Lai Li seemed stumped, a rare trace of bewilderment appearing on his face, like a well-behaved drunkard. After a moment, he finally said, “I can’t tell them apart.”
These four words felt like a death sentence to Dai Linxuan, shattering his composure completely.
Lai Li shed his usual sharp and flamboyant demeanor, reaching out to gently rub Dai Linxuan’s face, as if testing whether the man beneath him was real.
Dai Linxuan abruptly turned his head away—he should have realized it sooner, with all those contradictions staring him in the face.
For instance, that question Lai Li had asked him that morning, as if deliberately trying to provoke him: “Do you like men, or do you like me?” And then that afternoon, before entering the venue, Lai Li’s outrageous remark: “Is it my fault that you fell for your own little brother?”
If Lai Li remembered, it made no sense for him to voice such doubts, logically or emotionally. Yet Dai Linxuan had been oblivious, assuming the little rascal he’d raised had simply evolved into a bigger one.
Perhaps it stemmed from the morning after Dai Yi’s birthday, when Lai Li hadn’t raged at his near-insulting loss of control but had smashed a bowl instead because Dai Linxuan hadn’t kept his promise to take him to school. That had reinforced Dai Linxuan’s inner assumption—that Lai Li knew their relationship was a hidden, ongoing secret, never explicitly ended.
Hadn’t his near-pathetic, unannounced departure abroad been for exactly that reason?
He couldn’t bear to end it, couldn’t bring himself to say a harsh word to the child he’d raised, so he’d pretended nothing happened, fled hastily, and maintained a facade of calm indifference.
Yet on the second day back in the country, Lai Li’s casual “I want to date a guy” had breached his defenses.
Lai Li leaned down and licked his face, squinting as he said, “It’s hot.”
The innocent, childlike tone sent a shiver through Dai Linxuan. Unaware, Lai Li pressed closer insistently, pressing his neck against Dai Linxuan’s face. “Bite me… If it hurts, then I’m awake.”
They were too close; the alcohol scent faded, replaced by a faint body fragrance wafting into his nostrils—the scent of that shower gel, overwhelming Dai Linxuan nearly to suffocation.
At ten years old, Lai Li had been numb and cold, his scrawny little frame hiding a ruthless edge that rarely surfaced. He rejected everyone’s approach, even biting a caregiver’s neck—if not for his baby teeth phase, he might have severed an artery.
Dai Linxuan had no choice but to wash the filthy, reeking little Lai Li himself.
The young Lai Li had been terrified of water, so Dai Linxuan found a large but shallow basin, filled it with just enough water to reach his fist’s depth, and placed Lai Li inside. He wet a towel and wiped him down bit by bit.
Lai Li was a prickly chestnut burr to others, but to Dai Linxuan, he was shelled chestnuts, scattered one by one into the basin, only for Dai Linxuan to pick them up, hold them in his mouth, cradle them in his palm.
Near the end of the bath, Lai Li hugged his neck and sniffed like a puppy. Dai Linxuan said it was the shower gel’s scent and asked if he wanted to use it. The sharp little chin rubbed against his shoulder—an invisible nod that could only be felt.
From then on, for many years until Lai Li could handle water on his own, he’d used that brand of shower gel. Now, it was steeped into his very skin.
A sour liquid surged from Dai Linxuan’s stomach into his esophagus and up his throat. He suppressed it with all his might, only to hear Lai Li murmur, “Why… why are you doing this to me?”
His tone held no grievance, no anger—just confusion and something that shouldn’t be.
Dai Linxuan could bear it no longer. His fingers yanked at the knotted tie, and he swung his arm to shove Lai Li off. He staggered to his feet, intending to head to the bathroom, but Lai Li yanked him back and pinned him to the bed—the force precise, nothing like a drunkard’s.
“Ge.” Lai Li gripped Dai Linxuan’s shoulders tightly, his other hand rubbing his face. “Can’t you change?”
Dai Linxuan closed his eyes briefly, his fingertips trembling slightly.
“This isn’t good.” Lai Li finally sounded drunk, repeating himself incoherently. “Ge, you can’t do this.”
A long while later, Dai Linxuan softly hummed in acknowledgment.
Lai Li jolted awake.
He stared at the ceiling for a moment before realizing he was in his dorm bed.
Nearly a week had passed since the charity auction. Their “frank talk” had happened the next morning.
Dai Linxuan had been impeccably dressed then, shirt buttoned to the top, looking prim and composed. He’d said he did like men, had developed improper feelings for Lai Li two years ago, and lost control upon returning and hearing Lai Li wanted to date because of it. He’d try to hold back and let go gradually.
Bullshit, through and through.
But afterward, better chances to talk never came—not because Dai Linxuan avoided him deliberately, but because the board meeting loomed, filling his schedule with no room for anything else.
Lai Li felt like his brother was a clam spirit; after all that effort prying open a tiny gap, it snapped shut again in a blink, leaving key questions unanswered.
For example, that nonsense the morning after his return: “Same-sex with me is disgusting, but with others it’s fine?” And that night Dai Linxuan bit his neck, the glimpse of hatred couldn’t have been an illusion—the physical and mental sting proved it real.
Most crucially, the Dai family mess. If his father’s accident was truly his mother’s doing, the blow to Dai Linxuan would’ve been heavy—and Lai Li suspected it went deeper.
A sliver of light pierced the window onto the bedhead; it was just past six a.m. Most students slept soundly, Huang Hao and Jiang Xiao’s snores rising and falling like a competition.
Lai Li hopped off the bed in two steps, grabbed clean clothes, and stepped into the bathhouse for the first time. For boys this age, dorm life plus communal showers plus no partner was hellish—no private space for release. He couldn’t exactly book a room to jerk off.
Some people didn’t care, though. As Lai Li reached the bathhouse door, he heard rushing water mixed with a low gasp. A few steps in, the water stopped, replaced by rustling clothes.
Dampness filled the air, turning the bathhouse steamy.
The school’s bathhouse wasn’t clean—grimy black buildup in tile cracks, puddles that splashed with every step, showerheads likely never sterilized since purchase, walls possibly harboring others’ “descendants.”
Lai Li frowned and turned to leave.
The door opened behind him. The other sounded surprised: “Lai Li?”
Lai Li glanced back… Song Zichu. He’d already dressed in long sleeves and pants, a small basin of toiletries tucked in his arm.
“I…” Song Zichu must’ve guessed he’d heard. He wanted to explain but couldn’t, so he asked, “You here to shower too?”
Lai Li tamped down the growing irritation from not seeing Dai Linxuan: “Originally.”
Song Zichu paused. “And now?”
Lai Li walked off without looking back: “Now I’m booking a room.”
Song Zichu: “…”
Hotels abounded near school. Lai Li picked the priciest, booking a month’s suite for showers and laundry—the apartment was too far. He’d meant to use his own money but had a flash of inspiration and used Dai Linxuan’s name. Sure enough, VIP treatment.
People like Dai Linxuan got VIP anywhere without memberships—staff fawned regardless—but…
Lai Li lifted an eyebrow: “Your boss isn’t surnamed Dai, is he?”
The manager smiled: “One of our new shareholders is.”
How new?
Lai Li texted Dai Linxuan: So what’s the point of making me live in the dorm?
No reply.
Lai Li had a theory: Dai Linxuan’s feelings for him were real—even Dai Yi had sensed it, hence her ravings on her birthday.
But Dai Linxuan fleeing abroad two years ago wasn’t just over mere liking.
His sudden return as a new board candidate was suspicious too. Lai Li knew he’d shown little interest in family business before, building independent assets. If just to help Jiang Qiujun, entering early would’ve been better—now she held equal power with the Dai family, no longer isolated.
To join the board without constant proximity, he’d tricked him into dorm life.
But that plan failed on return day two.
Which circled back—that morning, Dai Linxuan hadn’t lost it over him wanting to date, but over the “guy” part.
Lai Li pondered through his entire shower, changed into clean clothes, and returned to school. He ran into Song Zichu again in the cafeteria.
The guy acted like he’d forgotten the humiliation: “Lai Li, can I sit here?”
Lai Li ignored him, wrestling slowly with an eggshell. He finally peeled a pitted egg and bit in—taste off.
“Uh… skin’s not fully off.” Song Zichu sat tentatively. “This one’s probably undercooked. Take mine.”
Lai Li rubbed the egg; a layer of skin flaked off.
Song Zichu chuckled: “You didn’t know eggs have an inner membrane?”
Lai Li felt no shame as a “life failure”: “Haven’t peeled an egg since I was ten.”
At home, aunts pre-peeled them perfectly. Out, his brother handled the hassle.
Song Zichu asked: “Before ten?”
Lai Li: “Before ten, never ate eggs.”
“…” Song Zichu smiled apologetically. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
Lai Li continued: “You’ve met my brother, so you know I wasn’t born rich.”
Song Zichu, perhaps surprised he’d open up, took a moment: “I didn’t pry on purpose. That night in the infirmary, Tang Yuanyang’s dad kept calling your brother ‘Chairman Dai.’ Jiang Xiao and Huang Hao couldn’t resist searching online—found news on you two…”
Lai Li watched coldly as Song Zichu distanced himself: “You seem to have thoughts.”
Meeting Lai Li’s sharp, mocking gaze, Song Zichu instinctively lowered his eyes, hiding near-slip emotions: “No.”
Lai Li’s phone lit up with a message.
[Home]: Clear some time; I’ll come to school to sign your off-campus permission.
Song Zichu peeled the egg and offered it to Lai Li’s bowl—only for it to bounce back. He looked up; Lai Li’s calm face now showed clear irritation.
“I remember during military training, you wore a ring.” Song Zichu wasn’t sure. “The one your brother bid sky-high for at the auction?”
Lai Li’s gaze turned icy, emotions vanishing. He’d asked for it the day after; Dai Linxuan brushed it off: “Get a new back-to-school gift.”
“We had an idea, hope it doesn’t offend.” Song Zichu paused, glancing at Lai Li’s phone. “You and your brother… are you…”
“What?”
“You know…” Song Zichu struggled with the words. “Lovers?”
“Just because I use my brother’s photo as wallpaper?” Lai Li scoffed. “Stars whose pics get made into wallpapers uglier than him?”
Song Zichu shook his head instinctively. Dai Linxuan outshone most stars—news photos had no filters.
Lai Li smirked mockingly: “So isn’t it my good taste? Don’t be narrow-minded.”
Song Zichu opened his mouth, speechless.
Lai Li added: “I didn’t say you could sit.”
Song Zichu sighed, rising without anger: “Whatever your reason for helping, thanks.”
Song Zichu’s footsteps blended into the crowd, still distinctive. Once gone, Lai Li’s tense arms relaxed, the near-uncontrollable ferocity in his eyes fading quickly without its source.
He glanced at his phone, suddenly associating—others mistook his wallpaper for something; what about Dai Linxuan?
He couldn’t recall how long he’d done it, but knowing himself, probably since discovering custom wallpapers. He never hid his phone use from Dai Linxuan; lock screens were visible to anyone not blind.
Lai Li unlocked his phone and video-called Dai Linxuan.
Hung up on.
Before he could smash it, it vibrated—Dai Linxuan calling back.
Lai Li immediately swiped to answer. “Where are you?”
Dai Linxuan said, “At the company.”
At the same moment, Lai Li sent a message to an unknown number: Where’s my brother?*
The reply came quickly, and Lai Li’s restrained expression instantly darkened like storm clouds, heavy enough to drip water.
Dai Linxuan was at the cemetery.
In front of him stood a luxurious double tomb that had already been built but not yet inscribed with a stele. It spanned sixteen square meters.
Lai Li’s call seemed like nothing more than a check-in. They chatted casually for a few sentences before he hung up, though his tone had been a bit odd.
Dai Linxuan didn’t pay it much mind. He squinted along the sunlight, murmuring as if to himself, “Soon, there will be residents moving in.”
The cemetery administrator standing beside him had been in the business for many years and prided himself on his nerves of steel and sharp wits, but this remark still sent chills crawling up his skin. Guessing at Dai Linxuan’s meaning, he chimed in, “Yeah, just the relocated graves that are already registered number dozens of households.”
Dai Linxuan smiled idly. “There should be plenty of new residents too.”
“. . . Ah.” The administrator’s mind raced. Their tomb plots weren’t cheap—starting at seven figures—and that didn’t even count the pre-reserved ones. Had a bunch of rich people in the city died recently?
Dai Linxuan turned to gaze at the terraced rows of identical tomb pits stretching as far as the eye could see.
The weather was beautiful that day. Sunlight bathed the neatly arrayed tombs, and far from feeling eerie, the scene brimmed with life amid the thriving plants and chattering birdsong, warm and inviting.
It would be even livelier in a while.
Dai Linxuan glanced back at the double tomb behind him. He lingered there for about ten seconds before speaking. “This one needs to be changed.”
The administrator blinked. “Changed how?”
“Dig it up and rebuild it as a single tomb,” Dai Linxuan said politely. “Sorry for the trouble.”
![Farming for Three Meals a Day [Farming Life]](https://i1.wp.com/dobynovels.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/01/farmm.jpeg?resize=151,215 "Farming for Three Meals a Day [Farming Life]")
