MCFEM C63

Chapter 63 – Never Join Hands with a Foolish Companion

He Ming’an, ever sensitive to the slightest change, at once perceived it.

His own thoughts had been drifting; now, gazing upon Gu Yang as he was in that moment, his mind was carried back to the scene of their first acquaintance.

Though truthfully, that occasion could scarcely be called their first meeting.

At an earlier family gathering, their paths had already crossed.

His first impression was of a child set apart—withdrawn, eccentric, ill at ease with the world.

He could not follow the drift of any conversation; the emotions of others seemed foreign to him.

Moved by a touch of pity, He Ming’an had attempted to engage him. Pointing towards the pampered infant in a lady’s arms, he made some harmless jest.

Yet the child only appeared perplexed, as though unable to comprehend such levity, and even gave the impression that such care ought properly to be the business of a servant.

Indeed, he was strange.

They left early that day, and He Ming’an soon forgot—until, hovering near his mother, he overheard the ladies whispering.

“Why did Director Gu depart so suddenly? Has something happened?”
“I stood near enough to hear—it seems the woman living in the Gu household has again…”

At this, their voices faltered, falling into silence.

“That child beside Director Gu—he is her son, is he not?”
“He hardly spoke a word. Not at all like the others.”
“With such a mother, how could any child grow quite normal?”
“A pity indeed. I have heard she shuts herself in her chamber day upon day, leaving all care of him to the servants,” said his own mother, sighing softly.

Thus the riddle of that child’s odd remark was solved.

He Ming’an had sat nibbling upon cake, ears intent upon every word of their discourse.

When the ladies dispersed, his mother bent low, stroking his hair, her voice gentle.

“You heard all that we said just now, did you not?”

“I know you delight in listening to the talk of elders. Should you ever chance upon that Gu family child, take it upon yourself to look after him, will you?”

He was not surprised at her words. His mother’s nature was ever thus—tender, soft-hearted, ever ready to lend aid even to strangers. She had imparted this creed to him as well.

“You were born possessing more than many others,” she often told him. “Therefore, when you can, give of yourself to those less fortunate.”

And so he had nodded, answering “yes.”

For when one holds ten thousand coins, what is a single coin given away?

The second time he saw that child was at the Gu residence.

By then, he had already heard the rumour.

The woman, enshrouded in layers of speculation and whisper, had taken poison and, despite all rescue, passed away a week prior.

He himself was not permitted to attend the funeral, for He Yihong deemed such places unfit for children.

But that child of the Gu family?

At the same age as he, yet made to bear such a loss. Even the hardest of hearts must sigh at the thought.

For the word “mother” is enough to breach the walls of any soul.

If once he had seemed only unsociable, now his countenance bore a deeper shadow: wayward, brooding. He stood alone, yet it was as if a chasm separated him from the world entire.

And one must confess—that very air of estrangement drew the eye. Especially for one such as He Ming’an, reared always within the neat confines of propriety.

Like a moth to flame, he was drawn heedlessly in. In that moment of youthful confusion, it felt the boldest rebellion he could imagine.

Yet however kindly he spoke, however good his deeds, those eyes remained unmoved.

Like raindrops striking a parasol—falling, then sliding away without trace.

But perhaps… perhaps that was fitting.

So many years had since passed.

He Ming’an’s expression softened into rare melancholy.

Opposite him, Gu Yang still seemed troubled. One sugar cube after another he dropped into his coffee. At the fifth, he finally spoke:

“Might it be possible to strengthen the guard upon the school’s rooftop terrace?”

He Ming’an was taken aback at such a request.

He pressed down his own wandering thoughts, and instead of answering outright, smiled and asked: “Why speak of this so suddenly?”

Gu Yang stirred his cup with deliberate quiet, the spoon making no sound. “Perhaps… perhaps because I fear one day I might again wish to leap.”

His tone was airy, almost careless.

The smile drained at once from He Ming’an’s face.

Then came a murmur, faint as breath, from within Gu Yang’s own heart. His expression grew darker still, shadowed as by storm-clouds.

He inclined his head slightly, as though listening.

Yet Gu Yang, of course, perceived nothing. For who would ever believe another could hear the voice of his heart?

Only certain thoughts could be caught—fragments, never the ordinary flow. Yet even so, the knowledge was disquieting.

They shared that secret between them, he and others like him, and watched Gu Yang in silence.

“Indeed, besides that student who leapt from our school rooftop, there have been thugs brazenly blocking our gates. Of late, too much has happened,” said He Ming’an.

“I have given it thought. More guards have been hired, patrols doubled within and without, and new surveillance installed. It may avail us somewhat.”

So speak no more such words, I beg you.

He fixed Gu Yang with an unwavering gaze. “Have you aught else to say to me?”

“No, nothing for now.” Gu Yang turned his face aside.

At this, He Ming’an, to his own surprise, exhaled a silent breath of relief. He shifted the topic with ease. “A-Yang, is it not nearly your birthday?”

Gu Yang had forgotten.

Birthdays meant little to him, save that Gu Yuhui insisted on celebrating each year.

Yet the mention stirred a memory: in the original tale, Song Yinxing’s birthday was written as January the eleventh.

Only a single day apart from his own.

That evening, as Song Yinxing sat at his desk, a message arrived—an invitation from Gu Yang to attend his birthday feast.

He hesitated, then declined.

Is it because of Gu Qingxu? I shall ask Gu Yuhui to send him away on business that day.

Song Yinxing paused. It was indeed part of the reason. Though he wished to accept, he feared others would be invited too. He was poor at company, fearful of marring the occasion. So he gently refused again.

Afterwards, no reply came. Perhaps it had been but a passing thought. He slowly set down his phone.

Only then, glancing at the marked date upon his calendar, did he realise—Gu Yang’s birthday came but one day before his own.

—

The feast that year was as dull as ever.

Beyond a few classmates, Gu Yuhui had filled the room with a throng of half-strangers.

Gu Yang listened listlessly to their empty pleasantries. The air was heavy with heat, flushing his cheeks.

At length, wearied, he rose to depart.

“Of all occasions, this is your birthday!” Yu Bai protested, astonished at such caprice.

Gu Yang tossed back lightly, “Too much drink.”

“You’ve had nothing but grape juice!” Yu Bai groaned.

He Ming’an said only, “Rest a while. I shall call you when the cake is cut.”

Gu Yang nodded and mounted the stairs.

From another corner, Ye Chen, who had been watching intently, caught Qi Lecheng’s eye. Together they slipped away, following.

Halfway, Qi Lecheng halted, staring. “Are you truly set on this?”

“What, do you falter now? The draught is prepared. You need only take the photograph.” Ye Chen’s heart pounded, his head swam, yet he felt himself walking on air.

Time pressed him hard. He clenched his teeth, speaking low: “I procured the medicine, I slipped it into his cup. Your task is but to take a picture—what have you to fear?”

“That drug…” Qi Lecheng faltered, eyes evasive.

“No harm. Mild as wine in excess.”

Ye Chen could not waste more words. He had never dared such a thing before; terror gnawed at him. The draught had long been in his pocket, but he had wavered till this night. When Gu Yang’s grape juice sat unwatched upon the table, temptation proved too great.

He trembled still, fearing he had been too rash.

“But—”

Qi Lecheng’s hesitation enraged him. This man had once photographed corpses for art, yet now balked at a living subject?

“Do you think, if your sordid deeds were ever revealed, Gu Yang would forgive you? You would never again approach him, never again take his portrait. This is your chance! He lies within, already under the drug. You may shoot as you please.”

“It is not that—”

“Calm yourself. I mean him no harm. Only a picture, enough to force him from school awhile, to lie low.”

He seized Qi Lecheng’s arm, but the other wrenched free.

“What are you speaking of?”

The voice, sharp with astonishment, struck like thunder.

Lu Ji stood behind them.

Ye Chen jolted, the vial slipping from his grasp.

A moment before, Lu Ji had been spattered with juice. Xu Qingfeng had led him upstairs to change. Emerging, they overheard this plotting.

“What have you done to Gu Yang?”

Lu Ji’s mind, long steeped in tales of false sons and scandals, leapt to its own grim conclusion. Drugged wine, photographs—he needed no further explanation.

“To dare such a thing within the Gu household itself—are you mad?”

He scarcely knew whether to call them bold or witless. His first thought was only for Gu Yang, and he bade Xu Qingfeng watch the culprits whilst he himself sped upstairs.

Ye Chen turned as pale as death. His mind went blank, his guilt exposed.

Xu Qingfeng, too, was rattled, unaccustomed to such scenes. Yet when Qi Lecheng bent to snatch up the vial, he cried out sharply: “Do not touch it—that is evidence!”

His shout rang through the house. Footsteps echoed upon the stair.

Ye Chen nearly collapsed with despair.

Qi Lecheng, desperate, thought only of saving himself. If found with the drug, all would believe him complicit. And Ye Chen would surely drag him down.

In sudden frenzy, he seized the pills, and thrust them all into Ye Chen’s mouth.

Ye Chen’s eyes bulged in horror. He clawed at Qi Lecheng’s hand, but the grip was iron, clamped upon his mouth and nose. Choking, he swallowed them down.

Even so, Qi Lecheng held fast, until his victim’s face darkened purple, then loosed his hold.

“Are you mad, Qi Lecheng? Would you murder me?” Ye Chen gasped, voice shrill.

“I—I was destroying the evidence. You said yourself the drug was mild!”

“Mild? Shall I feed you ten packets of cold medicine, and see?”

Fury and dread mingled; his head spun, nausea rose.

What fool had he allied himself with?

…Why, oh why, had he ever chosen Qi Lecheng…

…as his comrade?

With his final strength, he forced out the words: “Call… the… physician…”

Xu Qingfeng, stunned to his core, now sprang into action, fumbling for his phone and shrieking with all his might:

“Summon an ambulance—at once!”