AVRL 28

Yu Tingzhi was sitting in a spot where the light was behind him. Meng Chi could feel his focused gaze; he couldn’t quite make out his expression, but he could smell the scent wafting from him—that faint oceanic fragrance mingled with the bitter tang of tobacco.

After a moment, Meng Chi weighed his words and said, “What happened last night was an accident. There’s no need for an accident to have a next time.”

With that, he turned his head, and his face broke into that usual cynical, devil-may-care smile. He said to Yu Tingzhi, “And you don’t need to feel guilty about me either. After all, I chose not to leave.”

Accident.

Hearing that word, Yu Tingzhi’s gaze suddenly grew dark. He watched silently as Meng Chi rose from the sofa, straightened his shirt, and turned to say, “Could you please lend me a set of clothes? I’ll wear them back and return them to you later.”

Yu Tingzhi didn’t move. His dim gaze concealed all emotion when Meng Chi cast a puzzled look his way.

“I ordered some food. Have a little something first,” Yu Tingzhi said.

“No need. I still have things to do back home,” Meng Chi said, glancing at his phone on the table and letting out a sigh. “And I have to get my phone repaired.”

At that, Yu Tingzhi picked up another paper bag from the table, pulled out a phone box, and handed it to Meng Chi. “I bought you a new one. Use this.”

It was the latest model, quite expensive. Meng Chi glanced at it and immediately refused. “No need.”

“Why not?” Yu Tingzhi said. “Your phone was broken because of me. Isn’t it only right that I buy you a new one?”

That seemed reasonable enough, but Meng Chi wasn’t convinced.

His old phone, though several years old, had cost only half as much as this new one when he’d first bought it. Even if he were planning to replace it himself, he wouldn’t have chosen this latest model, which cost over ten thousand.

Meng Chi looked at Yu Tingzhi for a while, then spoke again in that flippant, irreverent tone: “Teacher Yu, I’m not some innocent maiden. You don’t need to take responsibility for me, and I don’t need any compensation.”

Yu Tingzhi said, “This isn’t compensation.”

“Then what is it?” Meng Chi laughed. “A thank-you gift?”

Looking at the cynical smile at the corner of Meng Chi’s mouth, Yu Tingzhi suddenly felt that he might have been a bit too hasty.

The two looked at each other in silence, each with their own thoughts. Under the weight of Yu Tingzhi’s deep, complicated gaze, Meng Chi’s patience gradually wore thin. He let out a very soft breath, then took the phone. “Fine. Since you insist, I’ll take it. Let’s consider this matter closed.”

After Yu Tingzhi brought him a set of clothes and Meng Chi changed into them, he said his goodbyes. Yu Tingzhi offered to take him home, but he declined, leaving only the words, “Be more careful when you go to bars from now on.” Then he hailed a taxi and left.

Watching the cab merge into traffic and disappear into the distance, Yu Tingzhi stood there, a thought crossing his mind—

Meng Chi was unhappy.

Once in the car, the pain from his backside made Meng Chi frown with displeasure. He didn’t relax his brow even as the car pulled away from Chaomuli Phase 2 and stopped at the entrance of Jingya Residential Community.

This night had truly exceeded his expectations.

He swapped his SIM card into the new phone and logged into WeChat. There were many messages—from Yang Zile, from Yang Zhengfeng, and from Mr. Chen, all sent the night before.

Yang Zile had asked why he hadn’t come back yet. Yang Zhengfeng had told him to come home for dinner tomorrow night—that is, tonight. As for Mr. Chen, he’d sent a voice message around eleven.

“Little Meng, I never expected you to have such a sexy side.”

Meng Chi played the voice message with a deepening frown. He didn’t understand and was also displeased.

The man’s voice was rough, his tone amused, and his words somewhat slurred—clearly drunk. Otherwise, he probably wouldn’t have said something so flippant to him.

Meng Chi was sore all over and in no good mood. He couldn’t be bothered to reply, so he set it aside as if he hadn’t seen it. He replied to Yang Zhengfeng’s WeChat, then called Du Feng and asked him to fill in for his tea ceremony performance tonight. He himself went into the bathroom for another shower, washing off that fresh oceanic scent, then lay down in bed and fell asleep.

His sleep was restless, filled with vague dreams. One moment it was Song Min crying and saying he didn’t like him; the next, Yu Tingzhi was pinning him down and biting him; there was even a scene of himself reaching out, hooking his arm around Yu Tingzhi’s neck, and kissing him.

These jumbled dreams were interrupted by a phone call. Meng Chi opened his eyes, fumbled around, and found his new phone.

It was Du Feng calling, saying that Mr. Chen had come to the shop and was asking for Meng Chi by name.

The medicine Yu Tingzhi had bought had helped somewhat; after sleeping, Meng Chi felt much better. He took a moment to wake up, then got dressed and went to the shop.

There were still red marks on his neck, so he chose a black high-necked sweater to cover them, threw on a coat, and headed out.

It was around four or five in the afternoon, the quietest time at the shop. As soon as he walked in, he heard Mr. Chen’s booming voice.

Following the sound, he saw a portly middle-aged man sitting on a cushion in the private room. His suit and shirt were strained over his ample belly, forming several rolls of fat.

“Oh, Master Du, that’s not right. Xiao Meng has the looks—he should make good use of them,” Mr. Chen chuckled twice, then joked, “Tea-making is art, and so is photography, isn’t it?”

Du Feng’s expression was somewhat awkward; he gave a stiff, insincere smile and didn’t respond. Spotting Meng Chi at the door, he said, “Xiao Meng is here,” and walked toward him. “Perfect timing. Come and attend to Mr. Chen. My daughter is about to get out of school—I need to pick up the kid.”

Meng Chi: “Then go ahead.”

Du Feng nodded with visible relief, grabbed his coat, and stepped out of the private room. He turned back and said to Meng Chi, “Your master wants you to come home for dinner tonight. I’ll still come back to cover for you in the evening.”

“Thanks, Du Ge.” Meng Chi nodded. As he entered, he caught the scent of tobacco mixed in with the fragrance of tea leaves. He gave Mr. Chen a subtle glance.

Du Feng waved his hand and left the room. As soon as he was gone, Mr. Chen, still sitting on the cushion, clicked his tongue. “Your seniority’s all wrong, isn’t it? By seniority, shouldn’t Master Du be calling you ‘senior brother’?”

Meng Chi gave a light laugh and said, “Ah, that wouldn’t be right. When Du Ge started dabbling in tea, I was still playing in the mud somewhere. I just happened to rank ahead of him in the exams.”

Meng Chi was telling the truth. Du Feng had studied tea ceremony in his youth, but only as a pastime. It was only now, with his career stable and his children grown, that he had thrown himself into it fully.

A glint of approval appeared in Mr. Chen’s eyes, and he laughed. “That’s what I appreciate about you—that humble confidence you carry despite your talent.”

“That’s not humility; it’s just the truth.” Meng Chi kept a modest smile as he stood up and walked to the cabinet in the private room to fetch some tea leaves. “Shall we have the aged white tea again today?”

Aged white tea refers to white tea that has been stored for many years, generally no more than twenty.

White tea has a low yield, and its production process follows ancient methods—no stir-frying, no kneading, proper spreading, natural withering, and timely baking. It demands high technical skill, so high-quality white tea is quite valuable.

Mr. Chen nodded, so Meng Chi took a small piece of the tea cake Mr. Chen had stored there and brewed him a cup.

The faint fragrance of tea filled the private room, dispelling some of the tobacco smell and easing the discomfort in Meng Chi’s nose.

Meng Chi’s body was uncomfortable, and there were still marks on his wrists, so his movements were limited. Only at the very end, when he presented the tea, did a slight pause in his motion betray him—a tug at the wound on his inner thigh revealed a hint of redness on his wrist.

Mr. Chen glanced at him, took the tasting cup, and inhaled the tea’s aroma. “Xiao Meng, you really do always manage to surprise people.”

“Hmm?” Meng Chi responded, looking up. When he met Mr. Chen’s smiling eyes, he suddenly realized what he was getting at, and said, “It’s the tea you selected, Mr. Chen. This cake is well-aged, with a rich aroma and a long, lingering finish. The more you taste it, the more surprises it holds.”

White tea doesn’t prize earliness; it prizes lateness. Over years of storage, the internal components of the leaves slowly transform, the aromatic compounds gradually volatilize, the liquor gradually turns red, the flavor becomes mellow, and the tea’s nature gradually shifts from cool to warm. The longer it is stored, the mellower its taste and the higher its drinking value.

Meng Chi deliberately steered the conversation toward the tea, but Mr. Chen didn’t take the bait. Instead, he took a sip and said with a faint smile, “The tea is good, but the brewer has to be good too—otherwise, how could the flavor come through?”

He set down the cup and continued, “The skill has to be good, and the brewer has to be good-looking too—pleasing to the eye. No wonder they asked you to do that photo shoot.”

From the moment he’d walked in and heard Mr. Chen say “photography is also art,” Meng Chi had already guessed that Mr. Chen’s message last night was probably because he’d seen the photos exhibited at the convention center.

Sure enough, the next second, Mr. Chen clicked his tongue and said, “Those photos of yours at the convention center are really well done. I even wanted to buy them, but they weren’t for sale.”

Mr. Chen’s eyes shifted, and his gaze swept over Meng Chi in a leisurely, appraising manner. “How about you let me take a few shots too? For my appreciation?”

Meng Chi’s brow dipped almost imperceptibly, then he shifted his legs, sat up straight, and raised the covered bowl in front of him, striking a tea-pouring pose. He laughed heartily and said, “Sure! How about this pose—is it standard?”

Mr. Chen narrowed his eyes, his gaze lingering on the ring of red marks on Meng Chi’s wrist. He suddenly reached out and grabbed the hand holding the covered bowl, lowering his voice: “What happened to your hand?”

Meng Chi frowned imperceptibly. “I went to look at watches yesterday. Got a mark from trying them on.”

Mr. Chen smiled ambiguously, glancing at the red mark behind Meng Chi’s ear. Just as he was about to say something, a light cough came from behind him.

“Meng Chi!” Yang Zhengfeng stood by the lattice window of the private room, his face stern. “Come out. I need to talk to you.”

Yang Zhengfeng was fifty-six years old. His wrinkles weren’t particularly deep, but his nasolabial folds were prominent, carved like knife strokes into his face. Two thick, dark eyebrows slanted into his temples, and a thin scar at the tip of his right brow cut through the thick hair, making his already solemn face even more severe. At this moment, his complexion was as black as the bottom of a pot.

Seeing Yang Zhengfeng’s expression, Meng Chi had a bad feeling. He said “Okay,” pulled his hand back from Mr. Chen’s grip, and said, “Mr. Chen, please enjoy your tea. I—”

Mr. Chen withdrew his hand, turned to Yang Zhengfeng, and said, “Master Yang, you’re not going to hold a grudge against Xiao Meng, are you? It’s just a few naked—ahem, photos. That’s also sacrificing for art—”

“Mr. Chen,” Yang Zhengfeng’s brow twitched violently at those two unfinished words, two deep furrows forming between his brows as he cut off Mr. Chen’s grand speech. “If you find tea-drinking dull, you might appreciate the couplet in the main hall. The characters on the lower line are particularly well written.”

Meng Chi’s mouth twitched. He glanced at the phrase in front of the courtyard—”In idle talk, speak no ill of others”—and thought to himself that his master, who rarely spoke, had just delivered a blow that left no room for retort.

Before the smile could reach his lips, Meng Chi received a chilly glare from his master and obediently followed Yang Zhengfeng out of the teahouse.

The two walked out one after the other. Yang Zhengfeng headed straight for his home without a word. Meng Chi kept his eyes down and his mind clear, walking along while thinking that his master was furious—and it probably wouldn’t end well.

Yang Zhengfeng walked briskly. Normally, Meng Chi would have no trouble keeping up, but after last night’s ordeal, even a few hundred meters were painful, and he gradually fell behind.

“Are you crawling back there or what… What’s wrong with you?” When they reached the front door, Yang Zhengfeng finally stopped and called out, only to see Meng Chi walking with a pained grimace. Looking closer, he noticed that Meng Chi’s face was somewhat pale and not in good shape.

“It’s nothing,” Meng Chi immediately straightened his legs and explained under Yang Zhengfeng’s scrutinizing gaze, “I tripped and fell yesterday—landed on my backside.”

Yang Zhengfeng stared at him for a few seconds, let out a cold snort, and turned to enter the house.

As soon as he stepped inside, Meng Chi was greeted by the rich aroma of food. Seeing his master’s wife busy in the kitchen, he went in to help, asking what good soup she was making that smelled so delicious it made his mouth water.

Xue Qin chuckled and said, “Youran sent me some dried scallops—said they’re great for soup. Go sit down; Lele will be back soon and we can eat.”

Meng Chi didn’t leave. He stayed by Xue Qin’s side, chatting with her while helping with the prep work.

Today’s mock exams were over, so Yang Zile didn’t have evening study. Before long, he came home from school.

The three family members plus Meng Chi sat down to dinner. Yang Zhengfeng remained stone-faced and silent the whole time, casting an eerie atmosphere over the table. Even Xue Qin didn’t ask Yang Zile how he’d done on the exams.

Sensing danger immediately, Yang Zile discreetly asked Xue Qin but got no useful information. So he asked the cashier at the shop and learned that Mr. Chen had come by today and, right in front of Yang Zhengfeng, had lavishly praised Meng Chi’s nude photos.

Yang Zile thought, It’s over. He knew his father too well. With the old man’s rigid nature, there was no way he’d see those photos as art. Even the promotional collaboration he’d arranged with She Shan would only be seen by Old Yang as a frivolous distraction, losing sight of the essentials.

Creeping near the study, he heard a loud bang on the table—and his heart sank even further.

The study had good soundproofing, so Yang Zile couldn’t make out what was being said, but he could tell that most of the time, it was Yang Zhengfeng speaking, and his tone was very harsh.

Occasionally, when his voice rose, Yang Zile caught fragmented phrases, such as: “I taught you tea ceremony, not to… cut corners… or play tricks! If you… then… get the hell out!”

At the words “get the hell out,” Yang Zile snapped to attention and, faster than his brain, started pounding frantically on the door.

Before long, the study door opened, and he saw Meng Chi, looking somewhat pale, and Yang Zhengfeng, red-faced and furious.

“What the hell are you doing again?!” Yang Zhengfeng shouted at him.

Yang Zile shoved past Meng Chi, rushed into the study, and yelled, “It was my idea to have Ge go to the photo shoot! If you’re going to yell at someone, yell at me!”

“Fine! Your wings are getting strong, talking back to your old man like that.” Yang Zhengfeng was stunned for a moment, then fumed, gasping, and grabbed the ruler nearby to hit him. “You think you’re so tough now!”

Outside, Yang Zhengfeng, holding a teapot, had an air of immortal grace, composed and taciturn. But now, he was just an old father driven up the wall by his son, and his language turned coarse.

Meng Chi was a disciple; he could be hit during training, but now, even if Yang Zhengfeng was disappointed and angry, he couldn’t strike him. Yang Zile charging in at this moment had walked straight into the line of fire.

Meng Chi, who had been enduring the scolding for a while, felt his brow twitch. He blocked Yang Zhengfeng with one hand while signaling Yang Zile with his eyes.

“Hit me, hit me, hit me! Let’s see you do it! If it’s for the shop’s business, what’s a beating or two?!” Yang Zile was getting more and more worked up, putting on a heroic front of defiance against oppression.

“You—” Yang Zhengfeng was so angry he swung the ruler wildly. Meng Chi was quick to block, and Yang Zile didn’t get hit, but Meng Chi took a blow instead.

Luckily, the commotion was loud enough to bring Xue Qin running. She managed to rein in the enraged old man, and the battle finally subsided.

After sitting quietly for a while, Old Yang went to his room to rest. Xue Qin told Meng Chi to go home as well. Meng Chi said “Okay,” told her to rest early, and left.

Yang Zile, of course, followed him out, still wearing an unhappy expression.

Meng Chi let out a long, weary sigh and walked home under the moonlight, his face tired and his mood low. Yang Zile didn’t dare speak the whole way.

“What did my dad say to you?” After a silent walk back to Jingya Residential Community, Yang Zile finally couldn’t hold back. “Did he tell you to get lost?”

“No,” Meng Chi laughed and patted his forehead. “He just wants me to go to the countryside for Du Ge, to think about why I’m learning tea in the first place.”

“Huh?” Yang Zile muttered. “What else could it be for? To make money, right?”

Meng Chi’s lips twitched. As he took off his coat and hung it up, he spotted the Armani coat belonging to Yu Tingzhi hanging there. He let out a very quiet sigh inside.

Maybe he really shouldn’t have agreed to She Shan’s photo shoot—it had stirred up a whole mess of trouble.

“Then if you’re going to the countryside to buy tea, what about next month’s event? Isn’t there a really important competition?” Thinking of this, Yang Zile couldn’t help feeling guilty.

“Yeah,” Meng Chi nodded. “Du Ge will go in my place.”

Yang Zile opened his mouth, then closed it. Looking at Meng Chi’s weary face, he said with dissatisfaction, “Damn it, I knew my old man was a pain in the ass. We’ll probably have another fight when it’s time to shoot the promotional photos.”

Meng Chi didn’t comment. He just told Yang Zile to brew him a cup of tea.

Dinner had been a bit salty; though he’d had soup, it hadn’t helped much. In the study, Yang Zhengfeng had had him brew a pot of tea, but he hadn’t gotten to drink any. Now, tired and parched, he could use some.

Guilt-ridden, Yang Zile obediently went to the kitchen and looked for some sleep-inducing tea. “What’ll it be? Longan tea or jasmine tea?”

Meng Chi had just flopped onto the sofa—his backside still felt a bit off. He thought for two seconds and said, “Cassia seed tea.”

“Huh?” Yang Zile asked. “Are you constipated or have the runs? Why that?”