Chapter 4: The Older Lover – 4: A Tool Has No Character Setting

Luo Yan thought for a moment, then continued asking in his mind: “System, if I feed the Target Character other things, like fish or meat, will I be judged as breaking my Character Persona and get Points deducted?”

The System replied: [You’re overthinking it. A Living Tool at your level doesn’t have a Character Persona at all, so you can feed him whatever you like. Just don’t feed him poisonous mushrooms and get him killed.]

So he could feed him however he wanted?

Luo Yan relaxed.

He yawned and lay back down, eyes just closing, when he heard the boy beside him say softly, “Luo Yan.”

“Yes?” Luo Yan answered promptly.

Yan Qinghan said, “My mother never used to let Uncle Zhang and the others call me ‘Young Master.’ She said we were just an ordinary business family, and there was no need for all those titles.”

“So… the reason I wouldn’t let you call me that wasn’t because I was actually angry at you.”

In the darkness, the boy’s voice was low and soft, tinged with a faint, almost imperceptible sadness.

Luo Yan understood at once: the whole hierarchy of forms of address now used throughout the Yan Family must have been imposed by Yan Qinghan’s father or stepmother.

“I see,” he said quickly. “I think calling you by name is nice too.”

He thought for a moment, then asked, “Then the Old Steward— no, Uncle Zhang and the others, what do they call you?”

Yan Qinghan fell silent for a moment. “They all follow my mother’s way of saying it. They call me ‘Little Han.'”

Luo Yan smiled. “All right, I’ll call you that from now on too.”

“Now go to sleep, Little Han. Good night.”

From the other side came the boy’s muffled reply: “Good night.”

4:30 in the morning.

The rain had fallen all night and only finally stopped now.

Dead tired as he was, Luo Yan still got up in the dark and cooked a pot of millet porridge, steaming the leftover steamed bun along with it.

At five in the morning, Yan Qinghan’s alarm went off.

The boy sat up in one motion, catching the aroma of food wafting through the room.

He froze for two seconds before it registered. He looked up at Luo Yan, astonished. “You… you got up and made breakfast?”

Luo Yan yawned and rubbed his face. “Mm-hm, just something simple. Eat it while it’s hot, Little Han, then head off to school.”

Yan Qinghan pressed his lips together and lowered his head without a word.

Sure enough, once Yan Qinghan finished the porridge, Luo Yan gained another 100 Points.

The rate of growth was so fast that even the System marveled aloud, saying it had never seen a Living Tool whose Points rose so smoothly.

At six, the two of them left together for the bus stop.

Before boarding, Yan Qinghan turned around and said to Luo Yan with utmost solemnity, “Thank you, Luo Yan. And thank Uncle Zhang for me too.”

Luo Yan waved a hand, telling him there was no need to be so polite.

Watching the boy board the bus with that head of ragged hair, Luo Yan, standing outside, suddenly felt an urge to help him get it properly sorted out.

Never mind anything stylish; at the very least it should be cut clean and neat, not like a dog had chewed on it.

Mm. I’ll go back and have a good talk with the Old Steward, see if I can get more time to look after this boy.

At that thought, Luo Yan carefully double-checked with the System:

“System, if I take Yan Qinghan to get a haircut and buy him some clothes, that doesn’t count as interfering with the plot, right?”

The System replied: [I already told you, you’re overthinking it. You don’t have a plot to begin with. Nothing you do will interfere with the plot.]

Hm? Luo Yan vaguely felt that, logically speaking, something about that statement seemed off.

But Luo Yan, being an academic failure, didn’t dig into it. He turned to planning how to negotiate with the Old Steward instead.

At seven, Yan Qinghan arrived at school right on time.

The classmates who’d arrived early were either clustered together chatting about last night’s TV dramas or comics, or frantically rushing to “borrow” homework.

But no one greeted Yan Qinghan, and no one asked to copy his homework.

In fact, Yan Qinghan’s grades were excellent; forget the whole class, he ranked among the best in the entire district.

But Yan Qinghan wasn’t the cheerful, smiling type. He always sat there gloomy and silent, his hair covering half his face, which made his peers somewhat afraid of him.

More importantly, Yan Qinghan’s homeroom teacher disliked the boy.

The homeroom teacher never called on Yan Qinghan to answer questions, would “accidentally” leave him out of any activities, and would even take veiled digs at him from time to time.

Sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds are at the age when they’re most susceptible to such “authority figures.” If the teacher disliked someone, and even ostracizing that person could indirectly earn the teacher’s praise, who in the class would be willing to show Yan Qinghan any kindness?

If it weren’t for grades good enough that even the principal had taken note of such a promising student, he probably would have been bullied until he couldn’t stay any longer.

Long since accustomed to this silence, Yan Qinghan pulled out his chair, took out his textbook, and began reading silently.

The first class of the morning was the homeroom teacher’s Chinese class.

The homeroom teacher’s surname was Zhang. He was under thirty, a young man with regular features. He often cracked jokes during lectures and seemed easygoing and generous, making him very popular with the students.

Near the end of class, Teacher Zhang closed his textbook. “Let me tell everyone about last time’s ‘Show Love to Sanitation Workers’ event.”

“It was a very original idea! The response was excellent! Photos of us donating umbrellas and raincoats, along with a reporter’s feature, will be printed in the citywide newspapers in a couple of days! Our class has brought honor to the school yet again!”

“This is all thanks to the students’ enthusiastic participation! You were all wonderful!”

The children below began cheering in unison.

“However,” Teacher Zhang pushed up his glasses, his peripheral gaze sweeping over Yan Qinghan as his tone shifted, “there were one or two students who dragged their feet during this event, refused to cooperate with the group at all, showed no collective spirit and no dedication, and held the whole class back.”

“I hope those one or two students will reflect seriously on themselves and stop being so selfish.”

Although Teacher Zhang named no names, the students all stole glances at Yan Qinghan and began whispering.

Far from stopping them, Teacher Zhang went on “openly and righteously” lecturing the children with a smile:

“Students, in life we must learn to care about others. We can’t only think of ourselves in everything. Understood?”

The sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds answered in unison: “Understood!”

Yan Qinghan didn’t lower his head. He simply stared blankly at the blackboard, his bloodless face devoid of any extra expression.

Noon.

The moment the bell rang, the children streamed toward the cafeteria in groups, and long lines soon formed at the serving windows.

The cafeteria windows were divided between batch-cooked dishes sold by portion and made-to-order stir-fries. Most of Yan Qinghan’s classmates were lining up for the stir-fries.

Yan Qinghan walked into the cafeteria alone and, tray in hand, joined the end of the line for the batch-cooked dishes.

Even the cheapest stir-fried dish cost eight yuan a serving, beyond what he could afford now.

When his turn came, Yan Qinghan ordered shredded potatoes and stir-fried cabbage with a small bowl of rice, then picked up a free bowl of tomato and egg-drop soup from the side, found a seat where the sun reached, and ate bite by bite.

The shredded potatoes were far too salty; the cabbage seemed to have seen no oil at all; and the free egg-drop soup was so watery he couldn’t even taste the tomato.

But Yan Qinghan still ate carefully and thoroughly, as if the bowl held not the cheapest vegetable dishes but some rare delicacy.

After all, he probably wouldn’t get the chance to taste anything like last night’s delicious mushroom porridge, or this morning’s piping-hot millet porridge, again.

After school, Yan Qinghan didn’t go home.

He had a part-time job today, hauling goods at a small supermarket nearby.

After helping unload an entire vanload of goods, Yan Qinghan received the day’s pay: 30 yuan.

As he pocketed the money and prepared to leave, the supermarket owner, a cigarette clamped in his mouth, called out to him.

The owner spat the cigarette butt on the ground and ground it under his heel. “Someone asked me today whether I was using child labor. I told them you were a relative of mine, just helping out now and then.”

Yan Qinghan’s heart went cold; he had a rough idea of what the owner was about to say.

“I’m afraid if someone else sees you and reports me for illegally employing a minor, I can’t afford that.” The owner thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “Don’t come back here. Find some… find some place where people can’t see you.”

Yan Qinghan, already dizzy with hunger, could barely stay standing.

The owner’s wife, who was collecting the trash nearby, muttered, “What a sin,” and squeezed out from behind her husband to press a bag of the day’s unsold steamed buns into Yan Qinghan’s hands.

Yan Qinghan put the stone-cold buns into his backpack, said a mechanical thank-you, and dragged his exhausted body home, one step at a time.

By the time he reached the residential complex gate, it was nearly nine. Unlike usual, a crowd had gathered at the entrance.

The people were saying that the two thugs who always lurked around the gate had somehow offended some formidable figure from somewhere; they’d been beaten into pig heads and tied to a utility pole, and in the end a police car had come and hauled them off.

They also said they were grateful to that righteous hero; with this, the complex would surely be a lot more peaceful.

Hearing this, Yan Qinghan’s heart, which had been nearly numb, stirred slightly: I see. That’s good. If the little steward comes to see me again in the future, it’ll be much safer.

But he quickly gave a bitter, self-mocking smile: What am I thinking? Why would the little steward ever come again?

Yan Qinghan left the crowd and walked slowly toward the empty, desolate home.

As he climbed the stairs step by step, Yan Qinghan thought again of last night’s fragrant porridge, of that feeling of sharing a meal with someone he hadn’t known in so long.

Stop thinking about it, Yan Qinghan warned himself.

Last night was just a beautiful dream.

Everything today, the cold words, the living expenses with nowhere to come from, the cold buns in my backpack, that’s reality.

Want porridge? There’s rice at home now. I can cook it myself. My porridge is pretty decent too.

While the porridge cooks, I can do the math worksheet, then physics…

As he thought, Yan Qinghan was nearly at his door on the sixth floor.

Just as he reached the corner between the fifth and sixth floors, the sound-activated light outside his door lit up on its own, and an impossibly handsome face leaned down from above, warm with a smile. “Little Han! You’re back!”

Yan Qinghan froze and stopped, tilting his face up to gaze at the slender figure in the warm orange glow, murmuring, “…Luo Yan? You… why are you here?”