That evening after self-study, Jing Qichi's bicycle chain suddenly came off on the way home. Both boys took turns trying to fix it, getting their hands covered in grease, but to no avail. After half an hour of futile effort, Qi Qi's mother called to hurry them along, so they unanimously decided to leave the bike at school and deal with it the next day.
Jing Qichi gave Huan'er a ride while listening to Qi Qi chatter about the latest happenings in the humanities class. There was a history teacher who was quite active on the School Network, often stealing crops from classmates in the middle of the night. When caught, he stubbornly denied it, claiming he didn’t even play on Renren.
Qi Qi laughed heartily, "If he doesn’t play, how does he know the website changed its name? We just didn’t have the heart to expose him."
She mentioned that a top student had transferred from another city, and Director Fu had already scheduled him to give a speech under the national flag next Monday—they’d get to see him then. She said their building was now closer to the cafeteria, so they could stroll over leisurely and still get freshly cooked food. "Just tell me what you want, and I’ll grab it for you in advance." She also said the classroom felt much bigger with fewer people. During the last seating arrangement, the window and wall seats had been replaced with single desks, and there was still enough space in the back to play basketball.
This made Song Cong, who had never visited, envious. "How many people are in your class?"
"Thirty-four."
"Thirty-five."
Huan'er and Jing Qichi answered simultaneously with different numbers.
Jing Qichi glanced back at his passenger. "Didn’t you say there’s a new transfer student? Basic math, kid."
Huan'er smacked his back. "You’re only good at double-digit addition and subtraction."
"Enough, you two." Qi Qi chuckled and turned to Song Cong. "Next time you come to see me, the science building is my turf."
Song Cong smiled. "Sure."
That casual reply made the girl’s heart flutter. At the crossroads, Qi Qi waved to her friends. "See you tomorrow."
After her friend left, Huan'er suddenly felt a pang of melancholy. New class, new friends, new environment—she probably wouldn’t even get the chance to see the history teacher her friend had described.
One intersection before the Family Compound was a demolition site. Though it was slated to become a new high-rise residential area with a large shopping center, it had remained a wasteland since Huan'er moved here, untouched by construction. The streetlights along the road seemed just as disheartened, either flickering or dim as if ready to give up. Just as they passed the construction site entrance while chatting, three men suddenly emerged from behind an advertising board. Jing Qichi, caught off guard, slammed on the brakes, sending Huan'er crashing into his back.
Song Cong didn’t fare much better. He had been riding fast to get home, and the sudden stop nearly sent him flying.
When Huan'er’s feet hit the ground and she saw what the man in front was holding, her heart leaped into her throat.
It was a fruit knife over ten centimeters long. The sharp tip was pointed directly at Jing Qichi, who stood shielding her.
The man spoke. "Hand over anything valuable."
To their right was the advertising board, while the other two men—one holding a liquor bottle blocking Song Cong’s bike, the other red-faced and empty-handed—closed in from behind.
Surrounded on all sides, there was no way to run.
In other words, on a modern city night in the 21st century, they were being robbed.
The situation was no laughing matter because Huan'er suddenly realized Jing Qichi had just gotten a new phone this semester, and Song Cong was carrying nearly two thousand yuan in class funds collected for study materials.
A cold sweat broke out all over her body.Her first instinct was to look at her companions. Jing Qichi was practically glued to her side, his face expressionless; Song Cong, standing a step away, had gone pale, gripping the backpack on his shoulders with one hand—all their money was inside.
"Stop staring!" The man opposite them brandished a knife, his expression vicious.
Chen Huan'er recoiled in shock, her mind blank.
"Money!" The man clutching a liquor bottle growled. "Hand it over!"
A wave of alcohol fumes hit her, the unfamiliar and overpowering scent snapping Huan'er back to reality. No one was around, no hope of rescue—so either they complied, or...
The knife-wielder wasn’t tall or particularly built; the unarmed guy blocking their rear was about the same height as Song Cong and Jing Qichi but not muscular; as for the one with the bottle, his eyes were bloodshot, and he could barely stand straight. Clearly, all three were drunk, and this wasn’t some premeditated ambush—just terrible luck for the trio.
There was a second option.
Chen Huan'er decided to gamble.
"My wallet's in my bag," she said, deliberately stepping back as she slid the backpack off her shoulders, kicking the bicycle over with a loud clatter. The noise made Jing Qichi, who had been straddling the bike, instinctively step forward. Seizing the chaos, Huan'er shouted, "One on one!"—then louder, in case they hadn’t heard—"One on one!"
The backpack slammed into the knife-wielder’s face. Her right foot shot out, striking his groin, followed by alternating punches aimed straight at his nose. Before he could react, she grabbed his arm, twisted with all her strength, and executed a perfect back throw, finishing with a brutal stomp to his crotch.
"Ah—ah!" The man howled in pain.
Huan'er turned and yelled at the other two, "Move!" Jing Qichi couldn’t shake off his attacker, so in desperation, she kicked from the side, sending both tumbling to the ground. The liquor bottle rolled away, and the drunk, sluggish and disoriented, gave Jing Qichi the chance to scramble up and rush to Song Cong’s aid. Two against one—the lanky man facing Song Cong took one look at the situation and bolted.
The boys turned back almost in unison, shouting, "Watch out!"
Huan'er still got nicked by the knife—she was busy pinning the drunk from behind when the other attacker lunged from the side. The basic rule of evasion was to prioritize the greater threat.
Her dodge sent the knife-wielder stumbling over the bike’s handlebars, the weapon clattering to the ground. Song Cong and Jing Qichi pounced, each pinning one of his arms while Huan'er locked the drunk in a chokehold, then delivered a powerful kick to the knife-man’s chest. As he collapsed, she roared, "Run!"
While Jing Qichi and Song Cong grabbed their bikes and took off, Huan'er kneed the drunk from behind, forcing him to his knees with a cry before letting go and sprinting after them. She caught up in two strides, leaping onto the back of Jing Qichi’s bike as he pedaled furiously. Song Cong shielded their rear, glancing back and yelling, "Faster, faster!"
Faster, faster—with every ounce of strength they had, toward the light ahead, faster, faster.
Faster than the howling wind, faster than raging flames, faster than a shooting star—the boys raced as if trying to outpace everything in the world.
They won.
The familiar glow of a supermarket sign came into view. The two boys gradually slowed, finally stopping with their feet planted on the ground.
Huan'er jumped off, and both bikes toppled over with a clang. Like drowning survivors clinging to driftwood, the three collapsed onto the curb, gasping for breath without a word.The bright streetlights illuminated the road ahead, with occasional vehicles flashing by. Two supermarket clerks in red vests chatted by the cash register.
This was the kind of night it should be—peaceful, quiet, monotonous. The heart-stopping events that had just transpired felt like a dream.
Song Cong was the first to recover. He immediately grabbed Huan'er's arm. "Are you hurt?"
Everything had happened too fast, too chaotically. No one had noticed exactly where the knife had struck.
"Ah." Huan'er gasped as the pain finally registered.
The right sleeve of her school uniform was torn, revealing a faint trace of blood.
"Damn it." Jing Qichi quickly unzipped her uniform and carefully rolled up the sleeve of her sweatshirt. There was a roughly four-centimeter-long cut on her upper arm—not deep, but still bleeding.
"Thank goodness you were wearing thick clothes." Huan'er felt a surge of relief, as if she had narrowly escaped disaster. The morning had been chilly, so she had deliberately chosen a fleece-lined sweatshirt—an accidental decision that had turned out to be a lifesaver.
"Let's get you home," Song Cong said, helping her up with a furrowed brow.
"Wait." Huan'er gestured toward a nearby pharmacy that was still open, wincing. "Let’s get some medicine first. If my mom sees this, I’m done for."
"No," Song Cong insisted. "This is a knife wound. If it’s not treated properly, it could scar—or worse, get infected."
"It’s not that bad." Huan'er pointed at the wound. "It’s just a graze, nowhere near a joint. And it’s definitely less than half a centimeter deep—doesn’t even need stitches."
Song Cong frowned. "But still—"
"Let’s do this first." Seeing that the wound was still oozing blood, Jing Qichi made a quick decision, recalling how Chen Ma had once lost her temper over a minor bruise. "Come on, hurry."
Huan'er was seated on a bench outside the pharmacy while Jing Qichi rushed in and returned with a pack of medical gauze. He tore open the packaging and pressed it firmly against the wound to stop the bleeding, his usual playful demeanor absent. "Does it hurt?"
"A little, but it’s bearable," Huan'er admitted.
"Maybe tonight—"
Before he could finish, Song Cong came out after paying. Seeing Jing Qichi pressing on the wound, he sighed. "I still think you should get a tetanus shot. We can’t risk complications just to hide this from Aunt Lina. Let my mom take you—"
"If your mom finds out, it’s the same as my mom finding out," Huan'er said with a bitter smile. "And if she realizes it’s a knife wound, all three of us are dead. Don’t worry, I know how serious it is."
When the two remained silent, she nudged Jing Qichi. "What were you saying about tonight?"
He had been about to suggest she stay at his place to avoid Chen Ma’s scolding, but then decided it might be overreacting. Instead, he changed the subject. "Chen Huan'er, when did you learn to fight like that? You were amazing—you can actually fight!"
"Totally, totally unexpected!" Song Cong’s worried expression instantly brightened with excitement. "Huan'er, I had no idea! Your moves were professional-level!"
Her punches, kicks, and chokeholds—every movement had been precise, swift, and ruthless. The skill she displayed far outweighed brute strength, something impossible without long-term training.
And yet, before this unexpected incident, even close friends like them had never heard or seen Huan'er mention any of it. For Song Cong and Jing Qichi, this night had been nothing short of breathtaking.
Huan'er felt a little embarrassed by the praise. "I guess I’ve trained a bit," she said lightly. "When I was a kid, I was really strong. My parents thought it’d be a waste not to learn martial arts."Jing Qichi suddenly looked up at her, but remained silent.
Lies.
He didn’t know why Chen Huan’er was lying, but he knew now wasn’t the time to dig deeper.
“That should do it, right?” Song Cong lifted Jing Qichi’s pressing hand away, turned on his phone flashlight, and leaned in for a thorough inspection. The bleeding was minimal, and though the wound was long, it wasn’t deep. Only then did he quietly exhale in relief and pull out the iodine he had bought. “Bear with it.”
The cotton swab soaked in brown liquid touched the wound, and Huan’er hissed in pain.
“There, there.” Song Cong soothed her before wrapping the wound with gauze, completing the makeshift first aid.
Huan’er lifted her arm slightly and shook it a couple of times. It really was just a superficial injury—nothing wrong with the bone at all.
Completely reassured, she suddenly burst into laughter.
Jing Qichi was taken aback by the unexpected reaction. “What?”
“I just thought—” Huan’er pointed at the iodine in Song Cong’s hand, “—this is the first time I’ve ever bought this stuff in my life.”
“Same.”
“Same.”
The three of them laughed together, tears springing to their eyes, unable to stop.
It was absolutely worth laughing about.
Their streak of bad luck was worth it. Fighting off the attacker was worth it. Escaping death was worth it. And spending money on iodine—something their homes never ran out of—for the first time was especially worth it.
It was an autumn night filled with countless things worth celebrating.
After the laughter died down, Song Cong returned to the earlier topic. “What did you study?”
Huan’er was puzzled. “Huh?”
He clenched his fist and threw a punch at Jing Qichi’s face in slow motion, while the other played along, dramatically turning his head as if he’d been hit hard.
Huan’er laughed again. “Just some martial arts—throwing punches and kicks here and there. Nothing useful.”
“Nothing useful? You saved both our lives today.” Song Cong made a “cut” gesture at Jing Qichi, who was still in acting mode. “Right?”
“Right, right, right.” Jing Qichi snapped back to normal and started teasing again. “Now I get why you said you were afraid of hurting someone back then.”
Song Cong was confused, looking from him to Huan’er. “Hurting someone?”
Jing Qichi waved it off. “Just some stuff you don’t need to know about.”
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