Wei Qian had read his fair share of those inspirational, state-sanctioned tales when he was a child, but he had long since wiped them from his memory. His emotional development had likely failed to keep pace with the average peer; he had felt absolutely nothing back then. It was only now, looking at the thin pamphlet in his hand, that he felt a microscopic, cynical stir.
He tossed the booklet onto the low table, casually addressing the two cubs. "Your teacher is a bit of a class act. Good choice of extra reading."
Fatty San, who was currently wrestling with a hot wok in the kitchen, poked his massive head out over the roaring hiss of frying oil. "What’s that? Shout it out over the noise, I can’t hear a damn thing!"
Wei Qian cleared his throat, fully intending to unleash the booming, dramatic projection he had used for his student representative assembly address just to rattle the fat man’s eardrums. But before a single word could pass his lips, Wei Zhi Yuan—sitting cross-legged on the floor—suddenly slammed the brakes on the atmosphere.
"Brother," the boy said flatly. "I don’t want to go to school."
He was rehashing the old mutiny. Wei Qian didn't look at him, entirely refusing to take the bait. As a thoroughly competent, feudal-minded parent, he intended to carry out the honorable family tradition of absolute dictatorship to the very end. When it came to matters of education, it was never the turn of a feral little brat to voice an opinion.
Ignoring the boy, Wei Qian bellowed toward the kitchen, "San'er! Let me educate you with a piece of high literature. Let’s see which paragraph to start with... Ah, here. 'Idealism—'"
"Brother." Wei Zhi Yuan rose, walking over to squat directly in front of Wei Qian. Forcing his brother to look straight into his eyes, he repeated, "I don’t want to go to school."
Little Bao, ever the loyal soldier of domestic chaos, came tumbling over upside down from the sofa. She chimed in with a crisp, ruthless snitch: "Brother, he’s trying to skip his lessons. Beat him!"
Wei Zhi Yuan furrowed his brow, turning on her with grim righteousness. "Piss off, this has nothing to do with you."
"You're the one who needs to piss off," Wei Qian muttered. He casually raised the inspirational pamphlet and smacked Wei Zhi Yuan across the head, letting a line slip from his mouth from pure muscle memory: "Say one more word and I'll break your legs."
There was a historical source for this line. During Wei Qian’s childhood, a notoriously mischievous classmate had caused trouble, forcing the faculty to call the boy's father to the school. The father had slammed his hand against the boy's skull, viciously roaring: "You skip class again and I’ll break your damn legs!"
A younger Wei Qian had found the raw, paternal absolute power of that statement incredibly profound. In his youthful ignorance, he had copied it into his vocabulary excerpt notebook, which promptly earned a massive, furious red cross from his teacher.
In short, he had been waiting years to paraphrase that line on a brat of his own.
Wei Zhi Yuan didn't flinch. Instead, his gaze dropped to Wei Qian’s dangling, plastered arm, his expression twisting into something deeply complex.
He had resisted school the first time out of pure, primal ignorance regarding its purpose. But this time, the little boy had chewed the matter over and intended to present his case with cold, logical reason. "I don’t want to go to school. I know it’s a good place, but it takes too many years and it costs a mountain of money. I’d be better off hitting the streets with you to earn a living. I can labor, I can fight, and I can feed myself. I can feed you, too."
Unfortunately, Wei Qian was a person fundamentally incapable of positive communication. The cub’s carefully reasoned arguments fell upon entirely deaf ears.
Wei Qian looked down at Wei Zhi Yuan, his palm itching with an intense desire to thrash the boy. He thought of himself, dragging himself out under the fading stars and returning under the dead moonlight every single day. With the violence and competition in the underworld escalating by the hour, he had to be ready to spill blood and sweat at a moment's notice, waging a constant battle of wits and courage against rival thugs. Yet this little pup spoke of the streets as if turning a profit were a simple walk in the park.
The brat truly didn’t know the cost of living; he had no conception of how grueling it was for a teenager to keep this roof over their heads.
Yet, as Wei Qian stared into those deadly serious, unblinking eyes promising to support him, his hand stayed.
The little creature... well, at least he had a conscience.
Thus, Wei Qian offered a thoroughly perfunctory brush-off: "Is that so? Then you’d better study hard. In the future, a university degree won’t be enough. A master’s or a doctorate won’t do either. You have to go all the way to a post-doctorate. When people see you, they’ll have to call you 'Doctor Wei.' You go get us a fancy title like that, and that'll be real power."
Wei Zhi Yuan lowered his gaze. Having learned a handful of characters, his intellect was sharp enough to realize his older brother was simply mocking him. The matter was entirely non-negotiable.
Little Bao, that absolute brat of a child, came waddling over with her head wagging, practically begging for a slap as she giggled, "Doctor Wei! Doctor, Doctor, hey, hey, hey!"
Wei Zhi Yuan snapped coldly, "Step aside, little girl."
Little Bao was not to be outdone, puffing her chest out. "I’m not a 'little girl,' I’m a big lady! You’re just a rutabaga-topped ball of goat dung!"
Wei Zhi Yuan countered calmly, "Ugly little hag."
"Goat poop ball!" she screamed in a fury.
"You're talking about yourself," Wei Zhi Yuan shot back with deadly precision.
Within seconds, the two cubs were rolling on the floor, pinching and biting each other in a frantic heap.
Wei Qian spectated from the side, harboring absolutely zero intention of stopping the brawl. He couldn't wait for them to get livelier; watching children tear into each other was one of his rare, cost-free forms of entertainment. As long as they didn't break any bones, he let them thrive.
When Wei Zhi Yuan had first arrived at the flat, his eyes had been wild, untamed, and entirely hollowed out, his demeanor far too rigid and joyless for a child. He had stood in stark, jarring contrast to Little Bao, who spent every hour droning on about her useless opinions. Back then, Wei Zhi Yuan had looked like a hardened, bitter adolescent forcefully crammed into a toddler’s mold; the soul simply hadn't matched the shape.
Yet over the past six months, he had grown progressively "younger." His speech and antics had steadily taken on a genuine childishness.
Even now, as he wrestled with Little Bao, Wei Zhi Yuan’s peripheral vision remained locked on Wei Qian. Realizing his big brother, with his splinted arm dangling, was watching their scuffle with genuine amusement, the boy dialed up the performance, intentionally throwing in absurd antics to keep Little Bao's fiery temper cooking.
Ever since the monumental embarrassment of his tooth-shedding incident, Wei Zhi Yuan had inadvertently discovered the ultimate cheat code to please his older brother: he simply had to drag his IQ down to the exact level of Song Lee Lee's and perform ludicrously stupid acts alongside her.
The more childish, sloppy, and ridiculous they behaved, the more relaxed and human-like their big brother became, dropping his rigid parental shield.
So, Wei Zhi Yuan walked deeper and deeper down this path of manufactured stupidity. Given his natural, brilliant intellect, he could have easily grown into a dazzling, formidable prodigy. Instead, he chose the path of an absolute clown. The twists of life were truly elusive.
Yet, Wei Zhi Yuan's devotion to Wei Qian and this dilapidated flat was intensely passionate. He was different from ordinary children; others were born into the safety of a family by default, but Wei Zhi Yuan had to earn it. He treated "family" as a high-stakes business enterprise that required constant strategic management.
As long as he was permitted to stay beneath this roof, he would happily play the fool—or throw his body into a meat grinder.
The boy vividly remembered a freezing day at school during the winter. The cold had seeped deep into his bones, rendering him numb. That night, after falling asleep, his body had unconsciously burrowed toward the heat, nesting deep within Wei Qian’s warm, solid embrace until dawn.
Waking up in the early light, the young boy had lain there for a long time, refusing to shift an inch. He had kept his eyes wide open, staring at the sleeping face of the teenager beside him, and silently, for the very first time in the hollows of his chest, he had called out: Brother.
The older brother naturally couldn't hear it. But inside Wei Zhi Yuan's heart, the name was permanently carved.
The lively, colorful war between the two cubs was finally terminated by Fatty San. With a single, grease-slicked hand, he hoisted each pup by the scruff of their necks like a pair of unruly puppies, tearing them apart.
"Aiya, my little ancestors! Are you trying to stage a rebellion in the Heavenly Palace? Let’s call a truce. Eat your ammunition first before you resume the war, there's no rush!"
Fatty San marched out of the kitchen bearing a small, blackened pot filled with steaming egg fried rice. He hadn't bothered with bowls; instead, he carried four large spoons, handing one to each person. They crowded tightly around the single pot, digging in.
The fat man possessed the soul of a nagging schoolteacher—babbly enough to rival the Tang Monk himself. Even a massive mouthful of sausage couldn't plug his jaw. He chewed and lectured simultaneously: "Look at you brats, children need to have ideals! You can’t spend your days like fat-bellied grasshoppers, tearing into each other without an end game. Your brother over here is a total numbskull who doesn't know how to raise you, but you can’t—"
Wei Qian, innocently caught in the crossfire, glared at the fat man, fully intending to thrash him until he learned exactly what kind of power the King of Hell possessed. But before he could open his mouth, the two cubs instantly formed a united front. Turning on Fatty San like defensive wolves, they snarled in unison: "Don't speak about my brother like that!"
Fatty San: "……"
Wei Qian smirked, tossing a thick slice of ham sausage into each of their spoons. "Good job. Eat more."
Fatty San’s massive, fleshy face twitched. Relying purely on his ungodly thick skin, he forced the conversation back onto its righteous track. "Fine, fine, we won't mention your precious brother. You’ve read all those inspirational school texts about grand ambitions. Come on, tell your Brother San—what are your big ideals?"
Little Bao raised her spoon high. "I want to be a famous singer!"
Wei Zhi Yuan said plainly, his eyes fixed on the pot, "Earn money and support my brother."
Little Bao shot him a competitive glare, quickly amending her claim: "When I become a famous singer, I’ll earn ten times more money and support my brother better!"
Fatty San smiled like a sleazy child-snatcher—no, like a profound, devoted educator. He turned intensely to Wei Zhi Yuan. "See, Bao'er has a clear, strategic objective. What about you, Yuan'er? You say you want to support your brother, but how exactly do you plan to earn that cash?"
Wei Zhi Yuan didn't even lift his eyelids as he scooped another mouthful of rice. "I can watch over Brother Le's venues, run illegal software discs, forge licenses, and collect protection fees from the street stalls..."
Fatty San’s face twisted in pure agony. He turned slowly to Wei Qian. "Qian'er, I think this kid of yours is entirely hopeless."
Wei Qian looked at the deadly serious expression on Wei Zhi Yuan’s stuffed, puffed-out cheeks. A sudden, sharp urge to laugh hit his chest, and so he did, letting out a genuine chuckle.
Concurrently, he pointed out a beautifully concise, clear path of action for Fatty San: "Get lost!"
The moment Wei Qian smiled, Wei Zhi Yuan felt that his days and nights of acting like a total idiot had been worth every ounce of sweat. He fell silent, conserving his energy as he fiercely lowered his head to shovel the fried rice into his maw. He ate with a terrifying, animalistic ferocity, as if he wanted to forge every single grain of rice directly into his own bones and muscle.
In truth, Wei Qian possessed an ideal of his own.
His original dream, buried deep within his childhood, was to become a scientist. He had envisioned himself wearing a pristine white coat, drifting through a quiet laboratory, recording complex data, drafting academic papers, and researching the mysteries of matter.
A life where he would eat during research, sleep during research, and harbor absolutely nothing else in his mind—entirely insulated from the desperate anxieties of food, clothing, and survival.
Of course, Wei Qian understood with absolute clarity that this ideal had long since mutated into a pathetic fantasy. He never uttered a word of it to anyone, pretending instead that he had been born from the very gutter of society—a cynical, street-hardened old soul who had never once been stupid enough to dream.
Fatty San had cooked the meal, and by the rules of their flat, he was also responsible for scrubbing the grease off the pots. He stood over the small basin, whining through a plume of steam, "Alas... your Brother San must have owed you a massive debt in our past life. In this life, I’ve returned as your personal maid..."
The words happened to drift into the ears of Wei Zhi Yuan, who was passing the kitchen threshold. Without a single word, the boy immediately rolled up his sleeves. "Brother San, I'll wash."
Fatty San waved a wet, dramatic hand. "Lord save me, people are actually fighting to be the personal maid now? Go on, hurry up and watch cartoons with Little Bao."
Wei Zhi Yuan raised his eyes to consult Wei Qian, who gave him a brief, one-centimeter nod of dismissal from the doorway. "Go on. Don't trip over his fat legs."
Once the child had scurried off, Fatty San’s playful demeanor vanished. He turned back to the basin, his voice dropping as he addressed Wei Qian, who was leaning heavily against the wooden doorframe. "Does that arm still give you hell?"
Wei Qian lit a cigarette with his good hand. "Not bad. A dull throb."
Fatty San didn't counter with his usual crude banter. After a heavy silence, he asked with a rare, suffocating seriousness, "What’s the actual plan, Qian'er? You intend to keep running with this crowd forever?"
Wei Qian had long since noticed that the fat man was choking back a serious lecture. He remained silent, waiting for him to lay it bare.
Fatty San was a couple of years older than both Wei Qian and Pocky. Nearing his twenties, his brain held a fraction more foresight than his younger peers. "I'm going to say this straight, and you won't like it. Brother Le—Le Xiao Dong—that man is a venomous snake. You follow a creature like him into the dark, what kind of happy ending do you expect? Even if you go to a construction site to haul bricks and sell your raw muscle, it’s better than this. The cash Le Xiao Dong hands you isn't a wage; it’s a bounty for your life."
A long silence stretched through the kitchen before Wei Qian asked quietly, "If I leave, what else can I do to put food in our bellies?"
"Whatever you can. " Fatty San countered sharply.
Wei Qian leaned his head back against the doorframe, his mind going entirely blank for a moment. He looked down at his left hand, wrapped so heavily in plaster it resembled a giant, useless dumpling. Through the thick layers of chalk, a faint, silken drill of nerve pain throbbed relentlessly.
He whispered, "There's nothing I can do, San'er."
"You could take a regular shift, or run a small street stall," Fatty San pressed, pausing as he wiped his hands on a rag. "If worst comes to worst, you run with your Brother San. We can drive the cart to haul cooked meat to the markets. Isn’t that a legitimate livelihood?"
Wei Qian let out a soft, humorless laugh, offering no reply.
"As long as you give me the nod, I'll go back and talk to my old man..." Fatty San’s voice trailed off into the steam. A cold draft hit his back, and he realized Wei Qian was no longer standing there. The teenager had chosen a path of non-violent, uncooperative withdrawal, slipping away before the lecture could finish.
Fatty San snapped his jaw shut, angrily flinging a handful of dirty dishwater back into the basin. "Grandson!" he roared toward the empty corridor. "Sooner or later, a day will come when you regret this to your very marrow!"
Fatty San had bled and fought alongside him since they were toddlers; he would never actively harm him. Wei Qian knew this in his heart, and he knew every single word the fat man spoke was gospel truth.
He had been entrenched in the casino circuits for over a year. His blind, youthful worship of Brother Le had long since evaporated into the realities of the underworld. What kind of foul, bloody business Le was actually running, Wei Qian understood better than anyone.
Sometimes, Wei Qian wondered why other people, no matter how agonizing their poverty, could find the strength to walk a clean, righteous path, while he alone was such a coward.
Was it because he truly desired to be a degenerate thug?
Even though he was a bastard, his conscience was pristine. He had slaved away as an exceptional, top-tier student in school for so many years for a reason—and it certainly wasn't to drop out and become a back-alley enforcer.
Was it purely for the money?
Yes. Wei Qian readily admitted that the stacks Brother Le handed him were vast. But Fatty San was right: he was selling his life on an installment plan of death. If factored in the survival of his whole life, that amount of money wasn't worth it—not even double.
Was it a primal fear of physical suffering?
Hardly. There was no metric of comparison between the agony of raising massive blood blisters under a scorching sun on a construction site, and having your forearm snapped clean in half by a wooden club in a dark alley.
Then what the hell was it for?
Wei Qian asked himself this question a thousand times in the dark. Finally, he realized that it was still his microscopic, terminal shred of pride that was killing him.
From the very moment he had entered this world, letting out his first pathetic cry as the son of a transient prostitute, he had been structurally destined to be inferior to every living soul. Thus, when he grew an inch taller and gained a fraction of a choice, his dead-set, frozen ego was utterly unwilling to bow its head again—even if standing tall meant weaponizing himself into a monster, forcing everyone in society to look at him with pure terror and loathing.
It was infinitely better to have the world fear him than to have them despise him.