Chapter 27 - Parallel Lines

Translator's Note:

Hello, I hope you've all been doing well.

Here you go, and I wish you a good read.

And, as I said before, if you wish to read ahead, you can head over to my Patreon to get early access to all the translated chapters.

"Shuai Zhaomin, why did you withdraw?"

 

The voice echoed through the green tunnel of red bricks that stretched across the campus that afternoon. The boy's loud question made him turn back in irritation, adjusting his glasses with cold indifference.

 

Damn it. Who the hell was this? Who dared to call his name so casually at school?

 

Chasing after him was some guy in a tracksuit, sporting a buzz cut that barely met school regulations. His deep brown skin glowed with a healthy flush from exertion. But most importantly—Shuai Zhaomin had no idea who he was.

 

"Shuai Zhaomin, why did you withdraw?" The boy repeated, panting as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a broad, easygoing gesture. Though he lacked presence, his tone was nothing short of an interrogation.

 

Hah. What a joke. He was being questioned? By some random nobody? Who the hell was this guy? No sense of manners whatsoever. Should he take him to the equipment room for a little "lesson" in etiquette?

 

"Who are you?" Shuai Zhaomin adjusted his glasses once more, his polite but distant smile firmly in place as he regarded the sweaty, breathless boy, hands braced against his knees.

 

"You don't recognize me?" The boy's voice rang with disbelief. His eyes widened, looking as if they might pop right out of their sockets, as if he had just suffered some unforgivable insult.

 

What the hell? Would he even be asking if he did? What was so shocking? Shuai Zhaomin was the one who should be surprised—someone other than the teachers actually had the audacity to call his name so bluntly? Was this guy suicidal or just plain stupid?

 

"Sorry, I'm certain we're not in the same class," he replied with an unfaltering, pleasant smile. No matter how much he was cursing internally, Shuai Zhaomin preferred to maintain a harmless facade when dealing with outsiders.

 

He hated getting angry. Hated shouting matches. When he reached his limit, he wouldn't waste words—just drag the other guy out back and beat the crap out of him. He was a firm believer in peace, after all.

 

"Of course we're not in the same class! But you should still remember me!" The boy's face twisted into something like hurt, then further into a wounded pride that demanded recognition.

 

For fuck's sake. Remember what? He didn't know him! And if he kept glaring at him with those eyes, Shuai Zhaomin was going to gouge them out.

 

"Sorry, I have no recollection." He adjusted his perfectly positioned glasses again, tilting his head slightly, an expression of mild distress settling over his features, followed by a faint, apologetic smile. "Could you just tell me directly?"

 

"You have to know!"

 

Know what, exactly? His fingers curled into fists around the books he held, as mathematical formulas flickered through his mind in rapid succession—a mental exercise to suppress the overwhelming urge to punch something.

 

As student council president, he was extremely, extremely busy. He had no time to deal with some idiot who refused to introduce himself and had the nerve to address him by his full name!

 

"I am—"

 

Who?

 

He blinked, his vision hazy for a moment, before the intricate carvings on the ceiling came into focus. Sunlight spilled through the windows, casting a golden warmth across the room.

 

Yawning, Shuai Zhaomin sat up. The plush mattress and pillows yielded beneath him, embracing him in their soft comfort. He couldn't resist grabbing a pillow and rolling over once more.

 

Why had he suddenly remembered high school?

 

Back then, he had withdrawn from his final national competition due to student council duties and preparations for studying abroad. He had never regretted it, yet some strange guy had latched onto him because of it.

 

Not that it mattered. He couldn't recall the guy's name at all. In the end, he had just dragged him behind the gym and beaten him up. The idiot never bothered him again after that.

 

That same feeling of annoyance lingered even now…

 

Shuai Zhaomin rolled over once more, finally stopping at the edge of the bed, his soft black hair spilling over the side.

 

Would Serg get reckless and go after that guy named Taotie today?

 

He had no fondness for the Brelini family—just a bunch of people with all their priorities in the wrong place, never listening to reason.

 

With a final turn, his position shifted from lying parallel to the bed to an awkward, tangled sprawl. Still clutching his pillow, wrapped in blankets, he tumbled further into the mattress.

 

His hand throbbed slightly, reminding him of last night… Strictly speaking, just a few hours ago. He had thoroughly beaten Tengshe, and they had both ended up crashing into a marble table. Their ridiculous brawl had ended in the most absurd fashion, a perfect summary of his life recently.

 

His head ached. His shoulders were sore. Between the lingering hangover and fresh bruises, his entire body felt like crap.

 

A single drink wouldn't have been enough to get him drunk. But downing a third of a bottle of whiskey? Yeah, that was enough to leave him with a pounding headache for the rest of the day.

 

What the hell had gotten into him? Tengshe was the one who hit his head—so why the fuck had he, after tending to his wounds, grabbed the bottle and downed the rest?

 

He needed to contact Serg as soon as possible…

 

He rolled to the head of the bed, wrestling an arm free from the tangle of blankets and pressing the call button beside him.

 

He needed a phone. Needed to contact Serg. And most of all, he needed the help of that fake herbivore of a beast.

 

"Ugh…" His head pounded. His throat was parched. The more he sobered up, the worse his headache became, his skull ringing with a dull roar. Despite his empty stomach, nausea churned deep in his gut.

 

Could he really persuade Serg like this?

 

Rolling over again, Shuai Zhaomin finally flopped onto his stomach, burying his face deep into the covers.

 

"Sara said… this is the first time you've ever used the call button."

 

A deep, smooth voice, tinged with unmistakable amusement, came from far too close—so close, he could almost feel the breath against his ear.

 

He stirred, lifting a hand lazily from beneath the blankets to wave him off. His voice came muffled from within the silk sheets. "I don't want to see you right now, asshole."

 

"Why not?" The low whisper moved even closer, warm breath grazing the crown of his head. "Don't you want to see the consequences of your actions?"

 

His brows furrowed, and he reached out to push him away.

 

"No need. I already know you look like a bruised-up pig. And pigs are at least delicious—you're just trash."

 

He had faith in his own fists. Sure, Tengshe's teeth had taken a bite out of him, but he was damn sure the results were still in his favor.

 

"How cruel."

 

A chuckle—deep, amused, completely unaffected. The mattress dipped slightly as Tengshe leaned in, and the hand Shuai Zhaomin had been using to push his face away was caught in a firm grip, fingers intertwining.

 

So fucking disgusting!

 

His hangover nearly made him vomit for real. He jerked his hand away violently.

 

He had never liked Tengshe, but he hadn't hated him enough to find him unbearable—until now.

 

What he'd heard yesterday was too much. That bastard had even dragged Serg into this mess.

 

"You want to find Muhammad, don't you?"

 

Tengshe's grip tightened, pressing into the swollen, injured part of his hand. Pain shot through him, making his face twist against the sheets.

 

"Of course I do. Or should I just sit back and let you get away with it?"

 

A cold scoff. He knew Tengshe wouldn't let up until he crawled out from under the covers.

 

Reluctantly, he rolled over and sat up. His vision, unfocused without his glasses, was blurry, but he could still make out the shape of Tengshe, casually lounging beside him.

 

Freshly showered, judging by the faint, clean scent of soap.

 

His gaze followed the firm line of Tengshe's legs, clad in worn jeans, up to the thin, coffee-colored sweater with its sleeves pushed up to the elbows. The honey-gold skin underneath was marked with old scars—some from blades, some looking suspiciously like bullet wounds.

 

"I need my glasses."

 

His vision blurred too much past that. But he could still tell Tengshe was smirking at him.

 

With a face that swollen and bruised? He had to get a better look. No way he'd miss that.

 

"You want to see me that badly?" Tengshe mused, his rough fingertips grazing Shuai Zhaomin's cheek in a slow, teasing stroke.

 

It tickled. He flinched, pulling away.

 

"Don't remind me. I was the one who got drugged yesterday, wasn't I?"

 

"Perhaps."

 

Tengshe let out a husky chuckle. Shuai Zhaomin scowled, holding back the urge to curse him out.

 

Something cold brushed against his cheek. A second later, his vision cleared, and as soon as he realized what had happened, he shot upright in bed, his face heating in irritation.

 

Handing him his glasses was one thing—but did he really have to put them on for him?

 

"Pleased with your handiwork?"

 

The moment he saw Tengshe's face, he let out a snort. Pleased? He was beyond pleased. That bruised and battered face? It was a masterpiece. Damn, he almost wanted to beat him up again.

 

But his amusement faded quickly as realization dawned. He had walked right into Tengshe's trap. Fitch's reaction—he could already predict it. No wonder this bastard hadn't fought back at all yesterday—he'd let himself get beaten to a pulp just to rile up Fitch.

 

"You want Fitch to win so badly, why the hell did you agree to Sara's conditions? Just refuse!" He grabbed a fistful of Tengshe's sweater, voice cracking at the edges, raw from a mix of rage and hangover.

 

Damn it! There was a little goblin in his head tap-dancing on his brain!

 

His grip faltered, one hand coming up uselessly to cradle his own head. With a groan, he collapsed back onto the bed.

 

"Does it hurt?" Strong fingers pressed into his throbbing temples. Shuai Zhaomin flinched.

 

"Shit! Laugh, and I'll tear your damn mouth off!" Why did he always attract these kinds of persistent bastards? There was one in high school, then more in college, and even more in law school…

 

"Aren't you going to ask me why I want Fitch to win?" Tengshe murmured, lips brushing against his ear, voice a smooth, insidious slide that sent shivers down his spine.

 

"Enough already. Don't ask the same damn question over and over. If you have something to say, just say it!" Shouting only made his head hurt more, but Shuai Zhaomin couldn't hold back.

 

Not just tap-dancing anymore—his brain now had a full damn orchestra. Maybe throw in a cannon blast or two?

 

"Attorney Shuai, have you ever heard this theory? People contemplating suicide send out distress signals beforehand, dropping hints in various ways to those around them." Tengshe's cheek pressed against his, the scent of medicine and faint blood mingling in a way that made Shuai Zhaomin's already sick stomach lurch violently.

 

"I'm a lawyer, not a therapist."

 

At some point, they had ended up tangled together under the covers, the plush bedding so comfortably warm that neither of them made a move to break away.

 

"Attorney Shuai, have you ever watched someone die? Really, truly felt the moment their soul left their body?" Tengshe's lips ghosted over his earlobe, and Shuai Zhaomin barely twitched, not seriously trying to push him away.

 

"Why the hell are you using me as a lifeline, as a drifting wood? Trust me, I can't save anyone but myself." His words were cold, but just like every time before, Tengshe ignored them, steadily invading his space, pushing deeper into his territory.

 

Serg had once offhandedly commented that Shuai Zhaomin built walls, separating people into those inside and those outside. No one was allowed to cross without his permission, and those who tried were mercilessly driven away.

 

But vines… vines didn't care for walls.

 

Shuai Zhaomin shifted uncomfortably under the weight pressing down on him. Tengshe was strong, annoyingly so.

 

"This is King Midas's donkey ears*," Tengshe murmured, deliberately tightening his hold, amusement dripping from his voice.

 

[T/N: It refers to an old folktale about King Midas. In the story, King Midas was cursed with donkey ears, but he hid them under a hat. Only his barber knew the secret, and he was forbidden from telling anyone. Unable to keep it in, the barber eventually whispered into a hole in the ground: "The king has donkey ears!" The secret spread as the wind carried his words away.

In this context, Teng She is implying that he's revealing a secret—a hidden truth that can't be told openly, yet one that is desperately seeking an outlet.]

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