Song Yuzhang: Chapter 110 - Love
Chapter 110: Love
The police station was still the same as always. As Song Yuzhang stepped onto the stairs, he realized it had been a very long time since his first visit there. Back then, he'd been afraid of wrongly assuming another’s identity—afraid the real Fifth Master Song wouldn’t even have a proper grave—so he had come to collect the body.
Song Yuzhang paused on the steps. Song Qiyuan had already hurried ahead, but seeing Song Yuzhang stop, he quickly turned and asked, “What’s wrong?”
Standing on the pale grey stone step, Song Yuzhang lifted his head and replied, “Nothing.”
These days, the police station wouldn’t let anyone from the Nie family in—they feared the consequences if Song Mingzhao were to die in custody. But as for the Song family, as long as enough silver dollars were paid, access was still possible.
Song Qiyuan had paid handsomely, hoping Song Yuzhang could speak with Song Mingzhao alone.
There had only been three people present at the time. Song Qiyuan wanted Song Yuzhang to have a good talk with Song Mingzhao—even if it was just to get a ‘why’ out of him. That way, he could at least give an explanation to the Nie family. Or perhaps there had been some misunderstanding—intentional murder was one thing, accidental discharge another. As Song Mingzhao’s third brother, even if Song Mingzhao had committed a capital crime, he had to try to save him. That was his duty as an elder brother.
Song Yuzhang entered the cell.
It was dark and cold inside. Outside, the sun blazed, but in here it was damp, the ground sticky enough that each step in leather shoes made a faint suction sound.
The sound was so faint, it didn’t even draw attention from the man in the corner—Song Mingzhao.
Song Yuzhang stood at the cell entrance, looking at Song Mingzhao through the iron bars.
Song Mingzhao, a tall and healthy man, was now curled into himself, barely noticeable in the shadows, almost blending into the darkness.
Song Yuzhang stood there, unsure for how long, until finally, as if sensing something, Song Mingzhao lifted his head.
The cell was dim, and the light behind Song Yuzhang made it difficult to see his face clearly. After a few seconds of trying to make out who it was—not Meng Tingjing, not Song Qiyuan, and definitely not a police officer—Mingzhao realized:
It was Song Yuzhang.
He froze completely in the corner.
Song Yuzhang, too, stood motionless outside the cell.
They stared at each other across the darkness and the bars.
Since the incident, Song Mingzhao had been numb. That numbness was largely an act of self-escape. Song Qiyuan thought he’d gone mad, but Song Mingzhao knew he hadn’t. He was just… exhausted from living.
Song Yuzhang looked at him, still finding it hard to believe.
He still couldn’t accept that it was Song Mingzhao who had pulled the trigger that day.
To him, Song Mingzhao had always been a not-very-bright person, with a self-important stubbornness and wild impulses. Someone nearly without redeeming traits—except perhaps for being a little more well-behaved than the other brothers.
Lately, Song Mingzhao had indeed been behaving—going to school, coming home regularly—and then suddenly, he fired a gun.
“Fourth Brother.”
Song Yuzhang’s voice was low and light, floating into Song Mingzhao’s ears. Song Mingzhao leaned back against the wall, shrinking back slightly.
“If you were going to shoot, why not aim properly?”
Song Mingzhao lowered his head and became a silhouette in the darkness, silent.
“Do you really hate me that much?”
Song Yuzhang’s tone was calm, without disappointment or anger. Song Mingzhao, who had sat in that cell for days, hadn’t thought about anything—not reflected on what he’d done, not even what had happened. When Song Qiyuan asked him why, he had no answer. It was like something had taken control of him in that instant.
Maybe his hand wasn’t just neurologically damaged—maybe his mind was too.
Now that Song Yuzhang was standing right in front of him, he began to think seriously.
“I don’t hate you.”
“You don’t hate me, but you shot at me?”
Another long silence. Then Song Mingzhao said, wearily, “I just… didn’t know what to do anymore.”
He didn’t want to question Song Yuzhang, didn’t want to argue anymore, didn’t want to guess what Song Yuzhang was thinking. He was tired. Too tired. He had never done anything right anyway, and it didn’t matter anymore.
This one act of cruelty—so abrupt, so senseless—it was like a bad joke.
Suddenly, Song Mingzhao pushed himself off the wall and stepped up to the iron bars.
Finally, he could see Song Yuzhang’s face clearly.
In truth, when he first saw Song Yuzhang, he’d been a bit startled—thinking this bastard is dangerously good-looking, a walking disaster, better be careful. But no matter how cautious he tried to be, it wasn’t enough.
Song Yuzhang’s face was pale with a sickly hue. Song Mingzhao stared at his shoulder. The black coat concealed it—he couldn’t see anything.
The truth was, Song Mingzhao only knew how to shoot. His marksmanship was not that great. He remembered Song Yuzhang kept a gun in his desk drawer. At the time, he hadn’t thought of using it for anything in particular. Just holding it made him feel a bit stronger.
When he fired, he truly hadn’t thought of anything—just an instinct to pull the trigger.
And after he did, the numbness in his hand disappeared.
“You’re hurt,” Song Mingzhao said, staring at Song Yuzhang’s shoulder.
Song Yuzhang glanced at his right shoulder. “Yes. Took a chunk of flesh off.”
“Will it leave a scar?”
Song Yuzhang paused. “Yes.”
Song Mingzhao gave a slight smile. It took effort to pull up the corners of his mouth, and tears rolled from his eyes. “I’m glad.”
Song Yuzhang looked at him, realizing now that Song Mingzhao truly did seem unhinged. Was it his fault? Had he pushed Song Mingzhao to this point? All he wanted was to live as Song Yuzhang, to be brothers with Song Mingzhao—how had it turned into this?
“Did you choose me because I was the dumbest and easiest to fool?” Song Mingzhao asked quietly.
“No.”
“Then why?”
Song Yuzhang looked into Song Mingzhao’s eyes. Suddenly, a deep ache struck him—not for Song Mingzhao, but for all the blurred silhouettes of those who had once loved him. He finally realized how cruel he had been to the ones who loved him.
To those who loved him, he had always been reckless—because their love came easily, he had never thought to cherish it.
Not only that — the more someone loved him, the more he itched to humiliate them, claiming it was to test whether that person’s love was sincere. Yet he himself had never loved anyone wholeheartedly. How could he demand that others debase themselves for him to the very end? To insist that a person who loved him must humble themselves to the lowest point just so he could feel at ease — wasn’t that just another form of weakness? Perhaps he was the one who truly feared loving others.
Song Yuzhang looked at Song Mingzhao and said slowly, “Because you love me.”
Song Mingzhao stared at him blankly, tears brimming in his eyes, and asked cautiously, “Really?”
“Really.”
“Have you ever lied to me, used me?”
Song Mingzhao held his breath, staring at Song Yuzhang. He was waiting for an answer, waiting for a verdict — a verdict on whether he was, after all, nothing but a complete joke.
“Yes.”
Song Mingzhao closed his eyes, gripping the iron bars with both hands and pressing his forehead against the cold metal. Tears streamed down his face as he stammered incoherently, “I’m sorry… I’m sorry… it’s my fault… I’m sorry…”
He repeated it over and over, but Song Yuzhang took his hand. Song Mingzhao, tear-streaked, lifted his face, and Song Yuzhang looked at him, speaking each word clearly: “You were wrong. I was wrong too.”
Song Mingzhao broke down, crying uncontrollably.
He knew it was over for him. His life was over. Yet he did not feel regret — living had simply been too exhausting. As a child, he had chased after his father’s love and, failing that, even beatings or scoldings would do. As he grew older, he sought his brothers’ love, but brothers schemed endlessly against each other. Later, Song Yuzhang came along and gave him the sum of all the love he had ever wanted — yet it was still tiring. Chasing someone day after day was just too exhausting.
Song Mingzhao said, “Xiao Yu, I want to bite you.”
He bit down hard on Song Yuzhang’s finger, almost to the point of breaking the bone. Song Yuzhang made no sound, enduring it silently. In his heart, he thought, In the next life, let’s be real brothers.
After Song Yuzhang left, Song Qiyuan immediately came forward to ask if he had gotten anything out of Song Mingzhao — why he had fired the gun, and whether it had been intentional.
Hands in his pockets, Song Yuzhang said calmly, “Fourth Brother fired the gun at me.”
Song Qiyuan was dumbstruck.
“Xueping only saved me.”
Song Qiyuan was left speechless.
Looking at him, Song Yuzhang said, “I should pay for both their lives with my own.”
Song Qiyuan came back to his senses, his expression complicated. “Fifth Brother…”
Song Yuzhang cut him off. “No need to persuade me. I’m just saying — I’m still very fond of living.”
The murder case was beyond dispute. With the Nie family’s involvement, the police and the court opened every possible green light. Everything moved forward with remarkable speed, and Song Mingzhao was quickly sentenced to death — and just as quickly executed.
On the day of the execution, Song Yuzhang went.
He never saw Song Mingzhao alive again. The execution scene was not shown to family members. He only saw Song Mingzhao’s corpse. And somehow, at the sight of his dead body, he felt numb — numb to the point that he found his own coldness chilling.
But indeed, there was no feeling. It was as if Song Mingzhao had died long ago.
Song Qiyuan took care of Song Mingzhao’s body. The Nie family was also present outside the execution grounds. From the looks on Nie Yinbing and Nie Qingyun’s faces, Song Qiyuan understood: this matter was not over.
After the Nie family left, Song Qiyuan asked Song Yuzhang, “The bank business…”
“Don’t worry,” said Song Yuzhang. “I’ll return to the bank tomorrow.”
Song Qiyuan looked at his face and felt a wave of self-disgust. His brother was dead — and in such a way — yet he himself had no ground to stand on, and had to keep moving forward without pause. The only way to survive was to forcefully turn the page.
Song Qiyuan left with Mingzhao’s body. Before Song Yuzhang could leave, a stranger stopped him.
“You’re Fifth Master Song, right?”
“Yes. And you are…?”
The man smiled, then quickly stopped smiling. “I… I was just now at the execution…”
Song Yuzhang understood. “What is it?”
“Before the execution, the prisoner asked me to pass on a last message to you.”
“What?”
The man scratched his head. “He said… look at the telegraph machine in the study.”
Telegraph machine?
Song Yuzhang suspected Song Mingzhao might have left him a final letter. After giving the man some money, he had the driver take him back to the Song residence.
Since the shooting, he had not set foot there. As soon as he got out of the car, even the big white bird that normally ignored him flapped over to greet him.
He went upstairs, following Song Mingzhao’s last words, into Song Zhenqiao’s study.
The study had long gone uncleaned. Inside, he found the telegraph machine — and it seemed recently used. Inspecting it, he noticed signs of a new incoming message. Thinking for a moment, he called the telegraph office. They confirmed there had indeed been a telegram, sent on the day of the shooting, and that it had come from England.
Putting down the phone, he suddenly felt as if an icy lake flowed through his chest.
He had forgotten — completely forgotten — that “Song Yuzhang” was still alive.
Believing he had taken on a great debt and been given a second chance, he had claimed everything as his own. Somewhere along the way, he had forgotten that this had all begun with a lie.
Whether the lie had succeeded or whether he had been the one deceived in the end, the fact remained: it had all started with his con.
Dizzy, he imagined Song Mingzhao receiving the telegram by chance and discovering the truth… He closed his eyes, unwilling to follow that thought to its end.
Downstairs, the driver waited. Half an hour later, Song Yuzhang came down carrying a small box.
The driver opened the car door for him. Sitting inside, Song Yuzhang glanced at the dark green lawn outside, then lowered his head and opened the box.
Inside was a slightly worn copy of Madame Bovary and a small, blood-red pigeon’s blood ruby.
He returned to the Nie residence. Having been out half the day, the wound on his shoulder had torn a little, and his fingers were faintly bloodstained. He didn’t much care to treat them.
Opening Madame Bovary, he found it was in full English, and he read with difficulty. Getting up, he went to Nie Xueping’s desk to find an English dictionary. As he turned things over, a thin envelope fell out.
He picked it up — it was also in English.
He recognized the words — it was an unsent letter to Oxford University, dated September 12.
Thinking for a moment, he knew exactly which day it had been written.
“…Studying is also an important matter… You could write to Oxford and have them transfer your enrollment to Miyun University…”
His palm brushed the envelope slowly. The handwriting was neat and beautiful. Song Yuzhang suddenly closed his eyes, a single tear falling onto the envelope with a small pat.
Two people had loved him. Two people had died.
And he was still alive.
Living on, like a bastard.
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