't expect that the young master would know Master Xu. When he was browsing through picture books in the small library at school, Cong Chun never imagined that he would meet Xu Binzhou in person one day.
Duan Mingxiao knew Cong Chun was uncomfortable, so the boy spoke up, his tone unusually soothing and gentle.
"It's alright, the old man has a very good temper, don't be afraid of him."
"Ask whatever you want. If he gets impatient, I'll take care of him for you."
Cong Chun nodded obediently; Master Xu could tell at a glance that he was a very nice person.
Upon entering the front hall, Xu Binzhou was brewing tea and handed a cup to Cong Chun.
Cong Chun was somewhat flattered and thanked him repeatedly. Xu Binzhou, on the other hand, asked Duan Mingxiao to write a few words to see if he had regressed recently since he hadn't practiced for a long time.
Xu Binzhou had expected the boy to refuse, but to his surprise, this troublemaker agreed.
Duan Mingxiao went to the desk in the front hall, picked up a brush, and wrote a few characters. The ink fell on the white Xuan paper, and the strokes were vigorous and powerful.
Although the young master hadn't practiced for a long time and his brushstrokes were somewhat rusty, he still completed the work in one go.
Cong Chun stepped forward without making a sound and stood aside, watching intently.
The next second, Duan Mingxiao turned to look at him, catching him off guard. The two were very close, their noses almost touching.
Cong Chun's eyelashes fluttered slightly, like a startled butterfly, and she took a step back.
"You give it a try."
Duan Mingxiao asked softly.
Cong Chun shook his head. The school in their town didn't have calligraphy classes. Cong Chun's handwriting usually looked neat and tidy, but after seeing Duan Mingxiao's handwriting, he felt a certain amount of admiration for him.
The young master's handwriting is just like that of the great calligraphers in the calligraphy books.
Duan Mingxiao smiled slightly, a hint of allure in his expression.
"I'll teach you."
I should have practiced a few more shots before coming; that way, I could have performed even better.
Cong Chun originally thought that he would just be given a few calligraphy templates to copy, but he didn't expect that the young master would directly pull Cong Chun into his arms and hold Cong Chun's hand to write.
He was enveloped in a cool palm, and Cong Chun was a little nervous. He had never used a calligraphy brush before, and Duan Mingxiao was guiding him to use a clever technique.
At first, Cong Chun's writing was not good, and it was a bit crooked. But after a few moments, the boy quickly got the hang of it after Duan Mingxiao guided him a few times.
Xu Binzhou teased the parrot in the cage without saying a word. This kid, he had been insisting that he practice calligraphy more often and show it to him, so that it could also help him cultivate his mind and body, but this brat just wouldn't listen to him.
He even boasted that he would blow up the new batch of koi in his pond, but now, with his partner by his side, he's showing off his knowledge.
Cong Chun was writing with great enthusiasm, even becoming somewhat addicted. If it weren't for Duan Mingxiao stopping him from eating at mealtime, the boy would have continued writing.
Seeing this, Xu Binzhou was heartbroken. What a promising talent! If only he had met Cong Chun instead of this brat earlier.
For some reason, Cong Chun suddenly felt a little down at the dinner table.
Although the old man's words were full of criticism and dissatisfaction towards the young master, there was actually a smile hidden on his face, which reminded Cong Chun of his grandfather.
The young master has a loving family and so many people who like him, while he is like a blade of grass next to a rice paddy, disliked and easily removed by others.
When I was in school.
The teacher assigned an essay, the main content of which was about my family as I see them.
Cong Chun wrote about his grandparents, recording little things, such as how his grandmother would cook stir-fried melon for him in the summer because he was hot, and how his grandfather would use the money he had saved from selling vegetables to make a cotton quilt in town because he knew he was afraid of the cold in the winter.
Although Cong Chun's memories of his parents were vague, a long time had passed, and apart from a few fragments, he could not remember them very clearly anymore.
Cong Chun wrote that essay with genuine feelings, and it was praised by the teacher as a model essay. The teacher even invited Cong Chun to come up on stage and share it with everyone.
As Cong Chun spoke, his eyes involuntarily reddened. However, the students in the audience, perhaps naturally harboring resentment towards him, felt that Cong Chun was hypocritical, that his essays were insincere, and that he might have plagiarized them from somewhere.
Cong Chun felt a little sad when she read some of the passages.
The next second, the boy looked up at everyone below the stage and met their mocking gazes. The warmth he had felt instantly turned to cold.
Cong Chun was somewhat saddened, and his voice gradually softened.
Indeed, most of the children who study in the town come from ordinary or even poor families, although Cong Chun is even poorer and is a well-known impoverished household in the village.
Because life was already hard enough, no one wanted to hear sad stories. So during that time, the open-air movies in town showed Hong Kong comedies that were nonsensical and unregulated, but full of laughs, enough to offer some comfort in a hopeless and numb life.
Far from Jinghai City, there is a small, unremarkable mountain village on the southern edge of the city.
The area experiences heavy rainfall in the summer, and the mountains stretch endlessly, one after another, seemingly without end.
It is also prone to flash floods, and the turbulent floods are like ferocious beasts that often mercilessly swallow people up.
Cong Chun's former home was destroyed by a flash flood, and the house he built later was also built with loans.
During the year he took a leave of absence from school, due to a sudden change in his family situation, seeing the disappointed look on his homeroom teacher's face, Cong Chun decided not to say anything. This was his own business, and he would bear it himself.
The homeroom teacher was a very good person. He clearly understood that the salary of teachers in rural towns was not high, and the homeroom teacher also had a family to support, so Cong Chun did not want to trouble him.
Although Cong Chun had excellent grades, almost no one thought he would be admitted to the prestigious Yenching University, a top-tier university located far away in the bustling capital.
So, in his senior year of high school, Cong Chun resolutely dropped out of school, keeping it a secret from some people.
He went into the brick kiln, where the windows were small, the walls were high and thick, and huge chimneys were built, billowing thick smoke, and the sky above was a hazy gray.
Everyone inside had a somber expression on their face. They were uneducated and could only earn money by selling their labor.
Cong Chun made his own mask to cover his mouth and nose. The place was full of dust, and anyone who went in would be completely covered in black dust.
After a whole day, the originally white homemade mask was covered with a thick layer of dust.
That's why Cong Chun wanted to turn his skin darker, so that he wouldn't seem like an oddball.
Cong Chun was terrified inside, afraid that he would get sick and what would happen if he did, since his family had no money to treat him.
He spent almost a year at the brickyard with that feeling in his heart.
Under the oppression, the soil seemed to be soaked in brown blood, the blood and tears of everyone, which built these brick walls.
Countless days and nights, he leaned against the cold wooden bed, tears streaming down his face, his shoulders aching as if they had been whipped with rope.
Cong Chun thought it would be great if he could sleep like this forever.
During that time, even my dreams were only in black and white.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
