Chapter 8: The Older Lover – 8: Our Little Han!

Yesterday afternoon.

With a regretful expression, the homeroom teacher announced to everyone that no one from their high school had won in this essay competition.

The students murmured among themselves for a while, but hardly anyone was suspicious.

Then someone secretly tossed a note to Yan Qinghan:

“Top Scholar, how come even you didn’t win? Your essays are so good—you get full marks on the joint exams without even drafting.”

It had only been a month or so since Yan Qinghan’s “transformation,” yet his popularity in class had already grown considerably.

Beyond being good-looking, he didn’t mind spending time explaining problems, and never mocked anyone for not understanding—which earned him even more points in his classmates’ hearts.

Yan Qinghan wrote back on the note: “Normal. In literature, there’s no such thing as first place.”

The matter might have passed just like that, but near the end of school, someone brought a newspaper to class and said, “I saw that winning essay. The author’s from a private high school, and the name looks a lot like our Top Scholar’s—what was it, ‘Yan Qingyu’?”

Yan Qinghan’s pupils contracted. He took the newspaper.

Having read the entire piece, Yan Qinghan went straight to homeroom teacher Zhang Yuan’s office with the newspaper.

There were no other teachers in the office at the time, so Yan Qinghan asked directly, “Teacher Zhang, I want to ask: why did my story become another student’s essay from another high school?”

Zhang Yuan looked up, peering at Yan Qinghan over his lenses. “Your story? Another student? What are you talking about?”

Yan Qinghan spread the newspaper on the desk. “Teacher Zhang, though a few isolated details differ, I am absolutely certain this essay is mine.”

Zhang Yuan pushed up his glasses impatiently. “You just said the details differ—how can you be sure it’s yours? How do you know no one else could write it? What are you, some supremely gifted star of destiny? Only you can write a story?”

Suppressing his anger, Yan Qinghan enunciated each word: “Teacher Zhang, if only the concept were the same, or a few isolated phrases, then perhaps it would be coincidence. But this degree of similarity from beginning to end could never be coincidence.”

Zhang Yuan rose slowly, grinning. “Oh? So you’re so sure he copied you? Why not say you copied him?”

Yan Qinghan maintained his composure: “I don’t consider it plagiarism. I believe he took my essay outright.”

Zhang Yuan burst out laughing. “Yan Qinghan, boy, have you lost your mind? Some kind of delusional megalomaniac? You say he took it—where’s your evidence? You say the essay is yours—where’s your draft?”

Yan Qinghan, who always wrote in one unbroken flow, naturally had no draft. Without evidence, he simply could not prove the essay’s author was himself.

Zhang Yuan narrowed his eyes. Seeing no one around, he made no attempt to hide the smugness on his face and lowered his voice:

“You—take a look at what you really are. Your mother calls herself some refined lady, but back then wasn’t she just selling fish at the wet market? A stinking fishmonger who couldn’t keep a man to save her life—”

Yan Qinghan could no longer stay calm. His eyes flushed red in an instant, and he lunged forward, swinging his fist at that twisted face.

“Hit me! Go on, hit me!”

“Throw that punch and you can kiss that scholarship goodbye! I’ll have you expelled in a minute—go crawl back to the wet market and sell fish!”

Just then, the math teacher and physics teacher entered with their teaching aids—and saw Yan Qinghan, a full head shorter than Zhang Yuan, clutching his homeroom teacher’s collar with bloodshot eyes.

“What’s going on! What happened!”

“Oh dear, Yan Qinghan! What are you doing, child!” The two female teachers rushed over in a fluster and quickly pulled Yan Qinghan away.

Zhang Yuan straightened his clothes and began spouting nonsense—that Yan Qinghan had long resented him, that he’d flown into violence after just a couple of criticisms today, and so on.

Fortunately, the other teachers all knew how Zhang Yuan normally mistreated Yan Qinghan; they also knew what a calm, polite honor student Yan Qinghan usually was.

After Zhang Yuan’s chaotic shouting, the other teachers didn’t really intend to drag Yan Qinghan off to the dean or anything. They simply lectured Yan Qinghan—telling him not to be so impulsive at his young age, not to misunderstand the teacher’s meaning, and so on.

And Yan Qinghan kept his lips clamped shut, his face flushed purple, without saying another word.

Three days later.

As usual, Zhang Yuan sat in the office reviewing his lesson plans.

Suddenly, the phone in his drawer vibrated twice.

He pulled open the drawer, pushed up his glasses, and saw on the black-and-white phone screen a message from a contact saved as “God of Wealth”:

[Noon today. Same place.]

Zhang Yuan’s heart lurched. He quickly replied “Okay.”

At noon, Zhang Yuan blew into a teahouse three streets from the school like a gust of wind and met this “God of Wealth” at the usual seat on the second floor: a potbellied middle-aged man wearing a gold watch.

Zhang Yuan’s face creased into smiles. “Boss Wang, what instructions do you have for me today?”

Boss Wang grunted and said bluntly, “Teacher Zhang, you’re rather insatiable, aren’t you.”

Zhang Yuan looked utterly baffled. “Huh?”

Boss Wang said, “We agreed on a 10 percent kickback. Your school bought 400,000 in textbooks, and you personally pocketed 40,000—and it’s still not enough?”

Zhang Yuan grew even more baffled. “I never said it was too little—40,000! My monthly salary is only 5,000. Why would I complain?”

Boss Wang’s face, shiny with grease, growled low: “Not enough?! If it’s not enough, why did you call me late at night insisting on 20 percent?! I’m only making 200,000 off you people total, and you want to swallow 80,000 in one bite?! All you did was help talk the others into choosing our textbooks! Let me tell you, Zhang Yuan—if you don’t want the job, plenty of people do!”

Zhang Yuan said in a low voice, “Aiyo, Boss Wang, this—this is a misunderstanding! When did I ever call you? I never made such a demand!”

Boss Wang sneered. “Drop the act! Those details you mentioned—only you could know them! You even threatened me on the phone, saying if I didn’t agree, you’d report me—that my textbooks were shoddy and had obscene illustrations!”

Zhang Yuan grew anxious too, sweat beading on his scalp. “I told you, I didn’t make that call! My phone was off and charging all last night—I never used it! Could someone be jealous of me—jealous that I’ve got a connection to Boss Wang like you—and is deliberately sabotaging things!”

Boss Wang stared at the man whose voice was beginning to tremble, seemingly weighing the truth of his words.

Zhang Yuan hurried on: “Boss Wang, think about it. Every day I play the lackey to those dumbass students and moron administrators, working myself to the bone for 5,000. This is just moving your lips for you—a little risk and I pocket tens of thousands. Am I an idiot not to take it?”

“And besides, we’ve cooperated more than once. With that last edition of supplementary readers, you made 100,000 and I took 10,000, and I was perfectly happy with it—never once complained it was too little.”

“My guess is, someone around me is jealous and wants to steal this business, so they impersonated me and called you—the number that called you definitely wasn’t this phone, right?”

Boss Wang nodded. “It was another number. Called back, no one picked up. But the voice was identical to yours! And they knew about the substandard ink on that last edition! Who else knew about that but you and me?!”

Zhang Yuan pondered. “Maybe someone else got it tested and did it to spite us… In any case, Boss Wang, trust me—I’m absolutely clinging to your thigh, not a single other thought in my head!”

Zhang Yuan then swore oaths and vows until he finally soothed this God of Wealth.

In the end, Zhang Yuan promised to go back and search carefully for whoever was trying to sabotage them.

After Zhang Yuan—arrogant at first, obsequious at last—escorted the God of Wealth out of the teahouse, Luo Yan, who’d been sitting a few meters away sipping tea with headphones on, removed his headphones and smiled with satisfaction.

That afternoon.

Zhang Yuan, badly rattled by the noon incident, remained on edge.

He went through everyone who held a grudge against him and everyone who might envy him, one by one, but simply couldn’t think of anyone who knew so much, knew Boss Wang’s private number, and could imitate his voice.

Surely it couldn’t be an immortal or a ghost.

He clawed at his scalp futilely, nearly drawing blood, but couldn’t figure out who was behind it.

At five in the afternoon, it was time for the school broadcast again.

Every afternoon, the broadcast station played essays submitted by students, recorded songs, and the like—one of the school’s little traditions.

Normally, when Zhang Yuan was in a good mood, he’d even stand up and hum along with the songs, or offer commentary with the others. But now, he only found the sound grating. Suppressing his irritation, he moved to shut the office’s doors and windows—just as the young host announced in a sweet voice: “Today we received a very special recording—an improvised theatrical performance. Let’s all enjoy it together—”

[Teacher Zhang, you’re rather insatiable, aren’t you.]

[We agreed on a 10 percent kickback. Your school bought 400,000 in textbooks, and you personally pocketed 40,000—and it’s still not enough?]

[I never said it was too little—40,000! My monthly salary is only 5,000. Why would I complain?]

[A whole month of swallowing my grievances, playing lackey every day to those dumbass students and moron administrators, working myself to the bone for 5,000—this is just moving your lips for you, a little risk and I pocket tens of thousands. Am I an idiot not to take it?]

[And besides, we’ve cooperated more than once. With that last edition of supplementary readers, you made 100,000 and I took 10,000, and I was perfectly happy with it—never once complained it was too little.]

The broadcast rang out loud and clear, echoing through every corner of the school.

Teachers and students alike fell silent.

Yan Qinghan’s classmates gaped one by one, unable to believe their ears.

As for Zhang Yuan, his legs had gone so weak he could barely stand, cold sweat drenching his head and back.

Soon, the principal burst into the office with the school’s security guards: “Teacher Zhang, what on earth is going on?! How many kickbacks have you taken?! How much toxic material have you foisted on this school?!”

“No—it’s not—I can explain… That wasn’t… it wasn’t…” Zhang Yuan shook like a leaf, stammering, trying to explain.

Gripping the doorframe, he stared in terror at the principal, at the surrounding guards, at the dumbstruck students outside the office.

His gaze darted wildly—then suddenly landed on a pair of dark, brooding eyes in the crowd.

Right! Yan Qinghan! How could I have forgotten him! It’s him!

Out of options and nearly out of his mind, Zhang Yuan pointed a trembling finger at Yan Qinghan and said to the principal, “Principal, he framed me! It must be him! He must hate me for targeting him—for swapping his competition essay! He tried to attack me just days ago!”

“It has to be him!”

The principal, past fifty, looked even grimmer. “Targeted him? Swapped his essay?! You did that too?!”

Zhang Yuan shuddered again, only now realizing what he’d said. Ashen-faced, he made his last struggle: “No—no, Principal, my head’s a mess… Let me explain…”

The principal was so furious he began to sneer. “Fine. Fine. Explain away. I’ve already called the police—go explain to them!”

Zhang Yuan finally collapsed to the floor, a puddle of mud.

He knew his career, his reputation, his life—were finished.