MW CH55

Chapter 55: Sly Xia Fellow

“Alright, I’ll handle the rest—go upstairs and do your homework.” He Nanyuan snatched the dustpan from Li Yang, shooing him off.

Li Yang looked reluctant but caved under He Nanyuan’s stern glare and trudged upstairs.

Downstairs, it was just me, He Nanyuan, and that ethereal little lamb.

I caught the lamb nibbling peanuts off the floor—scooped it up fast. “Why’re you eating random stuff?” To He Nanyuan: “Sheep can handle peanuts, right?”

He glanced at it. “No problem,” in Cenglu.

I froze—heart skipped. “How… why’d you switch to Cenglu?”

He smirked, cold. “Don’t you understand it?”

Racked my brain—shit, my chat with Li Yang gave it away. The kid’s too dense to notice, but He Nanyuan caught it instantly.

“Not much—just a little,” I said, dry laugh.

“Why pretend you don’t in front of my uncle? What’s your game?” His face hardened, suspicion flaring again.

Great—one move, back to square one.

“Misunderstanding, honest.” Big sigh, grasping at straws. “I only catch bits. No scam on your uncle—what’s the point? Hearing it or not, same difference, right?”

He didn’t buy it. “Who knows what you Xia types are up to? Lies on lies—truth never comes out of your mouths.”

Guilt hit—telling him I’d learned Cenglu ages ago, fluent even, might make him question why. Yan Chuwen sniffed out me and Mochuan—smart kid like He Nanyuan? He’d see it too.

“I’m not like your father.” I dropped the grin, dead serious.

His brows shot up, disgust sharp. “He’s not my father! He’s just… trash.”

Last time, he said his mom’s Xin Yin was still with that creep.

Cenglu folk prize Xin Yin—part of the soul, they say. Dead and married, you’re buried with your swapped one; unwed, your own—either way, you need it. Bai Zhen’s been gone years, Xin Yin unclaimed—a soul-unsettled taboo. No wonder He Nanyuan and Mochuan grit their teeth at that Haicheng sleaze.

“So, ever thought of tracking that trash down?” I asked.

He swept the last melon seed shells, voice low. “Uncle won’t let me.”

“Why not?”

“Dunno. Says he’ll handle it—told me not to worry.”

I plopped on the sofa, lamb in arms. “Got a photo, name, anything? I’ve got Haicheng contacts—could ask around.”

He hesitated, propped the broom and dustpan against the wall, bolted upstairs.

Two minutes—he was back, clutching a metal necklace.

Panting, he faced me, palm open. “Just this—his old love token to my mom.”

A heart-shaped silver pendant, blackened from oxidation, sat in his hand. I took it, pressed the side—it flipped open like a book, revealing a faded photo of a man.

Twenties, suave, a charmer—I hate to admit it, but vibe-wise… we overlap some. That carefree smile—untouched by life’s grind, stacked with rich-kid swagger.

No wonder He Nanyuan’s got beef—he sees that jerk in me…

“Said he’s an artist, He Jun, Haicheng guy.” He Nanyuan’s eyes dropped. “Checked online—no Haicheng artist named He Jun. Probably fake.”

Snapped two pics with my phone, handed it back. “I’ll ask my friends—they do promo for art exhibits. Might turn something up.”

He pocketed it, nodded.

Footsteps outside—door swung open. Mochuan stepped in.

He clocked me sitting, He Nanyuan standing—eyes swept top to bottom, face blank, but questions blazed in his gaze.

“I—” Before I could explain, He Nanyuan cut in.

“He understands us—grill him good.” Three strides, he was upstairs.

Me: “…”

Wait—I thought we’d moved past this. How’d he burn the bridge before I even crossed?

Room went quiet. The lamb, barely born, was in that eat-sleep cycle—post-peanut snack, it dozed peacefully in my arms.

Mochuan strolled to the tea table, took his window-facing spot from earlier.

“Where’d the sheep come from?”

I stroked its soft, curly wool. “Granny’s down the hill.” Lifted its head for him. “Doesn’t it look gorgeous?”

He paused, puzzled. “…Don’t all sheep look like that?”

Same vibe as foreigners abroad saying “All Asians look alike”—begged for a fight. “How? Look close—big eyes, long lashes, pink mouth and nose! It’s like you—how can you say it’s just another sheep?”

Longer silence. “So, because it looks like me, you hauled it up?”

“Cleared it with the granny.” Passed it over. “Hold it—super sweet.”

He stared ages before taking it, cradling it. I stopped him—posed him—snapped dozens of pics.

Photos done, we headed to the hall, him with the lamb.

“Why the sudden meeting today?” I asked.

“Every three months, standard.” He petted the lamb. “Same drill—I propose, they shoot it down, then rag on me.”

He’d endured that crap tons—my teeth clenched. “Those old geezers talk so damn nasty.”

“Youngest’s seventy—I might… outlast them all.” He sounded chipper. “Slow and steady—some things can’t rush.”

Back in the hall, he set the lamb on a cushion to nap—then turned to “interrogate” me.

“When’d you learn Cenglu?”

He prepped for sutra-copying—opened the book, spread the paper. I jumped in, grinding ink for him.

“Uh… senior year.”

He picked up the brush, waiting. “How much?”

Gauged his face—not mad. “May you be free of affliction, unbound in liberation; may you shed evil deeds, gain flawless merit.”

Didn’t expect that fluency—stunned him. Brush poised perfect, he side-eyed me—total “you sneaky bastard” look.

His stare rattled me—I backpedaled. “Not that good—just hearing, not speaking so much.”

Lashes flickered—eyes dropped, thinking. I’m no mind reader, but I’d bet he’s tallying what he’s said around me he shouldn’t have.

Long quiet. Ink ground, he dipped the brush, hovered, wrote the first stroke—then murmured in Cenglu: “Sly Xia fellow.”

Dug in my pocket, pulled a small paper wrap, offered it eagerly. “I just… couldn’t find the right time to fess up. Don’t be mad—look what I got you?”

Unwrapped—a tiny silver peony ear stud, petals blooming in layers, delicate and slick.

Held it to his earlobe—perfect. “Saw it at the shop—knew it’d look great on you.”

He glanced, set the brush down, swapped his right ear’s stud for the peony.

Size of a pinky nail—tough to detail, but Cenglu’s old craftsmen carved each petal lifelike. Serious skill.

“Looks good?” He finished, dropped his hand.

His beauty’s striking—bold on bold doubles it. No way it’s not gorgeous.

“Looks good.” Glanced outside—no one—pecked his cheek quick.

“No fooling in the hall.” He touched his face—scolding words, zero anger.

“Oh,” I said— in one ear, out the other.

He copied sutras, I ground ink—chatted here and there.

“Cenglu men keep long hair too—past Yan Guans in the building had it. Why’s yours short?”

At eleven, he had short hair—didn’t strike me till those geezers mentioned it. Now that I think about it—yeah, why’s he the only one?

No hiding—he answered straight. “Had long hair as a kid. Went to Xia school—they thought it weird, couldn’t understand me, started shunning me. Pissed off, I chopped it.”

Back for break, the old Yan Guan saw—face black with rage, whipped him, locked him in a dark room. Three days, three nights.

Beatings, he took since childhood—never bent. If he thought he was right, he stuck to it—others be damned.

Yan Guan must cut family ties—he didn’t. Cenglu men grow hair—he snipped. Pinjia’s pure, desireless—he loved a man.

Every piece—against the rites, defying ancestral law.

I’d pegged him as feudal baggage—nah, he’s a wild horse, untamed.

That night, I sent He Nanyuan’s scumbag dad pic to Shen Jing. She’s at a big Haicheng ad firm—handles promo for art exhibits yearly. Figured she might dig something up.

“I’m in finance—clients aren’t my lane. I’ll ask Jiang Boshu,” she texted.

By the time I saw it, she’d hit up Jiang Boshu—his reply pinged me.

“This guy—surname He?”

Smelled a lead—called him.

Thought finding the creep would lift Mochuan and He Nanyuan’s burden—big win. Nope—out of nowhere, it sparked our first fight since getting together.