"Are you divorced?"
The ladies at the table were stunned.
"What difference does it make whether we're dead or divorced?" Mrs. Wen said leisurely.
"Did you divide the assets?"
"How was your equity structure arranged before?"
Instantly, the ladies began gossiping again.
Taking advantage of the shock at the mahjong table, Mrs. Wen smiled contentedly. She revealed a tile she had just drawn and slapped it down: "Self-draw."
The women at the table erupted into noisy chatter.
Mrs. Wen: "Not a single cent of my money will be missing, and I still have my son. My son won another school award today. The most reliable one is still my dear baby."
Mrs. Chen visibly rolled her eyes.
Ms. Li lowered her head and continued scrolling through the social media feed of the counter guy.
For a moment, the mahjong tiles were shuffled and reset, and the room once again echoed with the clattering sound of tiles being mixed.
The noise could penetrate through the floorboards, but the warmth from the first floor could not.
The room at the far end of the second floor was dim and cold.
It was unclear whether the air conditioner was broken or if it was due to the room owner's preference. In any case, the only light in the spacious room came from the computer screen. The atmosphere in the room was icy, chilling one's hands and feet.
On the screen, only a small area of the Summoner's Rift map was illuminated, with most of the terrain shrouded in darkness.
Through the headphones, the sound notifications of teammates being killed rang out repeatedly, yet the Fiora on the screen continued dismantling the turret before her, unconcerned.
Suddenly, question mark pings appeared one after another around the elegant female warrior in the game.
Teammates typed in the public chat, cursing Fiora for not joining team fights.
A pair of hands moved to the keyboard, typed "muteall" in the dialog box, pressed Enter, and continued playing the game alone.
The match progressed with dramatic twists and turns, yet none of it concerned the top laner. The icons in the bottom right corner flickered as teammates died and respawned, while the Fiora clad in her Championship Skin merely repeated the cycle of farming minions, pushing turrets, getting killed, and respawning.
Both sides pushed toward each other's bases. In front of their own Nexus, teammates fell one after another.
At the far end of the rift, Fiora delivered the final blow, and the Nexus exploded in blue light.
The victory icon flashed.
Simultaneously, in the bottom right corner of the screen, a mailbox notification indicated a new message had arrived.
A pair of hands lightly pressed on the mouse, instinctively moving to click the ×, but paused upon seeing the sender's name.
Moments later, the window switched, and the email was opened.
The argument downstairs began when the black car returned.
First, the loud engine noise invaded the night, followed by the tires scraping over a manhole cover with a "thump," the sound of brakes, and the car door opening before being slammed shut with a "bang."
At the mahjong table, Mrs. Wen's expression visibly changed. Immediately after, the front door was violently pushed open.
Chilly wind and drizzle poured into the house as Mr. Wen's figure appeared under the foyer's chandelier.
For a couple whose marriage had already shattered, there was no need for any pretense of affection.
Without even removing his shoes, Mr. Wen strode directly to the mahjong table.
Just as the ladies at the table adopted expressions of shock, Mr. Wen kicked over the table, sending mahjong tiles scattering across the floor like a storm of thunder and rain.
"Whore, are you screwing men at the school now?"
Following the roar, the cold window frames upstairs trembled slightly.
Mahjong tiles scraped across the floor, clattering everywhere, accompanied by incessant shouts of "tramp" and "bastard." These sounds, amplified by the space, invaded every corner of the small house.
Until
the desk in the second-floor room.The computer window had switched from "League of Legends" to the inbox.
Bright white light streamed from the screen, yet it seemed to possess a strange magic—the particularly piercing sounds of argument were temporarily blocked out.
The window displayed a row of emails.
The top one was titled "Hongjing No. 8 Middle School Football Team Schedule and Related Assignment Arrangements."
A hand, pale from the cold, gripped the mouse, double-clicked, and opened the email.
As the message slowly unfolded, the unsettling background noise gradually faded, replaced by a cheerful female voice...
Hello Wen Chengye:
The specific match address and location are shown in the image below.
The coach assigned a review assignment today, asking everyone to write a short essay titled: "A Brief Discussion on How a 10-Person High School Team Can Defeat the Yongchuan Evergrande Youth Team." Please submit your assignment on time by next Sunday.
I will send you the match review video via cloud storage. Download it yourself.
PS: We’re taking the high-speed train to Yongchuan. The departure time and train number are below. There will be a surprise when you scan your ID card.
Finally:
Where’s my assignment? Where’s my assignment? Where’s my assignment?
When will you turn in my assignment?
Your beloved teacher,
Lin Wanxing
Year X Month X Day
The match location diagram, cloud storage address, and train ticket screenshot were all attached at the bottom of the email.
A mix of serious and casual tones, Wen Chengye dragged those screenshots to the end, a sense of absurdity spreading in his heart.
A long time passed, so long that the noise downstairs gradually subsided, before he switched the computer window.
Copy, paste, enter the password...
The mouse hovered over the download button, the old villa’s wooden stairs creaking.
Mr. Wen stepped onto the second floor and pushed the door open.
Light from the hallway flooded into the room, making the interior seem even darker.
"How’s my good son been at school these days?" Father Wen put on a gentle smile.
The computer window was quickly switched. Wen Chengye’s fingers twitched. He covered the assignment on the desk with scratch paper and looked coldly toward the doorway.
"Next Sunday, Dad has arranged for you to meet with a study abroad consultant at 8 a.m. Master Zhang will pick you up. Make sure to get up early."
No response.
"Good son, get to bed early." Mr. Wen closed the door.
The woman downstairs cried even more hysterically.
"Wen Zihuan! Don’t you dare take my son away! He’s my son!"
The door slammed shut.
The room returned to silence.
The computer screen became the only source of light in the room, faintly illuminating the pages hidden beneath the paper.
The cursor moved.
Are you sure you want to download this content?
The person at the desk picked up the headphones and put them on again, breathing into his palms.
Then, gently, he clicked the mouse.
Chapter 102: Yongchuan
To choose this, or to choose that?
To choose to study hard, or to choose a slim hope, to fight one last time in the final stretch of high school football?
No one knew the answer.
There was one week left until the match.
The football team students had all submitted their thoughts on the new lineup and strategy.
Tactically speaking, with Wen Chengye absent, their defense was weak, and someone would inevitably have to drop back from midfield.
This point was mentioned in every student’s short essay.
But when it came to the specific candidate, everyone had different opinions.On the pitch, Wang Fa's gaze swept over his flock.
Finally, he pointed a finger, and Fu Xinshu's eyes widened in surprise.
The students found it strange.
Hongjing No. 8 Middle School had three midfielders: Fu Xinshu, Zheng Ren, and Zhi Hui.
Among them, Zheng Ren was tall, Zhi Hui was robust, and Fu Xinshu was the midfield organizer. By all logic, he shouldn't have been the one to drop back.
Wang Fa explained, "Fu Xinshu just injured his foot. Defenders run less, so it'll reduce the strain on him."
Fu Xinshu protested, "Coach, you don't need to worry about my injury. I'm fine now. Actually, I think..."
"If it's just a casual game, what does it matter which position you play?" Wang Fa retorted.
Fu Xinshu was immediately left speechless.
Wang Fa continued, "If you're just playing casually, then defend casually. Protecting your body is the most important thing—that's your goal for this match."
"But what if I want to play seriously?" the young man asked.
The wind on the field brushed against Wang Fa's light green sweatshirt, sweeping toward the distant, rugged mountains.
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