Song Yuzhang: Chapter 139 - Illness
Chapter 139: Illness
As soon as he arrived at the cotton mill, Yu Feiyu was immediately seized. Everyone talked over one another, telling him that while he’d been absent, the big boss had flown into a fury and smashed every piece of glass in the factory.
Yu Feiyu looked up at the high window near the ceiling, baffled. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
“That place is too high. The boss couldn’t throw a stone up there.”
Yu Feiyu found it absurd. True, Meng Tingjing’s temper wasn’t exactly good—anyone who could beat up half of Cambridge wasn’t normal—but smashing every window just because he wasn’t at the factory? That defied common sense.
Yu Feiyu scratched his head. “Where is he now? I’ll go ask him.”
“The boss left. He was furious.”
“…Fine, I’ll check the machines first.”
“The machines are fine.”
Yu Feiyu was speechless. The speechlessness didn’t last long. He simply said, “Then I’ll get going.”
“Hey—don’t you dare leave—!”
Regardless of anything, the factory workers grabbed him like kidnappers, pulling him back with one shared intention: the boss hadn’t come back yet, and until he did, Yu Feiyu wasn’t allowed to leave.
If anyone had to face hell, it was him. Let the boss finish venting on him—then he could go.
So Yu Feiyu was forced to stay. The workers herded him into the office like a group effort.
Inside, every window and pane of glass had shattered, confirming their story. Yu Feiyu still felt entirely baffled. Baffled, he sat down. He tapped his temple with a finger, then inexplicably let out a chuckle—because all of this was simply too inexplicable.
There was a sofa in the office. Seeing someone standing guard at the door, as though preventing him from escaping, Yu Feiyu waved a hand. “Relax. I’m not leaving. I’ll sleep here tonight.”
As an engineer, his credibility was solid. Hearing this, the guards finally relaxed and slipped away.
Yu Feiyu sat on the sofa shaking his head and laughing. Even so, he still couldn’t figure it out. He couldn’t sleep in the office—he was thinking of Song Yuzhang. Sitting around was boring, so he picked up the hardbound notebook on the desk and a pencil, and began sketching Song Yuzhang.
Mechanical men—nine out of ten were skilled at drawing. Pencil scratching across paper, Yu Feiyu sketched. Song Yuzhang was good-looking, which made him particularly difficult to draw. He drew a bit, paused, drew again—passing the time that way until sunlight began to seep in from outside. He had just completed a third of the portrait.
It was a half-body drawing. On the face, he had drawn only the brows and the eyes. They said the soul of a dragon painting was in the eyes—and drawing these eyes had taken him quite some effort. Once finished, he suddenly felt the nose and mouth no longer needed to be drawn. Just the eyes were enough to conjure the whole of Song Yuzhang in his mind.
There was a faint smile on his face, without any trace of fatigue from having stayed up all night.
“Mr. Yu, the boss is back! Come out quickly!”
Hearing the call, Yu Feiyu promptly tore the drawing from the notebook, folded it, and tucked it into his pocket.
Meng Tingjing had returned—calm, though his face was cold as frost, but nothing else seemed off. Yu Feiyu greeted him cheerfully. Seeing him, Meng Tingjing’s eyes flickered slightly.
“Boss Meng, I heard you were looking for me?” Yu Feiyu said brightly.
Meng Tingjing waved a hand. “Out back.”
The cotton mill’s backyard was wide and open, equipped with hoops—essentially a small basketball court. Workers often played ball here when free, and on sunny days people hung quilts out to dry. It was early now; the backyard held a light chill.
Once they entered, Meng Tingjing spoke evenly: “I want to beat you up.”
Yu Feiyu’s smile froze.
The title “Cambridge Boxing King” wasn’t for show. Yu Feiyu had personally seen him beat a man half a head taller until he wailed, cried, and searched the ground for his lost teeth.
Naturally, Yu Feiyu did not want to be beaten. Very politely, he said, “Is there any room for negotiation?”
“No.”
“You must have a reason?”
“Not convenient to disclose.”
Yu Feiyu had no words. But he did have a brain. Thinking it over, the only unusual thing he’d done yesterday after leaving the factory was one thing. His eyes flicked to Meng Tingjing as he tested, “Because of President Song?”
Meng Tingjing’s fist landed squarely on his nose.
The punch was restrained—it didn’t break the nasal bone—but it gave him two streams of nosebleed. Yu Feiyu wasn’t a coward; normally, he should fight back, but he clearly understood the gap between them. Fighting back would only make things worse. He covered his nose with one hand, frowning, when Meng Tingjing handed him a handkerchief. “Sorry.”
Taking the handkerchief, he pressed it to his leaking nose. “It’s fine. Nothing’s broken.”
“I know.”
Yu Feiyu nodded. “Are you going to keep hitting me?”
“No.”
He nodded again and pointed to the bench by the basketball court. “Let’s sit.”
Meng Tingjing had intended to.
The truth was—he had just come from Song Yuzhang’s bed.
Song Yuzhang had noticed the wound on his hand and wrapped it with gauze for him. Afterward, Meng Tingjing carried him upstairs and held him, fully clothed, through the night.
Song Yuzhang had said that without Yu Feiyu he couldn’t sleep soundly. But in reality, as long as someone was beside him, he slept deeply.
People said, “How can one sleep soundly on another’s bed?” Yet this dangerous man—who lived by licking blood off the knife’s edge—couldn’t sleep alone.
Meng Tingjing had watched his sleeping profile in the dark and thought, I pride myself on being clever, and yet when I’m foolish, I’m truly foolish.
How had he ever believed Song Yuzhang was a heartless, cold-blooded creature?
Holding him in his arms, Meng Tingjing felt his own heart slowly turn clear in the darkness.
Because he had overestimated himself.
Song Yuzhang had said these words before; Meng Tingjing passed them by without much thought.
He had overestimated himself. He liked Song Yuzhang, but Song Yuzhang didn’t reciprocate entirely. So instinctively, Meng Tingjing categorized him as heartless and unfaithful.
Otherwise, why wouldn’t Song Yuzhang love him?
Inwardly, Meng Tingjing sneered: How self-righteous. After a moment, he corrected himself: Self-deceiving.
Yu Feiyu used a handkerchief to stop his bleeding. “Xiao Meng, can I call you that? We’re not talking about business now.”
“Whatever.”
“Ah,” Yu Feiyu sighed. “You…what you’re doing…how should I put this?”
Meng Tingjing spat out two words coldly: “Vent anger.”
Yu Feiyu forced a wry smile, thinking Meng Tingjing was refreshingly direct.
Indeed, Meng Tingjing never needed a disguise—he had the right to be so.
Yu Feiyu, smart and emotionally perceptive, reflected for a moment and suddenly had an epiphany. He realized the punch he had received was not entirely undeserved. Meng Tingjing’s restraint was unexpected; with his temper, Yu Feiyu would have expected at least half his life to be in jeopardy.
Yu Feiyu pondered, then a thought struck him. “You went to see him last night?”
Meng Tingjing gave him a sidelong glance. Yu Feiyu, sensing Meng Tingjing might be preparing another punch, hastily waved his hands. “I mean no offense.”
Meng Tingjing understood the situation, but that didn’t mean he could calmly face Yu Feiyu. Truthfully, he wanted to take a knife to Yu Feiyu, sending him down to keep company with Nie Xueping.
But that would be unreasonable. Meng Tingjing was never stingy with unreasonable acts; as long as he liked it, wanted it, and had the means, no one in the world could stop him.
Now, someone was controlling him—himself.
Yu Feiyu sighed for a long moment, then suddenly felt some joy.
He realized he was jealous of Meng Tingjing! It was part of romance, after all. Though his love life was brief, it was “small but complete”—he had experienced all the essentials.
Meng Tingjing watched coldly, noticing Yu Feiyu’s happiness, and thought with disdain: Silly joy.
But then he reflected: this silly person had won Song Yuzhang’s favor—revealing just how exhausted and troubled Song Yuzhang’s mood had been recently.
Yu Feiyu said, “If you don’t want to talk to me, I’ll leave.”
“Talk.”
Yu Feiyu sighed again, thinking, What can I talk about without getting beaten? He dug into his pocket and pulled out the unfinished sketch.
“Look, how do you think it is?”
Meng Tingjing stared at it for a moment. “Average.”
Yu Feiyu was speechless. Then he said, “Of course, it can’t compare to you.”
Meng Tingjing was a genuine polymath. Yu Feiyu had never seen him fail at anything. He didn’t envy Meng Tingjing’s talent—he never envied anyone. He lived in his harmonious little world, happy and lively.
Meng Tingjing considered confiscating the sketch, but even if he did, Yu Feiyu could draw another. He looked out at the golden sunlight streaming across the horizon and said: “Go accompany him.”
It wasn’t magnanimity. He had no claim to magnanimity regarding Song Yuzhang—he was simply acknowledging reality. Clarity could be painful, but it was beneficial. Suffering wasn’t wasted; there would be sweetness in the future. Now was not the time.
Yu Feiyu returned to the Song residence, but Song Yuzhang had gone out. This gave Yu Feiyu a chance to finally tend to his nose.
After waiting a long time without seeing Song Yuzhang, Yu Feiyu brazenly asked the household staff for food.
Knowing he was the young master’s new favorite, the servants dutifully prepared a meal.
Meanwhile, Song Yuzhang was elsewhere in the Song residence.
Song Qiyuan spoke to him quietly. “Really, I feel uneasy.”
“Uneasy about what?” Song Yuzhang stirred his tea. “He’s so calm. Isn’t that good?”
Song Jincheng had mostly recovered. He didn’t make a fuss, stayed in his room all day, avoided speaking to others, only coming out to eat meals.
Song Qiyuan had initially been relieved by his unusual obedience, but over the past two days, he had started feeling uneasy.
“I heard that someone can get sick—mentally ill—after a big shock.”
Seeing Song Yuzhang’s calm, he revealed a family secret: “My mother died from mental illness.”
Song Yuzhang raised an eyebrow.
Song Qiyuan continued: “To outsiders, it was always said to be a difficult childbirth, but that wasn’t the case. After the fourth child, she was weak. Not enough to die—but then she went insane…”
Recalling events from years ago, Song Qiyuan now felt somewhat relieved. Watching Song Jincheng’s recent odd behavior and connecting it to Song Mingzhao’s similar episodes—and remembering Song Yekang’s odd monastic life—he felt fear grow. Not just for Song Jincheng, but for himself.
The force of heredity was strong. No science was needed; examples around them were proof enough.
“So your worry isn’t unfounded.”
Song Yuzhang contemplated, then said, “Perhaps we should send him abroad?”
“Your idea is the same as mine. I just fear eldest brother won’t agree.”
“Whether he agrees or not isn’t up to him.”
Song Qiyuan sighed. “He’s grown now. I can’t just force him onto a plane. So I thought…” He hesitated, then looked at Song Yuzhang. “I should personally take him abroad.”
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