MW CH59

Chapter 59: You Have No Need to Interfere in This

Six people, six single sofas—just filled.

He Nanyuan walked in stone-faced—a prickly vibe screaming “no talk”—leaving Zuo Yong to field most questions: how it started, who swung first, lessons learned.

“I just wanted my sister’s Xin Yin back—they wouldn’t give it, said Su Duo had to ask them herself. I got mad—called them toads lusting after swans—they charged, and it kicked off…” Zuo Yong hung his head, tone earnest. “We know we messed up—shouldn’t have been so rash.”

“Right—you were way too rash,” I cut in. Every eye in the office snapped to me. I looked at the principal, smiled. “How could you fight back? Should’ve stood there, taken the beating—deserved to die.”

Sarcasm so thick even a shriveled brain couldn’t miss it—how could the principal?

His face stiffened, awkward. “That’s not what I meant. When… when something’s lost, you should tell a teacher—let us handle it, right?”

“Could’ve called the cops too!” the dean chipped in.

I nodded, all ears. “Yeah, they botched that too. Principal Qian, no pressure—do what you gotta do. Li Bureau… we’ll handle him. You’ve done all you can—he won’t blame you.”

“Too kind, too kind…” The principal waved it off, sweat beading fast on his bald dome. “This mess—we’re stuck too. The other parents are raging—threatening banners at the school if we don’t satisfy them. We’re cornered.”

Some “cornered.”

I’d figured Cenglu kids one-sidedly beat someone—pay a bit, fine. But today? He Nanyuan and Zuo Yong were banged up too—hardly came out ahead.

Those punks started it—threw the first punch. Why punish our kids? ‘Cause we’re not the loudmouth parents?

“Look, this thing—”

“Then how do you want to handle it?”

I was about to tangle with this bald principal—hash out right and wrong—when Mochuan, quiet since we walked in, spoke up.

Years as Pinjia—he’d faced bigger scenes. A middle school principal? Overkill—like butchering a chicken with an ox cleaver.

“It’s not about me handling it…” The principal shot the dean a look.

Dean jumped in, cued. “Principal said we’re stuck—so we called you both to brainstorm, figure out a clean fix.”

He finished—room went dead. No one bit.

“How’d you get hurt?” Mochuan turned straight to He Nanyuan, eyeing his wound.

“Wood scraped me.” He Nanyuan touched the gauze on his brow-bone—shamed to say it, face sour.

“Stitches?”

“Five.”

Mochuan shifted to Zuo Yong. “Your hand—bad?”

“Not much—flesh wound.” Zuo Yong rolled up his sleeve, showed the bandaged arm. “Those guys were dirty—couldn’t win fair, so they cheap-shotted us with stuff.”

“Others?”

“Rest got off lighter—me and Qia Gu took the front!” Zuo Yong beamed proud.

Mochuan looked away as he said that last bit. “Principal Qian—their kids get hurt, parents storm you for answers. Our kids get hurt—who do we storm?”

That striking face, suited up—could scream aggression. But years as Pinjia—or too many sutras—turned it into sacred untouchability, laced with a spring-breeze-melts-snow smile.

Wanna see him in that suit, doing me.

Bed thoughts here? Offbeat. But two-plus months—over seventy days—no sex. Turning into a crotch-driven beast’s fair, right?

“Who… who to ask?” Principal’s eyes begged the dean again.

“More trouble’s no good, Principal Qian—how about we both step back?” I jumped in, cutting off the dean. “You don’t chase us, we don’t chase you.”

Principal frowned, mulling—winter, yet his forehead dripped. He grabbed tissues, wiped, glanced at Wang Fang by the door, waved her off. “Teacher Wang, head back.”

“Sure—call if you need me.” She nodded to us, stepped out.

Door cracked—noise slammed in, hitting every ear.

“Down with filthy punks—protect our girls!”

Wang Fang’s back froze. “Mi Xia, you staging a coup?!”

At “Mi Xia,” He Nanyuan’s face twitched. He eyed the door—itching to go, stuck ‘cause Mochuan was here—pure “ants in pants.”

“We’re negotiating with the school—who gets expelled, you don’t decide!” A clear, lively voice rang out.

Mochuan eyed the principal’s ashen face, then He Nanyuan’s antsy one—stood, walked to the door.

“You, you all…” Wang Fang sounded helpless. “Go back—it’s not as bad as you think…”

I pieced it—grinned. “Classmates?”

He Nanyuan, zoned on the door, ignored me. Zuo Yong, in the know, nodded hard, thrilled.

“Who’re we expelling?” Mochuan propped the door open—surface question for outside, real jab at inside.

“Pinjia!” rang out—principal couldn’t sit. He lurched up—others followed. He Nanyuan and Zuo Yong bolted fastest—door in seconds.

Chat got fuzzy—did they… claim kin?

“Mi Xia! What… what’s this?” He Nanyuan gawked outside.

Curiosity spiked—I peeked past him. Empty hall now packed with students—endless sea.

This chaos—I dig it.

“Whoa, tons of people,” I said, hand on He Nanyuan’s shoulder, smirking glee. “Lively, huh?”

“Who’re we expelling?” Mochuan asked again—crowd full now.

Lead kid—pale, likable, almond eyes sharp black-and-white, cat-like when they spun.

“Gonna expel He Nanyuan, Uncle—principal said so.” He answered sweet.

Zuo Yong pointed at himself. “Me too.”

Sweat rolled off the principal’s temples, near his chin. “Misunderstanding—all a mix-up! Still talking—no decision.”

“Yeah, yeah—no decision,” the dean echoed. “Just scaring them—teach ‘em not to be rash. Not really expelling.”

This kid—perfect timing. Pushed it forward—saved us the dance. No bureaucracy now—cards out.

“Principal Qian, look at this mess—what’d I say? Less trouble’s better. You don’t want Li Bureau sweating this, right?”

He nodded fast. “Right, right.”

“Pinjia leaving Cuoyansong’s rare—let uncle and nephew catch up. We’ll keep chatting—how’s that?”

“My thought exactly.”

Winked at Mochuan—leave it to me—then slung an arm ‘round the principal’s shoulder, laughing back into the office.

Spooked hard, the old principal caved easy—no expulsions, no penalties.

Leaving, he and the dean walked me to the gate.

“That money’s not medical—it’s a humanitarian gift, got it?” I double-checked.

“Got it, got it!” Their tune flipped from arrival—pure fawn.

Crossed the road, pushed into a small diner. Two tables taken—one with Mochuan and He Nanyuan.

“Waiting long?” Sat by Mochuan. “Ordered?”

He slid me a wet wipe. “No—waiting for you.”

His tie—gone. Stashed or trashed?

“I ate,” He Nanyuan said.

“Ate? Eat more.” Scanned the wall menu, wiped my hands, called the boss—two meat, two veg, four dishes, two rice.

“…All good—study hard,” I told them during the wait.

“Thanks for the hassle.” To me—then eyes on He Nanyuan, voice iced. “No thanks yet?”

He Nanyuan’s brows pinched tight—grudging. “Thanks.”

Mumbled—syllables mashed—like he was clearing his throat.

Since summer, after I vowed to hunt his scumbag dad, he’d warmed up—till near school start, back to stink-eye, worse than ever.

Figured it was school jitters—let it slide. Today? Same old “barely tolerates me” vibe.

Near semester’s end—no jitters excuse. Not that—did I piss him off again?

He doesn’t think I forgot the dad hunt and’s sulking, right?

Meal down, he barely glanced my way—dodged my words. Less hate than early days, but a “disdain-but-can’t-fully-disdain” air hung.

“Study hard!”

Watched him dash into school—Mochuan and I headed back to Pengge.

In the car, buckling up, Mochuan spilled a wild dorm tale.

“Talking to Qia Gu—asked if today’s ringleader’s a new pal, how he is. He said he can’t tell—smart sometimes, dumb others. I’m thinking—what’s that mean?—then his eyes went blank…”

Followed He Nanyuan’s stare—turned—saw Mi Xia pop up on the balcony, grabbing clothes.

I blinked. “What?”

“Fourth floor,” Mochuan said. “Climbed up outside—said rain’s coming, back for laundry. Wants to grab food with me next time.”

I cracked up mid-sentence—fit He Nanyuan’s “smart-dumb” tag perfect.

“What’d you say?”

He paused. “A kid—what else but ‘sure’?”

Laughed harder.

Left past one—back to Pengge by five-plus. Day trip, done—damn efficient.

Haicheng’s winter darkens at five—Pengge’s sky still glowed.

Parked slow at the institute—didn’t kill the engine.

Mochuan reached for the door—I stopped him. “Got something to say.”

Tone too heavy—he turned, startled, hand still on the armrest.

“Meant to tell you yesterday—Little Yuan’s thing delayed it.” Gathered my words. “October—I found He Jun, Little Yuan’s real dad, through a friend. Real name’s He Mingbo—abstract artist. Abroad now—back after New Year.”

He eased his hand off the door. “You tracked down He Mingbo?”

Still clueless to the storm—I smugly thought I’d earned a vow-breaking reward.

“Little Yuan wants his mom’s Xin Yin back—I figured I could help.”

He listened quiet—then: “Which friend?”

Could’ve lied—named some rando—he doesn’t know my crew. But gut screamed—if he caught a lie, hell’d break loose.

Like bone-deep instinct—I dodge anything that’d rile Mochuan.

“Jiang Boshu.” Spilled fast—how I tapped Shen Jing’s firm, how she passed it to Jiang Boshu, how he linked me to He Mingbo.

Thought full disclosure’d dodge his wrath.

Too naive.

He didn’t cut in—calm as ever—but his first words weren’t.

“October to now—no, August to now—four months…” He stared, baffled. “Four months, and you’re just telling me?”

Stumped—guilt crept in. “Wanted to confirm it was him before—”

He cut me off. “So what do you want me to do now?”

“You decide—tell Little Yuan or not.” Cautious as hell.

Cold stare—long—then: “You’re not asking me to decide—you’re forcing me. You got that photo from Qia Gu—didn’t he tell you I forbade him from chasing that man?”

Froze—didn’t see this coming. He Nanyuan had said it—but I’d chalked it up to Haicheng’s haystack, a nameless needle—thought Mochuan just spared him the grind.

Not quite, huh?

“Just wanted to help.” Lunged for his hand.

He yanked back—dodging touch.

“You have no need to interfere in this.” Slammed the door open—stalked off, no glance back.

Through the window, I watched him climb the hill—wanted to chase—saw others heading up, chatting him up—stayed put, helpless.

No need?

Heart churned—baffled, pissed, a pinch of wronged.

Is he saying… I don’t qualify?