Chapter 49: The Reason I Must Leave

Qu Wan gained a sliver of freedom, which was primarily manifested in the expansion of his activity range. He was finally able to leave the bedroom and go to the living room.

After breakfast, someone came looking for him. It was Song Chengfeng.

As Qu Wan had anticipated, yesterday's trip out with Yan Zhuo was conspicuous enough.

"You haven't changed at all," Song Chengfeng remarked with a sigh.

Qu Wan curled up on the sofa, still holding the glass of milk Yan Zhuo had sternly instructed him to finish before leaving. He swept his gaze over Song Chengfeng. "You've changed a lot."

The unassuming black-framed glasses masked most of his shrewdness, leaving behind only gentleness. His entire aura was drastically different from two years ago; the slickness of a merchant was gone, replaced by the mundane tranquility of everyday life.

Yet, his shamelessness remained unchanged. Song Chengfeng sat on the other end of the sofa, picked up a piece of candy from the coffee table, and tossed it into his mouth. "Hearing people say yesterday that Yan Zhuo was all over a man in a wheelchair on the street, I guessed it was you."

"All over" was a gross exaggeration, so Qu Wan intentionally let the phrase slide.

Song Chengfeng asked again, "How have these past two years been?"

His tone was casual, as if he were catching up with an old friend.

For a moment, Qu Wan found it novel. Although he and Song Chengfeng could be considered allies, they had plotted against each other plenty of times over the years. He hadn't expected that after the apocalypse, they would be able to converse so peacefully.

"Quite well. It seems you're doing well too."

"Of course," Song Chengfeng said, looking quite smug. "A brilliant person like me shines anywhere."

The bitterness was something only he knew; even if you break your teeth, you have to swallow them in silence. He was used to putting up a front, habitually putting on airs in front of an old rival.

Without probing into the truth of his words, Qu Wan asked as something occurred to him, "Did you find the person you were looking for?"

Two years ago, Song Chengfeng's original intention in coming to City G had been to find his wife.

At the mention of this, Song Chengfeng's expression turned somewhat dim, but he immediately smiled and said, "Let's not talk about that. Are you leaving again after coming back this time?"

With a languid expression, Qu Wan made no attempt to evade the question. "The choice isn't up to me."

"Yan Zhuo?" Song Chengfeng raised an eyebrow, nodding with a hint of approval. "It's understandable for him to act this way."

For two whole years, everyone had been saying Qu Wan was dead. The only one who persisted was Yan Zhuo.

Song Chengfeng still remembered that foggy day two years ago. Holding the crying little thing, he had tried to persuade Yan Zhuo, "Qu Wan is dead! You have to accept reality!"

Yan Zhuo's eyes were bloodshot, yet he spoke every word with deliberate clarity: "He is not dead."

He had knelt before the building collapsed by the explosion, his shoulders heaving continuously. Song Chengfeng didn't know if he was crying; he could only see him desperately clawing at the rubble until his nails fell off and his arms became a bloody mess. No matter who witnessed that scene, it would have left an indelible impression.

From the perspective of someone who had known Qu Wan for many years, he had often praised Qu Wan's clever methods of utilizing Yan Zhuo. Yet as a companion who had faced life and death together a few times, he ultimately felt a sense of injustice on Yan Zhuo's behalf.

That was why he couldn't figure it out. "I've always wondered, two years ago, what on earth was your reason for having to leave?"

The milk in the cup gradually lost its warmth. Qu Wan remained silent for a long time, offering no answer.

"Don't buy his stuff, it definitely has viruses!"

"My dad says he's a freak."

"Oh oh! The freak is here to sell things!"

...

A group of half-grown children laughed and shoved one another, their mouths spewing hurtful words.

Surrounded in the center of them was a thin, frail boy. His hay-like hair drooped listlessly over his forehead, obscuring both eyes, yet failing to hide the terrifying dark red birthmark on his cheek.

He kept his head lowered, gripping a plastic bucket tightly in both hands, showing no reaction to the mocking taunts ringing in his ears.

Silence was treated as tacit submission.

A sharp pain flared on his face. Shielded by his bangs, the boy lifted his gaze—someone was poking his cheek with a tree branch.

The withered branch remained sharp, but the person holding it acted as if it were nothing. He looked at the boy as though viewing an object, critiquing, "So disgusting..."

The boy shrank back, his fingers gripping the plastic bucket turning stiff and pale.

"Are you mute? Why aren't you speaking?"

"How are you going to sell things if you don't talk? Do you want us to help you?"

Malice laced the words.

The boy retreated a step, long accustomed to forbearance. "No need."

"So he can talk after all."

"I think he's deliberately ignoring us!"

"Freak!"

He was quickly shoved to the ground. The plastic bucket rolled away with a clatter, its contents spilling all over the ground. The boy instinctively hugged his head, but the anticipated blows never landed.

There was no pain. His brain reacted sluggishly until a voice came from above: "Isn't the ground cold?"

The light before him was blocked. He could easily look up against the glare, and at a single glance, he was stunned. His mouth parted slightly, and his hay-like hair swayed in the breeze, instantly taking on life.

That was truly an exceptionally beautiful person, beautiful enough to make one overlook his gender. The boy wracked his brains, yet could not think of a single adjective worthy of matching him.

The scattered items were picked up one by one. The boy sprang up abruptly and bowed in gratitude. "Thank you, thank you so much!"

The repacked plastic bucket was handed over to him. The boy received it with both hands, not daring to look up again, afraid of feeling inferior, afraid of breeding envy.

Yet the gentleman who had helped him didn't leave. Instead, he asked, "Why do they bully you?"

Bitterness filled the boy's chest. "Because I'm so ugly..."

It was actually hideousness, but he beautified it slightly, playing the part of a self-deceiving liar.

The beautiful gentleman murmured an acknowledgment and asked again, "Is there only you at home?"

"No, there's also grandfather. He's been sick lately, so I came out to sell things for him." It was the first time the boy had ever spoken so much to a stranger.

He felt a little happy, yet he also knew he and the beautiful gentleman belonged to different worlds. Just as depression washed over him, a name tag suddenly appeared before his eyes.

The beautiful gentleman's voice came from above his head: "Go to the Upper District to sell your things. If anyone asks, show them this."

The Upper District was filled with ability users and mission squads, who had always been generous spenders and wouldn't run into the kind of people who had just bullied him. The boy paused, set down the plastic bucket, and respectfully received the name tag with both hands. "Thank you."

He should have left quickly, heading straight to the Upper District to sell his goods so he could get medicine for his grandfather. Yet, driven by an impulse he couldn't explain, he asked, "Sir, is it a crime to be ugly? Just because I'm ugly, do I deserve to be bullied?"

The beautiful gentleman tilted his head slightly; even his shadow cast on the ground was flawless. "Of course not, but you have to accept it."

His utterly mundane voice sounded somewhat cold.

His hair was ruffled. The boy looked up in shock to see a faint smile hanging on the beautiful gentleman's lips. "When you become strong, all of this will completely vanish. Humanity only submits to the strong."

The boy understood half of it, then saw the beautiful gentleman bend down to meet his eye level, asking, "Am I good-looking?"

Of course. That was an unquestionable fact, the boy thought in a daze.

Yet the beautiful gentleman curved his lips in a mocking expression, speaking in a voice only the two of them could hear: "Let me tell you a secret. Actually, I used to be very ugly too."

He pointed to his own face. "This is both honey and arsenic."

As the boy walked away clutching his plastic bucket, Wen Xi turned around and saw Qin Ji standing under a tree, dressed very neatly.

With a natural demeanor, he walked over and asked, "You went out?"

Qin Ji replied, "Today is Qin Li's birthday."

Wen Xi was startled. "Why didn't you call me?"

"No need." Qin Ji averted his gaze, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, and tossed it into his mouth without lighting it. He simply clamped it between his lips, his voice slightly muffled when he spoke again: "Wen Xi, do people who turn into zombies still have souls?"

Qin Li had died two years ago, and not painlessly. He had been bitten by a zombie, and the process of turning into one had been both short and long—losing consciousness, roaring... until he could no longer be called human.

In the end, it was Qin Ji who fired the shot. That was his younger brother, the brother he had promised their parents on their deathbed that he would protect well. The final shot of death ought to be executed by him.

He didn't regret it, yet in the dead of night, he would wonder: that Qin Ji he had buried with his own hands, the one who had turned into a zombie—was he truly still his younger brother?

"Of course they do," Wen Xi said with certainty. "So you'll accompany me there again tomorrow. I promised him he could drink a bottle of beer every birthday."

Qin Ji's voice was clogged, his throat congested with many unspoken things, yet the only word that slipped out was, "Okay."

Wen Xi glanced at the sky—it had just past noon. He began to talk nonsense with his eyes wide open, "It's getting late. Do you want to go to my place?"

Perhaps Qin Ji was blind, for he went along with it. "Mn, it's dark."

Wen Xi continued with great satisfaction, "Come to my place for a cup of water, and maybe roll in the sheets by the way?"

The priority went without saying.

Qin Ji instantly felt thirsty. "I don't have any missions today."

Meaning they could go at it for a long time.

For a blockhead of a man to be able to utter such words, Wen Xi attributed it entirely to his own credit. He stepped forward and slung an arm around Qin Ji's shoulder like a buddy.

They were people drowning in sorrow, and they could also act as beasts coupling in the dark. As long as they could briefly escape the agony, no method was shameful.