Chapter 7: The Older Lover – 7: This Is My Little Brother

Monday.

As usual, Yan Qinghan arrived bright and early.

But unlike usual, the classmates who normally chattered away fell quiet today when they saw him walk into the classroom.

It took a good while before whispers began to ripple through the room:

“Oh my god, is that Yan Qinghan?”

“He’s so good-looking!”

“I always thought he was just a boring nerd with good grades—who would’ve thought.”

Honestly, before he turned twelve, Yan Qinghan had grown used to people praising his face, his grades, his cleverness—everything about him.

So hearing this kind of talk now only felt like something from a past life; it didn’t unsettle him much.

And his calm composure only made him seem all the more elegant.

Among these sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds, “good grades” alone wasn’t enough to boost one’s popularity. After all, this key high school was full of students with good grades.

But “good grades” plus “very good looks”? That was an absolute killer combo—enough to embolden the braver kids to break free of the homeroom teacher’s unspoken “hints.”

When Yan Qinghan pulled his textbook out of his desk, an older girl with a ponytail came over on her own and said with studied casualness, “Yan Qinghan, did you finish the math homework? Let me take a look.”

For a moment, the surrounding silence was so complete you could hear a pin drop.

This was the first time in over a year that anyone had asked Yan Qinghan for homework.

His face expressionless, Yan Qinghan took the workbook out of his bag and handed it to her. “Don’t just copy it. Ask me if there’s anything you don’t understand.”

His manner was natural and generous, as if he had never been frozen out at all.

Clutching his neatly written workbook, the ponytailed girl chirped, “Great—thanks, Top Scholar!”

After class, back in the office, Zhang Yuan set his thermos down heavily on the desk and dug Yan Qinghan’s essay out of a stack of papers to read.

As he read, his brows twisted into an ugly knot.

A very simple story, but without question a heartwarming one—even O. Henry-esque in style. The prose was clean and graceful, the emotion abundant yet never affected—hardly something a child this age could write.

As long as the judges weren’t blind, the Grand Prize wasn’t guaranteed, but a top-three spot should be no problem.

If he submitted this essay… if Yan Qinghan won…

Never mind whether his colleagues would mock him for suppressing the boy all this time; never mind whether the brat would gloat; his cousin alone would tear him apart with her sharp tongue.

And he’d recently been planning to borrow another large sum from her!

No. He couldn’t submit this essay as it was!

He crumpled the pages in his fist, ready to toss them into the trash can beside him—

Wait.

Rather than just throwing them away, why not…

Heh. Yes. There was actually a better way.

Make that brat know what I’m capable of, make him swallow the loss without a word, and earn a favor from my cousin on the side—why wouldn’t I?

Just a few days into November, that box of “Mid-Autumn Gifts” was finally all eaten up.

Just as Luo Yan was fretting over whether there’d be no more Points to earn from cooking, he received an updated Plot:

[Due to improved nutrition, Yan Qinghan’s growth and development have gradually returned to a normal curve and no longer lag noticeably behind his peers.]

Along with the Plot Update came a full 5,000 Points in bonus rewards and a new [Quest Prompt]:

[Main Quest Progress: Yan Qinghan has eaten all the Mid-Autumn Gifts.

Per the Plot, continue ensuring Yan Qinghan eats well, dresses warmly, and achieves Holistic Healthy Growth]

Staring at the reward of a whopping 5,000 Points, even the System was dumbfounded.

Luo Yan’s jaw hung open in shock—he had no thought to spare for why this Main Quest kept growing and growing; he only wanted to hurry and feed Yan Qinghan until he was plump and rosy.

In fact, now that he ate three full meals a day—nutritious and tasty at that—no longer had to do manual labor, and got more sleep each night, Yan Qinghan’s complexion improved at a visible pace.

His once sallow, dull face quickly grew fair and bright; his eyes gained more and more spirit; even his freshly cut hair gleamed with healthy luster. He looked more and more like the Eldest Young Master of the Yan Family of years past—the one who had been cradled in everyone’s palms and praised by all.

One Saturday, the child he tutored took a leave, and Yan Qinghan had a rare free day, so Luo Yan took him to Xinhua Bookstore to buy books.

According to Luo Yan, all of Yan Qinghan’s workbooks were secondhand, with the answers already written in—far too distracting for his thought process.

Though Yan Qinghan insisted it didn’t really matter and wouldn’t affect his problem-solving, he still followed Luo Yan out the door.

Walking down the street, one tall and one short, both in dark blue coats and light blue jeans, both with fair, handsome faces, they drew sidelong glances from passersby, who marveled at whose two brothers these were, raised so well.

After leaving the bookstore clutching the thick stack of books Luo Yan had bought him, Yan Qinghan was about to head straight for the bus home when Luo Yan patted him. “Look!”

Yan Qinghan looked up and saw that a new McDonald’s had opened across the street, its window plastered with an ad: “Free toy with every kids’ meal.”

In the ad were four tiny, adorable Teacup Cats.

Luo Yan, who had zero resistance to Fluffies, stared at Yan Qinghan with shining eyes. “Teacup Cats! So adorable—Little Han, do you want one?”

Yan Qinghan honestly had little interest in such trinkets. Besides, his head these days was full of nothing but formulas and vocabulary; a tiny plush toy like this hardly stirred a ripple.

But faced with Luo Yan’s sparkling eyes, Yan Qinghan simply couldn’t shake his head. He could only nod. “I want one.”

So Luo Yan grabbed Yan Qinghan’s sleeve and charged inside.

At the counter, Luo Yan told the server excitedly, “One Spicy Chicken Leg Burger for me, and two kids’ meals for my little brother! The cats—hmm, one white cat and one black cat!”

My little brother…?

Standing to the side hugging his stack of materials, Yan Qinghan—for some reason—felt the tips of his ears go a little red.

Mm. It must be because he was seventeen and still ordering kids’ meals. Yes, that had to be it.

After receiving the two tiny Teacup Cats, Yan Qinghan said, “I… I don’t have anywhere to put this little thing. How about you hold onto it for now?”

Luo Yan shook his head hard. “How could I? These are for Little Han.”

Yan Qinghan looked up at Luo Yan and thought for a moment. “How about we each keep one?”

Luo Yan: “…Then which do you like, the little white cat or the little black cat? Can I give you the white one?”

Yan Qinghan, of course, had no objection whatsoever.

And so, each with a little Teacup Cat tucked in his pocket, they headed home.

*

That evening, Luo Yan heated the dishes and prepared the rice as usual, waiting for Yan Qinghan to return from school.

As always, Yan Qinghan arrived home around seven.

Though Yan Qinghan greeted Luo Yan politely as always, then took off his coat, put away his bag, and washed his hands, Luo Yan saw at a glance that something was off with the boy’s complexion.

Dinner was edamame-braised diced chicken and white radish stewed with pork leg bone.

Every edamame pod was smooth and springy; every piece of chicken fragrant and tender. Beyond the green edamame and pale-yellow chicken, a touch of red chili lifted both flavor and color—a dish lovely to the eye and the palate alike. The white radish and pork bone had simmered a full four hours; the broth was rich and fragrant, garnished with a sprinkle of cilantro. The moment the lid came off, the aroma filled the whole room.

Normally, Yan Qinghan would have kept praising it—”so good, so good”—while eating, then polished his bowl down to the bottom.

Today, though he still ate heartily, he hardly spoke.

Chewing on his chopsticks, Luo Yan ventured carefully, “Did something happen at school today?”

Yan Qinghan paused. “Midterms are coming. I feel a little unsure.”

Luo Yan, a hopeless student, couldn’t grasp what “unsure” felt like for a Top Scholar—was it fear of not getting a perfect score? Of not taking first place? So he could only mumble some improvised comfort. Yan Qinghan showed no impatience, even nodding along solemnly.

When he collected the dishes after dinner, Luo Yan received new Points: 50.

Huh? Normally he got 100 Points for one dinner. Was it because Yan Qinghan was in a bad mood while eating that even the reward shrank?

A midterm exam could affect Yan Qinghan’s mood this much?

Could this… be the inner world of a Top Scholar?

Luo Yan didn’t quite understand. But considering he’d always been a hopeless student himself, unable to fathom a Top Scholar’s troubles, he didn’t think further.

At noon the next day, while Luo Yan was busy in the Yan Family kitchen, Madam Yan—Wang Manyao, who rarely set foot in the kitchen herself—swept in gleefully and said to Uncle Zhang, who happened to be nearby, “Steward Zhang, hurry and prepare an afternoon tea for twenty.”

“The petit cakes must be freshly baked, at least four flavors; cut all the fruit into shapes—ah, Steward Zhang, I won’t go through it all; I trust you understand what I mean.”

It was already twelve o’clock. Suddenly ordering an afternoon tea for twenty at this hour was an absolutely impossible task.

The Old Steward sighed inwardly, his face still deferential. “Rest assured, Madam.”

Wang Manyao seemed in an excellent mood today and added a few more words: “You see, I’ve invited a few dear sisters over to celebrate—celebrate my darling son winning the essay competition! The Grand Prize, no less, with a trophy and everything!”

Grand Prize in the essay competition? With a trophy?

Could this be the essay competition Yan Qinghan had mentioned before?

And the winner wasn’t Yan Qinghan, but his younger brother, Yan Qingyu? The Yan Qingyu who’d only gotten into a private high school because Yan Shi donated a library?

A deeply wrong feeling suddenly rose in Luo Yan’s chest.

After scrambling to finish the afternoon tea, Luo Yan went and found the newspaper printing the winning essays.

One look, and Luo Yan nearly spat blood on the spot:

Though the paintbrush had been changed to a “sketching pen,” the shop to a “bookstore,” and some sentences deliberately shuffled, there was no doubt whatsoever: this essay—this essay signed “Yan Qingyu, Morningstar Private High School, City A”—was Yan Qinghan’s work! The essay Yan Qinghan had written at his little writing desk, stroke by careful stroke, full of hope!