Song Yuzhang: Chapter 138 - Person
Chapter 138: Person
Moonlight fell clean and bright, washing over the world as it drifted gently down from the sky. But when it fell on Meng Tingjing, it was not soft at all—more like the glint of snow on a blade’s edge.
Song Yuzhang pulled his coat tighter around himself and withdrew his gaze, calm and indifferent.
The carved iron gate of the Song residence stretched out a long shadow in the moonlight. The mottled patterns cast themselves across Song Yuzhang’s face and body. He didn’t notice it, but Meng Tingjing fixed his eyes on a small flower-shaped shadow resting over Song Yuzhang’s eye.
That flower-shadow was even more fleeting than a real blossom. Song Yuzhang turned slightly, and the shadow vanished into the night.
The gate closed behind him. Song Yuzhang walked a few steps, then turned back to look at the tightly shut entrance.
The iron gate looked pitch-black and heavy under the moon. Song Yuzhang sighed softly, feeling a faint, puzzling helplessness.
In some things, Song Yuzhang was very confident.
He could read fate.
Not the mystical, unfathomable sort of fortune-telling, but the solid, real destiny of human beings.
Between people—what their ending would be—he could see it at a glance.
He returned to his room upstairs and lay in bed for a while. Then he turned over, pulled the green-shaded lamp by the bed; with a sharp click it lit up. Song Yuzhang thought, He must still be there.
His fingers brushed the thin cord of the lamp. Then he got up and walked toward the window.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling window, the lake shimmered. From his angle, the gate and lawn formed a slanted triangle against the sky. The gate was far; he couldn’t see clearly. But he didn’t need to. Shadows didn’t lie.
Song Yuzhang thought again, What’s the point?
Meng Tingjing had been waiting outside the whole time—not exactly waiting, because he wasn’t expecting Song Yuzhang to come down. He simply refused to leave. Everything that had happened between them could not be explained by why—why love, why hate, why let go, why refuse to let go. None of these had clear answers in his heart. It all felt like the natural unfolding of events.
They met. And then—it was simply this.
Time passed quickly. The hem of his long robe was slightly damp; frost and dew still clung strongly to the early-morning air. But Meng Tingjing felt neither cold nor damp. No joy, no sorrow, no expectation, no despair—he stood in the night like a great stone.
A stone. Since he had become a stone—could he understand what a stone felt?
One could smash it with brute force. One could warm it with body heat.
But a stone was only a stone.
He, Meng Tingjing, was not a stone. He had a heart, flesh, blood, feelings. He was a person.
A slow, steady knocking came at the door. Song Yuzhang opened his eyes at once. “What is it?”
Through the distance and the closed door, the servant’s voice sounded very light. “Second Master Meng has come in.”
Song Yuzhang held the blanket with one arm, remained silent for a moment, then said, “Brew him a cup of tea, then tell him to leave.”
The servant’s voice grew even softer—almost imperceptible. Song Yuzhang turned, ready to sleep again. He figured Yu Feiyu would not return tonight.
He wasn’t very sleepy—almost as if he could sleep or stay awake equally. He had spent the whole day relaxed, like duckweed floating on water: light, carefree. Yu Feiyu was truly wonderful—without him, Song Yuzhang could not have hidden inside this tiny world of ease, could not have drifted so freely all day.
Yu Feiyu was gone now, and the room had lost that constant air of joy. Once again, he felt lonely.
He slid one arm under his neck as a pillow and gazed up at the outline of the chandelier. Grabbing his watch from the bedside, he checked the time—it was past one.
The servant brought in hot tea, placed it down quietly, and withdrew without a word.
Meng Tingjing had not visited the Song residence many times.
After Meng Sushan married into the Song family, for a long time Meng Tingjing harbored genuine hatred toward the Songs and everyone in that house, believing they had taken his eldest sister away.
Of course, that made no sense, and he knew it. Meng Sushan had simply reached the age to marry. Even if not the Songs, it would have been another family. And she had married willingly.
But that didn’t lessen his dislike for the Song family.
He liked it that way—no one could tell him otherwise.
As he grew older, Meng Tingjing learned to restrain himself. As in-laws, he made some effort to offer basic courtesy.
Not because of social propriety—he had no need for such things—only for Meng Sushan’s sake.
Thinking carefully, it was only after Song Yuzhang appeared that his visits became even slightly more frequent.
Meng Tingjing rested both hands on his knees. After the steam over the tea dissipated, he stood.
A servant appeared from nowhere. “Second Master, Fifth Young Master is asleep. Please go back.”
“He isn’t asleep,” Meng Tingjing said. “I know.”
The servant frowned, troubled. They had all been trained under strict discipline, evolving into mechanical, obedient servants whose servility seemed carved into their bones. But Song Yuzhang treated them with kindness. Other than basic tasks, he barely interfered. Over time, the remaining servants shed their servility with astonishing speed, revealing their human faces again.
“Second Master,” the servant blocked his path, “please don’t go up. Fifth Young Master doesn’t want to see you.”
Meng Tingjing cast him a cool glance. The servant felt no fear. Meng Tingjing was powerful, yes—but he wasn’t their master. He had no authority over them. And after a month of sparring with Fifth Young Master, the man had emerged entirely unscathed. There was no reason to shrink back. Letting Meng Tingjing in was only out of respect for the former madam. Anything more was impossible.
Realizing this servant truly wasn’t afraid of him, Meng Tingjing was surprised. “You would stop me?”
The servant nodded, but politely. “Second Master, please go back. It’s late. Fifth Young Master has been busy lately. Today’s his only day of rest. And you too—go home and rest.”
Meng Tingjing sat back down and patted the sofa beside him. “Sit.”
The servant was completely baffled—and refused firmly.
“He treats you all well, doesn’t he?”
“Who? …You mean Fifth Young Master?” The servant nodded emphatically. “Fifth Young Master is good. He doesn’t manage us.”
“Doesn’t manage you?”
“Yes. He doesn’t interfere. As long as we do our own jobs well, he leaves everything else to us.”
Meng Tingjing sat straight, one hand resting on his knee, the other on the armrest. He had always looked down on servants, treating them like chairs or tables—objects. Even if he glanced at them, the glance passed like smoke and dust, unimportant and negligible.
If Song Yuzhang weren’t pleasant to look at, he probably would have glanced once and killed him outright.
He was that arrogant—and he knew it. Not proud of it, simply living that way, and capable of living that way.
Song Yuzhang came downstairs.
The soles of his shoes were very soft, making no sound as they stepped on the stairs. His footsteps were light as well. As he turned down the spiraling flights, just before reaching the hall, he heard voices.
The voices weren’t loud, and in the empty, quiet Song residence, they carried clearly.
Song Yuzhang paused and listened, realizing it was Meng Tingjing speaking with one of the household servants. He listened for a moment—there was an easy back-and-forth between them, the topics ranging from things that had happened back when Meng Sushan was the Young Madam of the Song family to the recent happenings at home.
When Song Yuzhang heard Meng Tingjing ask how he had been eating lately, he couldn’t help but smile.
Meng Tingjing’s gaze shifted; he caught sight of Song Yuzhang’s shadow. He raised his hand and halted the servant’s reply.
Sensing something, the servant turned his head—and saw Song Yuzhang, wearing pajamas, coming down from upstairs. Song Yuzhang waved a hand lightly. “Go to sleep.”
The servant was on night duty today. Now that Song Yuzhang had excused him, he happily ran back to the small building where the servants lived and truly went off to sleep.
Song Yuzhang kept smiling—calm, collected—a courteous expression. “In the middle of the night, keeping watch in my house? He’s not even earning Meng-family wages.”
The tea was cold now. Meng Tingjing took a sip of the cold tea. “If he were earning Meng-family wages, he wouldn’t dare speak to me like that.”
“Yes,” Song Yuzhang said as he approached, still smiling, somewhat self-mocking. “All of you manage a household better than I do.”
Meng Tingjing drank the cold tea one swallow after another, as though it tasted quite good. After a brief silence, he said lightly, “Not necessarily.”
Song Yuzhang had been adjusting the tie on his pajamas before sitting down, and he was surprised by Meng Tingjing’s ambiguous admission. Meng Tingjing was always forceful; even this vague concession felt unexpected.
Meng Tingjing’s face was a little pale—perhaps he had been chilled outside—his nose slightly red, giving him a look like pear blossoms in the rain. Song Yuzhang had long built up immunity in his heart to this type of fair, delicate beauty, and yet he still felt a small stir.
Life was like a dream. For the past chaotic half-year of his life, the one who had witnessed everything from beginning to end... was Meng Tingjing.
The two sat in silence for a long time. At last, Meng Tingjing spoke first. “You and Yu Feiyu… are together?”
“That’s right.”
Meng Tingjing fell silent again—a long, steady silence. “I knew you would end up with him.”
“Oh?” Song Yuzhang asked.
“He’s simple. Easy to fool. So you like him.”
Song Yuzhang laughed. “Not that he’s so unbearable, surely.”
Meng Tingjing also laughed, his gaze sharp as he looked at Song Yuzhang. “I’m stating a fact. Are all facts unbearable?”
Song Yuzhang considered this for a while and admitted, “You’re right.”
But Meng Tingjing felt no satisfaction at Song Yuzhang’s concession. When had he ever felt satisfied? Face-to-face with Song Yuzhang, he had once felt a flash of triumph—when he relinquished the Chamber of Commerce presidency and saw the change on Song Yuzhang’s face.
Finally—something Song Yuzhang couldn’t predict.
But the triumph lasted only a moment. A fleeting, instant pleasure.
And then? Then it was back to open and hidden struggles, life or death.
Long ago—well, not that long, half a year at most—Meng Tingjing had fantasized about forcing Song Yuzhang to kneel at his feet, admitting his lack of judgment, begging for mercy.
Between two people, it was always either the east wind overpowering the west or vice versa. Since someone had to come out on top to gain peace, he would be the one to take the upper hand. Dominance—he was accustomed to it.
But he failed.
Not a momentary failure—one that could be foreseen into the future.
Pleasure lasted but a moment. Sorrow, however, would last a lifetime.
That sorrow came from within, from the soul. No one could save him from it but himself. Not even Song Yuzhang. Song Yuzhang had his own sorrows.
“I want to ask you something. Don’t lie to me,” Meng Tingjing said evenly.
“Go ahead,” Song Yuzhang replied. “Ask, then go home. And send Yu Feiyu back to me. Without him, I won’t sleep well tonight.”
Meng Tingjing didn’t respond to that. He merely looked steadily at Song Yuzhang’s face. “That day—you followed Nie Yinbing out of the city because you wanted to force me to agree to letting the Nie family ship goods through the docks, didn’t you?”
Song Yuzhang didn’t hesitate even a second. “Yes.”
Meng Tingjing’s palm hovered above his knee, as though stunned by the sheer force of that truth.
After another long silence, he suddenly reached out and grabbed Song Yuzhang’s arm. Song Yuzhang expected Meng Tingjing to have one of his fits tonight—so be it. He was mentally prepared. Once the fit passed, he could sleep soundly.
Meng Tingjing pulled him onto his lap. Song Yuzhang’s nose twitched slightly; he thought he smelled blood.
Meng Tingjing pressed his right hand to Song Yuzhang’s cheek and guided his face down against his own chest.
His heartbeat was steady. Song Yuzhang felt the chill in Meng Tingjing’s palm and braced himself for when Meng Tingjing would lose control. But Meng Tingjing did not go mad. A faint warmth touched Song Yuzhang’s brow—he looked up. Meng Tingjing was staring at him.
Song Yuzhang, too, felt momentarily dazed.
Between them, things were good then bad, bad then good—never stable, always like two poles in constant struggle.
When Meng Tingjing lowered his head, Song Yuzhang felt no urge to avoid him. It was time. After the fights came periods of peace; after peace came more clashes. To keep entangling like this—there was little meaning. And so, at the final moment, Song Yuzhang did dodge.
But Meng Tingjing’s lips still brushed his brow, cool as ice, dry, moving from brow to nose bridge, from nose bridge to tip, and finally—his lips.
He didn’t avoid it in the end. Their lips met once more, and all the memories, the good and the terrible, revived like ashes reigniting, flickering back to life—intimate and lingering, moist with shared breath.
Meng Tingjing held him close, their noses brushing, breaths and warmth entwined. Meng Tingjing whispered, “Just now… you lied to me.”
Song Yuzhang sighed softly in silence.
Meng Tingjing turned his face, pressing his cheek to Song Yuzhang’s cheek. “You did have feelings for me.”
Song Yuzhang closed his eyes gently, his lashes trembling. He cupped the back of Meng TIngjing’s head, breathing in the late-winter, early-spring scent on him. He spoke softly: “Tingjing… you love me. How could I not understand?”
A vast, overwhelming sadness flooded Meng Tingjing, swallowing him whole. Yet he did not regret anything. People were like this—you couldn’t truly understand without living through it. You had to endure it yourself; there were no shortcuts. You had to cut into your heart one slice at a time before you could see it clearly.
Now Meng Tingjing understood.
The Song Yuzhang he loved wasn’t a stone. He had a heart, flesh, blood, feelings. Just like him—he was a person.
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