Old grudges
Another Saturday passed in a flurry of activity. The afternoon tea rush had just ended, and the restaurant finally regained its brief tranquility.
Qi Shuo collected the tableware used by the last table of guests back into the kitchen and rubbed his slightly sore temples.
Standing and walking continuously for seven or eight hours is still a burden for a body that has only recently adapted to this rhythm, but this feeling of exhaustion strangely brings a sense of groundedness—this is the weight of labor, a part of "normal" life.
After work, he still rode his electric scooter, merging into the bustling evening traffic. In the northern part of the city in late autumn, it gets dark earlier and earlier, and the streetlights have already come on, spreading out warm yellow halos in the deepening twilight.
The wind felt noticeably cool on his face, but he didn't feel cold. Instead, he enjoyed this moment of solitude and relaxation.
As he approached the residential area, he vaguely sensed something was different from usual. At this time, Sister Jin was usually still at school supervising students' evening self-study, and Qin Zhou should also be buried in his homework in the classroom.
But today, the kitchen light was on, and warm light shone through the window. You could vaguely hear Sister Jin's voice, raised, mixed with Qin Zhou's resentful mutterings.
Qi Shuo parked his car and, with a hint of doubt, pushed open the door to his home.
In the living room, Sister Jin stood with her hands on her hips, waving a crumpled answer sheet in her hand. Her face was a mix of emotions, like a spilled palette of colors—she was both annoyed and amused, and even a little helpless.
Qin Zhou, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, stood opposite her with her neck stiff, trying to explain, but she was clearly not confident enough, and the roots of her ears turned red.
"Oh my god! Qin Zhou, you're something else!" When Sister Jin saw Qi Shuo come in, she acted as if she had found a judge and immediately handed over the "evidence." "Xiao Shuo, come and take a look. Look at your brother's English answer sheet, especially this reading comprehension section. My God, what is this? It's completely nonsensical. I think the examiner will only give him ten points out of consideration!"
Qi Shuo took the answer sheet, puzzled. It was the English paper from the November mock exam. He flipped directly to the last section, the reading and writing exercise.
The prompt provides the beginning of a story about a lost boy encountering a kind person, and asks the reader to continue the story and write the ending.
Qin Zhou's handwriting was as unrestrained and free as ever, but the content... was indeed as Sister Jin said, with a plot that jumped around illogically, full of grammatical errors, and mixed with Chinese-English, forcibly turning a heartwarming story into a chivalrous tale of "a young man helping those in need," and even forcibly adding the theme "be willing to help others" at the end, which made Qi Shuo's brows furrow slightly.
He looked up at Qin Zhou. The boy had a stubborn look on his face that said, "So what if I wrote it?", but his shifty eyes betrayed his guilty conscience.
"The mock exam results are out," Sister Jin sighed, explaining from the side, "The overall score is alright, ninth in the grade, not falling out of the top ten. But this English!" She pointed to the score on the answer sheet, "It dropped by more than thirty points, and the ranking for that subject has slipped to the middle of the grade! If this were the college entrance exam, it would be a huge disadvantage!"
Qi Shuo then realized what was going on. He knew Qin Zhou was good at math, physics, and chemistry, and his Chinese was also not too bad with Sister Jin watching over him. It was just that English had always been a weak point, but he didn't expect it to decline so much this time.
"I...I wasn't in a good state during the exam..." Qin Zhou tried to struggle.
"Not in good shape?" Sister Jin glared at her. "I think you're not focused on English at all! You're either hanging out with those two brats Cheng Rui and Lin Zhiyu all day, or flirting with Song Yungui, or playing ball or video games. Can't you spare a little attention for English vocabulary?"
Qin Zhou's sore spot was hit, and her face turned even redder. She muttered, "What's so great about learning English..."
"What's there to learn?" Sister Jin was amused by his attitude, then turned to Qi Shuo, "Xiao Shuo, you've come at the right time. Weren't you the best at English when you were in school? You almost got a perfect score on the college entrance exam, right? From now on, you have Sundays off, so you'd better give him a good make-up exam! This kid, if I don't keep an eye on him, he'll be out of control!"
Qi Shuo was taken aback. Tutor Qin Zhou? He instinctively wanted to refuse.
Eight years have passed, and his knowledge has become rusty. He doesn't know if he can still perform the job.
Moreover, he was used to silence and not used to teaching.
But seeing the expectant yet undeniable look in Sister Jin's eyes, and then at Qin Zhou's awkward yet unambiguous expression, he swallowed back the words he was about to say. He nodded, his voice low: "I... I'll give it a try."
So, the following Sunday, Qi Shuo's life took another turn—tutoring Qin Zhou in English.
On the Sunday afternoon of the first tutoring session, sunlight streamed through the window onto the dining table, but the atmosphere was somewhat tense. Qi Shuo held Qin Zhou's English test paper and textbook, attempting to start by reviewing the basic grammar and vocabulary.
Eight years have passed, and the once-familiar rules have become blurred. He spoke somewhat haltingly, but his thoughts remained clear. Qin Zhou was initially restless, but seeing Qi Shuo's serious expression, he gradually calmed down. However, when faced with difficult problems, his brows would still furrow tightly.
Sister Jin brought over a plate of sliced fruit. Looking at the two students, one teaching earnestly (though quiet), and the other learning with difficulty (but at least listening), a smile of satisfaction appeared on her face. She put down the fruit plate and casually said:
"Xiao Zhou, you need to pay more attention. Tan Huaiyu, who got first place in English in the first year of high school, I heard he almost always gets full marks on every exam. Look at him, and then look at yourself..."
The name "Tan Huaiyu" struck Qi Shuo's ears like a thunderbolt, without warning.
He was explaining an example sentence using the present perfect tense when his voice abruptly stopped. His fingers, holding the pen, tightened instantly, his knuckles turning bluish-white from the force. He froze, as if instantly frozen, even his breath stopping.
The warm sunlight on the desk, the faint sound of traffic outside the window, Sister Jin's rambling words, Qin Zhou's questioning gaze... everything faded away in an instant, becoming blurry and distorted.
Time seemed to flow backwards, violently pulling him back to that bloody, chaotic twilight eight years ago, a time that could tear his entire life apart.
Memories surged in like a tidal wave, carrying the metallic sweetness of rust and the chill of despair—
He killed that man—his father. The sensation of the blade piercing his body, the sticky splatter of warm blood on his face, the man's incredulous gaze and the dull thud as he fell… it all happened too fast, too fast for him to think. Only endless hatred and the urge to destroy drove him.
Then, carrying the blood-dripping knife, like a cornered beast, he rushed out of the house. He was going to find Tan Zhong! That culprit! He would make him pay for his crimes in blood!
He and his sister had once visited the Tan family's villa, and back then Qi Shan would sweetly call him "Uncle Tan."
At this moment, this beautiful house looked to him like a demon's lair with its jaws wide open.
He didn't ring the doorbell; he simply used his knife to break the lock and rushed inside.
In the living room, Tan Zhongzheng jumped up from the sofa in a panic, his face flushed with alcohol and fear. "Qi Shuo? You... how could you..."
Qi Shuo's eyes were bloodshot, and he couldn't hear anything. He had only one thought: kill him!
Just as he raised his knife, about to strike Tan Zhong—
A small, cold hand, trembling, gently tugged at the hem of his blood-stained clothes.
Qi Shuo's violent movements suddenly stopped. He lowered his head and met a pair of eyes.
Those were a child's eyes, large and bright, like black grapes soaking in water. But at that moment, those eyes lacked the innocence and naivety a child should have; instead, they held an almost hollow calmness and a barely perceptible plea.
It's Tan Huaiyu.
Tan Huaiyu was only eight years old at the time.
He was wearing pajamas, his small body pitifully thin, with several fresh red welts on his exposed arms and neck, clearly from being whipped. He was hiding next to a wardrobe in the corner of the living room, and it was unclear how long he had been hiding there.
He looked at Qi Shuo, at the blood-dripping knife in Qi Shuo's hand, and then at his father, who was paralyzed with fear on the ground.
He didn't cry, didn't make a fuss, and didn't even make a sound. He just quietly looked at Qi Shuo and tugged at his clothes.
At that moment, Qi Shuo's anger felt like it had been doused with a bucket of ice water. Looking at Tan Huaiyu, he seemed to see Qi Shan, who would hide and secretly cry after being bullied; he saw Qin Zhou, who, as a child, would stubbornly purse her lips when mocked by other children for not having parents; he saw Sister Jin's eyes, always filled with heartache and helplessness as she said, "You kids..."; and he also saw Xiao Jue's face, always radiating trust and dependence...
He still has people he cares about.
Sister Jin, Qin Zhou, Xiao Jue… they are still waiting for him. If he were to strike with that blade, he would be doomed and never see them again.
He wanted to kill Tan Zhong, and also Tan Huaiyu, who had intricate connections with Tan Zhong.
But... how could he... how could he bring himself to hurt a child who was about the same age as Qi Shan and Qin Zhou?
With a clang, the blood-stained knife fell to the ground from his exhausted hand.
But the hatred did not disappear; it gnawed at his heart like a venomous snake. He released his grip on the hem of Tan Zhong's clothes, instead clenching his fists. Like a mad beast, he pounced on the limp Tan Zhong, punching him repeatedly with all his might, slamming his fists into the man's face and body.
He couldn't hear Tan Zhong's screams and pleas for mercy, nor could he feel the excruciating pain from his own fists; all he could think about was the fear and suffering his sister Qi Shan might be going through...
Only when Tan Zhong's face was covered in blood and flesh and he had completely passed out did he suddenly let go of his hand, as if all his strength had been drained away.
Overwhelmed by immense grief, anger, helplessness, and despair, he collapsed to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably like a lost child.
And little Tan Huaiyu, from beginning to end, sat quietly on the ground not far from him, hugging his knees, watching him break down and cry silently.
It neither approached nor left, like a small, emotionless sculpture.
No one knows exactly what happened that day. All they know is that Qi Shan died, Qi Shuo and Tan Zhong went to prison, Qi's father was killed by his own son, and Tan Huaiyu lost his father.
Besides Qi Shuo, only Tan Huaiyu knew the truth.
The tide of memories receded abruptly, leaving behind only the cold, piercing reality.
"Brother Shuo? Brother Shuo, what's wrong?" Qin Zhou's worried voice woke him from his nightmare.
Qi Shuo snapped back to reality and found his back soaked in cold sweat. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, and his face was frighteningly pale.
Those usually silent eyes were now churning with overwhelming hatred, pain, and a struggle that was almost tearing him apart.
Tan Huaiyu... Tan Zhong's son.
The thought of this identity made him tremble with rage, his blood seemingly freezing. He wanted nothing more than to tear Tan Zhong to pieces! He even... even for a fleeting moment, a dark thought flashed through his mind: the sins of the father are visited upon the son, shouldn't Tan Huaiyu also taste the pain that Qi Shan experienced?
But as soon as the thought popped into his head, he felt a chill and fear.
He was not afraid of death; from the moment he decided to take revenge, he never thought he could survive.
But he was afraid... afraid he would never see Sister Jin's cheerful smile again, never hear Qin Zhou's chattering, never gain Xiao Jue's unconditional trust. He still had people he cared about, and there were still people... who cared about him.
Besides, he is not a demon after all.
Eight years ago, he couldn't bring himself to harm an eight-year-old child; eight years later, can he really convince himself to hurt a sixteen-year-old boy?
Even back then, when he raised the butcher's knife, he was just an eighteen-year-old boy who had just come of age and whose heart was filled with fear and despair.
"Xiao Shuo? Are you alright? You look terrible." Sister Jin noticed his unusual condition and came over with concern, placing her hand on his forehead. "Are you too tired? Or is something wrong?"
The warm touch on my forehead was like a ray of light, dispelling some of the chill of my memories.
Qi Shuo abruptly closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, and barely managed to suppress the turmoil in his heart. He shook his head, his voice terribly hoarse: "No...it's nothing. Maybe...I'm just a little tired."
He pushed back his chair and stood up, his steps a little unsteady: "I...I'm going to the restroom."
He needed to be alone, needed cold water, and needed some time to forcefully suppress the dark emotions that were about to burst forth back into the deepest corner of his heart.
At the dinner table, Qin Zhou and Sister Jin exchanged glances, both seeing worry and confusion in each other's eyes. They couldn't understand why a mere name could elicit such a strong reaction from Qi Shuo, who was usually calm and composed.
The past associated with that name, like a huge, silent vortex, had barely revealed a corner of itself when it already caused deep cracks to appear on the surface of peace that had only recently been achieved.
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