Chapter Fifty-One: The Sailor Speaks

When you’re in a good mood, everything tastes delicious, and the rich aroma of old hen soup filled the entire house.

As Zhao Zejun sipped his soup, his mind wandered to other thoughts.

Some people eat their fill and then break the pot so no one else can eat; others, once satisfied, hope everyone else can enjoy a good meal, too.

“Dad, are there quite a few retired soldiers in Gaogang Village?” Zhao Zejun asked casually.

Zhao Tao looked up at his son, surprised. “Yes, back in the early days after Liberation, Gaogang Village was even used as an army camp. Our provincial military district sent troops to both the Korean War and the counterattack against Vietnam. After they retired, some of those soldiers were placed in local state-owned enterprises, and their dormitories were right in Gaogang Village. I almost joined the army myself back then, if it hadn’t been for my family background. Our generation’s greatest ideal was to die in battle with the last bullet in the last war. If I’d really joined the army, maybe you wouldn’t even exist.”

“That’s not necessarily true. If you’d joined the army, maybe I’d be the son of a general now.” Zhao Zejun joked.

“That’s possible, too.” Zhao Tao nodded solemnly, then broke into a smile. “Why do you ask? Still thinking about buying a house in Gaogang Village? Let me tell you, son, I know you’ve made some money, but don’t even think about taking advantage of those old folks. Even if they aren’t retired soldiers, they’re still elderly, living alone or relying on government support. Buying their houses and waiting for demolition compensation—that’s just heartless.”

“What are you talking about? Is your son that kind of person?” Zhou Ya glared at her husband. “Besides, where would he get the money to buy a house? Son, you just focus on preparing for the college entrance exams. Your homeroom teacher says you’ve got a real shot at getting into a top university.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. I know.” Zhao Zejun replied.

Zhao Tao gave his son a long, thoughtful look and muttered, “You think your son doesn’t have any money? I bet this kid’s got a secret stash somewhere.”

“If a man doesn’t have a secret stash, is he even a man?” Zhao Zejun declared, perfectly justified.

“Let’s eat, let’s eat…” Zhao Tao hurriedly waved his hand to change the subject.

With the task of buying shantytown houses smoothly and even more than completed, Zhao Zejun, savoring the old lady’s chicken, naturally thought of that family of old volunteer soldiers.

In his previous life, the demolition compensation for Gaogang Village was extremely generous. Even if he did nothing, the residents, including the old volunteer soldier, would have ended up with nice new apartments. But deep down, there was something inside Zhao Zejun that pushed him to do more, to help them live even better.

He wasn’t trying to be a saint; he just wanted to be able to tell his children, with a clear conscience, that there’s more to life than money—that people can have other beliefs. He didn’t want to live through two lifetimes and end up unable to tell the next generation that “good people are rewarded.”

But what, specifically, could he do?

He was just an ordinary guy, with no power or money. After buying Wu Chengpeng’s house, he hardly had enough left for renovations—how could he help anyone else? His heart was willing, but his strength was not.

Better to take things as they come, no need to force it.

At school, the second round of mock exams was approaching.

Every day passed as usual: attending classes, doing exercises, staying late for extra lessons.

As the college entrance exam drew closer, the atmosphere in class grew ever heavier. Laughter faded, replaced by weary, tense faces. The boys and girls looked like the living dead, numb and mechanical, studying according to a suffocatingly strict routine.

With each day the countdown on the blackboard to the college entrance exam dropped by one, the pressure mounted; it felt as if the execution ground drew nearer.

Some students began to call in sick. Others just stared blankly during lessons. A few boys at the bottom of the class skipped school for days at a time.

Old He didn’t discipline them much anymore. Every morning, her first words were always to remind everyone to adjust their mindset. But the more she said that, the more anxious everyone felt—like an insomniac who grows only more sleepless by obsessing over sleep.

During the second mock exam, a girl in the class finally broke down.

Halfway through the English test, she suddenly tore her exam paper to shreds like someone possessed, then buried her face in the desk and sobbed uncontrollably, kicking the chair in front of her over and over as she cried.

The whole class fell into a deathly silence, broken only by her hoarse, desperate sobs and the thumping of her feet on the chair.

The invigilator tried to comfort her, but then another girl began to weep quietly.

Then a third, a fourth…

Soon, many students in the class were crying.

The mock exam could no longer continue. The young invigilator stood helplessly in the center of the room, at a loss for words.

Suddenly, someone began to sing softly.

“When I was young,
I liked to wander alone by the sea,
Rolling up my pants, barefoot in the sand,
Always dreaming that at the end of the ocean was another world,
Always believing that brave sailors were the true heroes,
He said,
Through wind and rain, this pain is nothing!
Wipe away your tears, don’t be afraid, at least we still have our dreams!”

One voice, then another, until more and more young voices joined in, some choked with tears.

The singing from Class One, Senior Three, startled the whole school. Old He stormed into the classroom in a rage.

But when she saw a roomful of tear-streaked children and the remains of torn exam papers scattered across the floor, she was stunned. For once, she didn’t scold anyone.

...

A few days later, the results of the second mock exam were released. The students who tore up their papers received zeros for those subjects.

But after this outburst, those students—and the entire class—seemed in much better spirits.

Yu Zhe achieved the same astonishing score as in the first mock exam: 288!

“Incredible!”

This time, Zhao Zejun’s praise was heartfelt. He even began to suspect Yu Zhe was a time-traveler in disguise—how could anyone possibly score exactly the same both times? The technical difficulty was simply out of this world!

Xia Yubing took another step closer to her dream university in the capital, with a score of 656.

Zhao Zejun did well, too. After some intensive cramming, his chemistry score improved by 15 points, and his scores in other subjects also went up a bit. His total was 542, making him a strong candidate for the province’s top universities.

After the results came out, Zhao Zejun had a chat with Xia Yubing. Perhaps because of that cathartic, tearful outburst in class, both were much more open when talking about the future this time.

Xia Yubing still wanted to go to the capital, planning to make her first-choice application to Qinghua University and her second choice to Southern Jiangsu University.

Zhao Zejun was still determined to stay in Southern Jiangsu Province, more specifically in the provincial capital, Jianwu.

That was just as well. One should first and foremost live for oneself, not force themselves for anyone else. Independence of spirit and character was something Zhao Zejun valued above losing oneself for love.

Xia Yubing’s final decision left Zhao Zejun with newfound respect for her.

But when it came to her second choice, Zhao Zejun was momentarily taken aback.

Southern Jiangsu University was a provincial-level university, located in the capital—an elite school. Usually, the second choice was there as a backup in case of poor performance on the exam… But Zhao Zejun clearly remembered that in his previous life, Xia Yubing ended up attending Southern Jiangsu University!

He couldn’t figure it out. Scientifically, perhaps the butterfly effect had caused some turbulence; superstitiously, maybe fate was just too tangled to predict.

Once again, Zhou Yuanyuan called: her school’s youth documentary, “Boys and Girls,” had chosen “Miss Xia” as the ending theme.

“Oh, by the way, our school is short on funds. I pleaded with them and finally got five hundred yuan for the rights. When do you have time? I’ll bring it to you,” Zhou Yuanyuan said over the phone.

“You’re still in Yijiang City?”

“No, I’m back in Jianwu. I just wanted an excuse to get closer to a big talent like you, in case I need you to write more songs in the future.” She laughed.

Zhao Zejun thought about it—he’d planned to have her just transfer the money directly to his bank account, but in the end he said, “Never mind, just consider it a donation to support university students.”

“Then I’ll thank you on behalf of the school! When you’re next in the capital, it’s my treat. I’ve got to run now. Bye!”

Meanwhile, in the girls’ dormitory at the provincial arts school in Jianwu, a girl applying stage makeup looked at Zhou Yuanyuan through the mirror’s reflection and asked curiously, “Yuanyuan, the school never said anything about a payment—just a thank-you in the credits.”

“Oh, I must’ve mixed things up. Lucky he didn’t accept the money,” Zhou Yuanyuan replied coolly.

Zhao Zejun had just hung up the call with Zhou Yuanyuan when his phone rang again.

It was Shen Lian, asking him to bring that bag of old silver coins to the antique shop.

If Shen Lian hadn’t mentioned them, Zhao Zejun would have almost forgotten about those coins.

“Didn’t you say they were fake? What’s the point?” Zhao Zejun asked over the phone.

“It’s hard to explain over the phone. Just come.”

“Alright, wait for me. I’ll be there soon.”