Song Yuzhang: Chapter 155 - Farewell
Chapter 155: Farewell
Zhang Changshan’s three telegrams grew more urgent in wording with each one. His younger brother had secretly run off to Yeyang; as the elder brother was left behind, Zhang Changshan was frantic with anxiety. He tried again and again to persuade him to come back, but failed, and could only rack his brains for every possible way to keep his brother alive. Yet Yeyang was now mired in a quagmire, and no one was willing to step in.
No one knew how Zhang Changshan suddenly thought of Nie Yinbing. Nie Yinbing had been a classmate of Zhang Changyuan’s and had been top of their class while still a student. His teacher from back then now occupied a high position, though Nie Yinbing’s relationship with that teacher was not particularly close. Zhang Changshan didn’t care what kind of relationship they had—he took gold bars and went to beg for help anyway, and actually managed to secure Nie Yinbing a divisional commander’s post, urging him to hurry and lead his troops to Yeyang for support.
After reading the telegram, Song Yuzhang cursed Zhang Changshan viciously in his heart. Even when his own brother was about to die, he still had to drag someone else down with him—if he cared so much, why didn’t he go to the front himself and die there!
Song Yuzhang closed the telegram with trembling hands. “Leaving right now?”
“Yes. They’ve already pressed for it.”
The situation in Yeyang was changing by the hour. Nie Yinbing had already delayed for some time, all in order to track down the culprit behind the bombing.
The culprit was not found; instead, Nie Yinbing only grew more disappointed in himself.
He had never thought of himself as useless, yet now he increasingly felt a kind of lonely desolation—like a rifle hanging on the wall, taken down only occasionally to be used to shoot at bottles for idle amusement, powerless and futile.
This could not go on. If it did, he would be completely ruined.
“Then go,” Song Yuzhang slapped the telegram onto the table. “I’ll see you off.”
Nie Yinbing remembered the last time. He had stood still, unmoving, when Song Yuzhang patted his shoulder. “I’ll see you off. I won’t keep you. I know you want to go—then go. This time, you’re going to do what you truly want to do. I won’t stop you.”
Song Yuzhang’s arm fell to his side. Nie Yinbing’s hand at his own side twitched slightly. For one brief instant, he wanted to grab Song Yuzhang’s hand.
Nie Yinbing rode out of the city on horseback, with Song Yuzhang accompanying him in a car. His chest was still uncomfortable—he would be breathing, then suddenly pause, and there would be one or two breaths that felt especially painful; once he got past that moment, he would be fine again.
The hospital had taken X-rays and said his lungs had not fully recovered yet.
Pressing a hand to his abdomen, Song Yuzhang swayed along in the car. He didn’t know what was wrong with him—the people around him were leaving one after another.
He forced himself to drive the gloomy thoughts out of his mind.
Nie Qingyun had taken Nie Bonian to see a doctor, and the condition was very good—how was that a bad thing?
Song Qiyuan had gone to the southern city to visit Song Yekang, then set off to travel the world; that was, in truth, carefree and unrestrained.
Xiao Fengxian had gotten married and no longer sang opera—that too was a good thing.
Yu Feiyu was busy building railways—an even greater good.
All good things. There was no need for sorrow.
Through the car window, Song Yuzhang gazed at Nie Yinbing’s back on horseback.
This was the first time he had ever seen Nie Yinbing in a military uniform.
He still remembered when they first met: Song Yuzhang had thought Nie Yinbing reeked of the crude soldier type, yet he spent his days loitering around the racetrack. He had thought the man was just a showpiece—what kind of soldier never went to the battlefield?
All of a sudden, Song Yuzhang felt a strange pain. On a sudden impulse, he wanted to slap the car window and shout, “Nie Yinbing, stay with me. Stay behind.”
But an impulse was only an impulse.
Song Yuzhang sat swaying in the car, silent.
Outside the city, Nie Yinbing reined in his horse. Song Yuzhang had the driver stop as well, pushed open the door, and got out; Nie Yinbing dismounted at the same time.
“Don’t see me off any farther.”
Song Yuzhang looked at Nie Yinbing, still unable to fully accept it.
“…It’s too dangerous.”
He said softly, the words slipping out entirely beyond his control.
Nie Yinbing gazed at him, raised his hand, and with fingers wrapped in white gloves, smoothed through Song Yuzhang’s black hair, brushing the strands that the wind had mussed back into place—though the wind kept blowing, making the gesture futile.
“Don’t go.”
Song Yuzhang said anyway.
Nie Yinbing’s gaze flickered slightly.
“Don’t go,” Song Yuzhang thought; he knew he was selfish—he was selfish. “Stay. Stay by my side, Yinbing. I know you love me. Stay—do it for me.”
Nie Yinbing looked at him deeply, then suddenly took off his cap.
Held at an angle, the cap blocked the oncoming wind and also shielded their faces. Nie Yinbing lowered his head slightly, his lips covering Song Yuzhang’s. The touch was too gentle, the moment too brief—just a brush before they parted, no more distinct than a gust of wind passing by.
Song Yuzhang looked at Nie Yinbing, taking in that formidable face from top to bottom. His long, curved eyelashes trembled. “Don’t die.”
Nie Yinbing lowered his gaze and made a promise even he himself was unsure of. “I won’t die.”
Song Yuzhang’s lips parted slightly; then he suddenly tilted his head up and kissed Nie Yinbing hard.
The air drawn into his lungs carried a suffocating pain. Song Yuzhang forced the kiss to last as long as he possibly could, until at the end he truly couldn’t bear it anymore—his face had gone pale. Seeing his expression, Nie Yinbing almost didn’t want to leave after all. But Song Yuzhang quickly recovered; he took Nie Yinbing’s cap, stepped back a little, and put it back on his head.
“Not bad. Very handsome.”
Suppressing a cough, Song Yuzhang added, “Come back early.”
Nie Yinbing gave him one last look, then turned and mounted his horse decisively. He did not look back—he was afraid that if he did, all his resolve would collapse.
He would live—he would fight with everything he had to live, to live on and carve out a realm of his own.
Although Nie Yinbing left, he did not leave blindly. Everything that needed to be arranged, he had explained to Nie Mao. The second-in-command at the mines and the deputy at the munitions factory each reported in to Song Yuzhang. After inspecting them, Song Yuzhang found that both were indeed capable. As for the arms factory, Song Yuzhang still assigned Liu Chu to manage it; Liu Chu was now able to stand on his own and ought to take on some serious work.
When Meng Tingjing heard that Nie Yinbing had gone to the battlefield, he was not entirely happy about it.
Having one more person who loved Song Yuzhang was always a good thing; otherwise, with him and Song Yuzhang pinned down below, how could help have arrived so quickly?
But on second thought, rescue was only a lesser strategy. What he should be thinking about was how, in the future, to keep Song Yuzhang from ever falling into danger again.
Meng Tingjing soon began to understand Nie Yinbing’s intentions, and his mood instantly grew complicated.
If Nie Yinbing were actually to achieve something on the battlefield, then what came afterward would truly be hard to say.
Still, Nie Yinbing was the kind of man who clammed up like a sawed-off gourd, while Song Yuzhang’s mouth never rested. With those two thrown together, how could they possibly live a normal life?
Meng Tingjing remained calm and unhurried, focusing on cultivating himself instead. Too many people liked Song Yuzhang—he might as well mind his own affairs.
After several days of low spirits, Song Yuzhang’s mood gradually improved. Meng Tingjing’s fractured left hand had healed, but it was left with quite a few injuries; two of his joints were always slightly bent. Song Yuzhang’s attention to the human body was almost instinctive, and once he noticed it, he asked what was going on.
“It’s nothing. The doctor said it’ll be fine after a couple more days.”
Song Yuzhang’s hands were covered in superficial wounds. Once healed, the scars were already fading. His body didn’t scar easily—unless flesh had been cut away, things would heal if given time.
Song Yuzhang took Meng Tingjing’s hand and lightly pinched the bent joints. “Does it hurt?”
“No.”
Meng Tingjing turned his hand and clasped Song Yuzhang’s. “You really take me for some pretty boy? A little injury like this is nothing.”
Though Meng Tingjing spoke lightly, the doctor had been very clear: those two fingers would likely be left disabled.
After hearing this, Meng Tingjing instructed him not to tell anyone else—especially not Song Yuzhang. He didn’t want Song Yuzhang to feel sympathy for him because of it.
Besides, “likely” disabled meant not certain. Maybe they’d recover after some time. And his left hand wasn’t his dominant one anyway—no big deal.
The doctor didn’t say anything, and Meng Tingjing didn’t either. Song Yuzhang vaguely guessed the truth, but he didn’t pierce the veil. Meng Tingjing was too proud by nature—saying it outright would be bad for both of them.
In early June, Nie Yinbing went to the Yeyang front line. Song Yuzhang saw news of his arrival in the newspapers, but there was no mention of how the fighting was going.
Song Yuzhang did not let Nie Mao inform Nie Qingyun and the others about Nie Yinbing going to the front.
In July, Yeyang achieved a great victory, announced nationwide by telegram. Song Yuzhang drank three cups that very day. The next morning, his chest ached, and he resolved to quit drinking.
Nie Yinbing won a major victory on the front line, but Meng Tingjing suffered greatly.
The weather was unbearably hot. The burns on Meng Tingjing’s back had healed, but the newly grown skin itched so badly he was nearly driven mad—he wished he could work while soaking in cold water every day.
“After this victory report, is he coming back?”
Meng Tingjing asked, soaking in the bathtub. His right arm had a faint pink hue. Song Yuzhang sat nearby, flipping through telegrams sent from South City. “Not necessarily. A victory is a victory, but it hasn’t been fully cleared out yet. He’ll probably still have to fight.”
Meng Tingjing hummed in response. His left hand brushed over his right arm; his fingers curled slightly, nails touching the newly pink skin. Song Yuzhang caught the small movement out of the corner of his eye. “Tough guy, can’t you hold it in?”
“I’m not scratching,” Meng Tingjing protested. “Just touching.”
Song Yuzhang gave him a knowing half-smile. Meng Tingjing flushed faintly, coughed lightly, and put his hand down.
Song Yuzhang had been lucky and hadn’t suffered any burns. He knew this stage was the hardest to endure. One hand continued flipping through telegrams while the other reached into the tub, gently stroking Meng Tingjing’s right arm.
The relationship between Song Yuzhang and Meng Tingjing could only be described as ambiguous—intimate yet unclear. They hadn’t truly “revisited old dreams.” This time, Meng Tingjing had genuinely learned to behave. He didn’t pressure Song Yuzhang. At any rate, Song Yuzhang had no one else by his side right now. He could afford to take things slowly. This time, they absolutely could not fall out again.
Meng Tingjing made an extremely firm resolution in his heart: whenever something came up, he would first look at his two slightly bent fingers.
Song Yuzhang was someone he wanted to hold on to until death. Wasn’t such a person worth enduring for, worth changing for?
So, although Meng Tingjing was being touched to the point of restlessness, his expression remained perfectly proper.
Song Yuzhang’s hand moved from his arm to his back, the touch still carrying lingering heat. “You soak in cold water like this every day—won’t it cause problems?”
“What kind of problems?”
Song Yuzhang gave him an oblique smile.
Meng Tingjing didn’t understand at first. After a moment, his face slowly turned green. Gritting his teeth, he said, “You can come down and try it yourself.”
Song Yuzhang glanced through the rippling water. “Many thanks for the invitation, but I’m afraid of the cold.”
Meng Tingjing reached out to pull him. Song Yuzhang said, “Don’t get the telegrams wet.”
Meng Tingjing withdrew his hand. “Then go out and read them.”
Song Yuzhang continued stroking his back. “If I go out, who’s going to stop the itching for you?”
Meng Tingjing truly couldn’t stand Song Yuzhang anymore. How could this man be so indecent?
Indecent, yet not indecent enough—just teasing him.
Meng Tingjing focused on endurance, wondering if this was retribution. He hadn’t treated Song Yuzhang like this before.
After finishing the telegrams, Song Yuzhang said, “I want to make a trip to Chongbei.”
“Chongbei? What for?”
Song Yuzhang took a light breath. “There’s someone I want there.”
“Who?”
“An old engineer from the Chongbei arms factory.”
Meng Tingjing pondered briefly. “You’ve made contact?”
“More or less. Zhang Changshan did me a favor.”
Meng Tingjing said, “Can’t you send someone to bring him over?”
“The old man has a terrible temper. Agreeing to meet at all is already giving face.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Song Yuzhang stroked Meng Tingjing’s back again, smiling. “Be good—don’t get any bad ideas.”
Meng Tingjing really wanted to grab him by the collar and shove him into the bathtub. Holding it in for a long while, he finally snapped, “Good my ass!”
Zhang Changshan’s three telegrams grew more urgent in wording with each one. His younger brother had secretly run off to Yeyang; as the elder brother was left behind, Zhang Changshan was frantic with anxiety. He tried again and again to persuade him to come back, but failed, and could only rack his brains for every possible way to keep his brother alive. Yet Yeyang was now mired in a quagmire, and no one was willing to step in.
No one knew how Zhang Changshan suddenly thought of Nie Yinbing. Nie Yinbing had been a classmate of Zhang Changyuan’s and had been top of their class while still a student. His teacher from back then now occupied a high position, though Nie Yinbing’s relationship with that teacher was not particularly close. Zhang Changshan didn’t care what kind of relationship they had—he took gold bars and went to beg for help anyway, and actually managed to secure Nie Yinbing a divisional commander’s post, urging him to hurry and lead his troops to Yeyang for support.
After reading the telegram, Song Yuzhang cursed Zhang Changshan viciously in his heart. Even when his own brother was about to die, he still had to drag someone else down with him—if he cared so much, why didn’t he go to the front himself and die there!
Song Yuzhang closed the telegram with trembling hands. “Leaving right now?”
“Yes. They’ve already pressed for it.”
The situation in Yeyang was changing by the hour. Nie Yinbing had already delayed for some time, all in order to track down the culprit behind the bombing.
The culprit was not found; instead, Nie Yinbing only grew more disappointed in himself.
He had never thought of himself as useless, yet now he increasingly felt a kind of lonely desolation—like a rifle hanging on the wall, taken down only occasionally to be used to shoot at bottles for idle amusement, powerless and futile.
This could not go on. If it did, he would be completely ruined.
“Then go,” Song Yuzhang slapped the telegram onto the table. “I’ll see you off.”
Nie Yinbing remembered the last time. He had stood still, unmoving, when Song Yuzhang patted his shoulder. “I’ll see you off. I won’t keep you. I know you want to go—then go. This time, you’re going to do what you truly want to do. I won’t stop you.”
Song Yuzhang’s arm fell to his side. Nie Yinbing’s hand at his own side twitched slightly. For one brief instant, he wanted to grab Song Yuzhang’s hand.
Nie Yinbing rode out of the city on horseback, with Song Yuzhang accompanying him in a car. His chest was still uncomfortable—he would be breathing, then suddenly pause, and there would be one or two breaths that felt especially painful; once he got past that moment, he would be fine again.
The hospital had taken X-rays and said his lungs had not fully recovered yet.
Pressing a hand to his abdomen, Song Yuzhang swayed along in the car. He didn’t know what was wrong with him—the people around him were leaving one after another.
He forced himself to drive the gloomy thoughts out of his mind.
Nie Qingyun had taken Nie Bonian to see a doctor, and the condition was very good—how was that a bad thing?
Song Qiyuan had gone to the southern city to visit Song Yekang, then set off to travel the world; that was, in truth, carefree and unrestrained.
Xiao Fengxian had gotten married and no longer sang opera—that too was a good thing.
Yu Feiyu was busy building railways—an even greater good.
All good things. There was no need for sorrow.
Through the car window, Song Yuzhang gazed at Nie Yinbing’s back on horseback.
This was the first time he had ever seen Nie Yinbing in a military uniform.
He still remembered when they first met: Song Yuzhang had thought Nie Yinbing reeked of the crude soldier type, yet he spent his days loitering around the racetrack. He had thought the man was just a showpiece—what kind of soldier never went to the battlefield?
All of a sudden, Song Yuzhang felt a strange pain. On a sudden impulse, he wanted to slap the car window and shout, “Nie Yinbing, stay with me. Stay behind.”
But an impulse was only an impulse.
Song Yuzhang sat swaying in the car, silent.
Outside the city, Nie Yinbing reined in his horse. Song Yuzhang had the driver stop as well, pushed open the door, and got out; Nie Yinbing dismounted at the same time.
“Don’t see me off any farther.”
Song Yuzhang looked at Nie Yinbing, still unable to fully accept it.
“…It’s too dangerous.”
He said softly, the words slipping out entirely beyond his control.
Nie Yinbing gazed at him, raised his hand, and with fingers wrapped in white gloves, smoothed through Song Yuzhang’s black hair, brushing the strands that the wind had mussed back into place—though the wind kept blowing, making the gesture futile.
“Don’t go.”
Song Yuzhang said anyway.
Nie Yinbing’s gaze flickered slightly.
“Don’t go,” Song Yuzhang thought; he knew he was selfish—he was selfish. “Stay. Stay by my side, Yinbing. I know you love me. Stay—do it for me.”
Nie Yinbing looked at him deeply, then suddenly took off his cap.
Held at an angle, the cap blocked the oncoming wind and also shielded their faces. Nie Yinbing lowered his head slightly, his lips covering Song Yuzhang’s. The touch was too gentle, the moment too brief—just a brush before they parted, no more distinct than a gust of wind passing by.
Song Yuzhang looked at Nie Yinbing, taking in that formidable face from top to bottom. His long, curved eyelashes trembled. “Don’t die.”
Nie Yinbing lowered his gaze and made a promise even he himself was unsure of. “I won’t die.”
Song Yuzhang’s lips parted slightly; then he suddenly tilted his head up and kissed Nie Yinbing hard.
The air drawn into his lungs carried a suffocating pain. Song Yuzhang forced the kiss to last as long as he possibly could, until at the end he truly couldn’t bear it anymore—his face had gone pale. Seeing his expression, Nie Yinbing almost didn’t want to leave after all. But Song Yuzhang quickly recovered; he took Nie Yinbing’s cap, stepped back a little, and put it back on his head.
“Not bad. Very handsome.”
Suppressing a cough, Song Yuzhang added, “Come back early.”
Nie Yinbing gave him one last look, then turned and mounted his horse decisively. He did not look back—he was afraid that if he did, all his resolve would collapse.
He would live—he would fight with everything he had to live, to live on and carve out a realm of his own.
Although Nie Yinbing left, he did not leave blindly. Everything that needed to be arranged, he had explained to Nie Mao. The second-in-command at the mines and the deputy at the munitions factory each reported in to Song Yuzhang. After inspecting them, Song Yuzhang found that both were indeed capable. As for the arms factory, Song Yuzhang still assigned Liu Chu to manage it; Liu Chu was now able to stand on his own and ought to take on some serious work.
When Meng Tingjing heard that Nie Yinbing had gone to the battlefield, he was not entirely happy about it.
Having one more person who loved Song Yuzhang was always a good thing; otherwise, with him and Song Yuzhang pinned down below, how could help have arrived so quickly?
But on second thought, rescue was only a lesser strategy. What he should be thinking about was how, in the future, to keep Song Yuzhang from ever falling into danger again.
Meng Tingjing soon began to understand Nie Yinbing’s intentions, and his mood instantly grew complicated.
If Nie Yinbing were actually to achieve something on the battlefield, then what came afterward would truly be hard to say.
Still, Nie Yinbing was the kind of man who clammed up like a sawed-off gourd, while Song Yuzhang’s mouth never rested. With those two thrown together, how could they possibly live a normal life?
Meng Tingjing remained calm and unhurried, focusing on cultivating himself instead. Too many people liked Song Yuzhang—he might as well mind his own affairs.
After several days of low spirits, Song Yuzhang’s mood gradually improved. Meng Tingjing’s fractured left hand had healed, but it was left with quite a few injuries; two of his joints were always slightly bent. Song Yuzhang’s attention to the human body was almost instinctive, and once he noticed it, he asked what was going on.
“It’s nothing. The doctor said it’ll be fine after a couple more days.”
Song Yuzhang’s hands were covered in superficial wounds. Once healed, the scars were already fading. His body didn’t scar easily—unless flesh had been cut away, things would heal if given time.
Song Yuzhang took Meng Tingjing’s hand and lightly pinched the bent joints. “Does it hurt?”
“No.”
Meng Tingjing turned his hand and clasped Song Yuzhang’s. “You really take me for some pretty boy? A little injury like this is nothing.”
Though Meng Tingjing spoke lightly, the doctor had been very clear: those two fingers would likely be left disabled.
After hearing this, Meng Tingjing instructed him not to tell anyone else—especially not Song Yuzhang. He didn’t want Song Yuzhang to feel sympathy for him because of it.
Besides, “likely” disabled meant not certain. Maybe they’d recover after some time. And his left hand wasn’t his dominant one anyway—no big deal.
The doctor didn’t say anything, and Meng Tingjing didn’t either. Song Yuzhang vaguely guessed the truth, but he didn’t pierce the veil. Meng Tingjing was too proud by nature—saying it outright would be bad for both of them.
In early June, Nie Yinbing went to the Yeyang front line. Song Yuzhang saw news of his arrival in the newspapers, but there was no mention of how the fighting was going.
Song Yuzhang did not let Nie Mao inform Nie Qingyun and the others about Nie Yinbing going to the front.
In July, Yeyang achieved a great victory, announced nationwide by telegram. Song Yuzhang drank three cups that very day. The next morning, his chest ached, and he resolved to quit drinking.
Nie Yinbing won a major victory on the front line, but Meng Tingjing suffered greatly.
The weather was unbearably hot. The burns on Meng Tingjing’s back had healed, but the newly grown skin itched so badly he was nearly driven mad—he wished he could work while soaking in cold water every day.
“After this victory report, is he coming back?”
Meng Tingjing asked, soaking in the bathtub. His right arm had a faint pink hue. Song Yuzhang sat nearby, flipping through telegrams sent from South City. “Not necessarily. A victory is a victory, but it hasn’t been fully cleared out yet. He’ll probably still have to fight.”
Meng Tingjing hummed in response. His left hand brushed over his right arm; his fingers curled slightly, nails touching the newly pink skin. Song Yuzhang caught the small movement out of the corner of his eye. “Tough guy, can’t you hold it in?”
“I’m not scratching,” Meng Tingjing protested. “Just touching.”
Song Yuzhang gave him a knowing half-smile. Meng Tingjing flushed faintly, coughed lightly, and put his hand down.
Song Yuzhang had been lucky and hadn’t suffered any burns. He knew this stage was the hardest to endure. One hand continued flipping through telegrams while the other reached into the tub, gently stroking Meng Tingjing’s right arm.
The relationship between Song Yuzhang and Meng Tingjing could only be described as ambiguous—intimate yet unclear. They hadn’t truly “revisited old dreams.” This time, Meng Tingjing had genuinely learned to behave. He didn’t pressure Song Yuzhang. At any rate, Song Yuzhang had no one else by his side right now. He could afford to take things slowly. This time, they absolutely could not fall out again.
Meng Tingjing made an extremely firm resolution in his heart: whenever something came up, he would first look at his two slightly bent fingers.
Song Yuzhang was someone he wanted to hold on to until death. Wasn’t such a person worth enduring for, worth changing for?
So, although Meng Tingjing was being touched to the point of restlessness, his expression remained perfectly proper.
Song Yuzhang’s hand moved from his arm to his back, the touch still carrying lingering heat. “You soak in cold water like this every day—won’t it cause problems?”
“What kind of problems?”
Song Yuzhang gave him an oblique smile.
Meng Tingjing didn’t understand at first. After a moment, his face slowly turned green. Gritting his teeth, he said, “You can come down and try it yourself.”
Song Yuzhang glanced through the rippling water. “Many thanks for the invitation, but I’m afraid of the cold.”
Meng Tingjing reached out to pull him. Song Yuzhang said, “Don’t get the telegrams wet.”
Meng Tingjing withdrew his hand. “Then go out and read them.”
Song Yuzhang continued stroking his back. “If I go out, who’s going to stop the itching for you?”
Meng Tingjing truly couldn’t stand Song Yuzhang anymore. How could this man be so indecent?
Indecent, yet not indecent enough—just teasing him.
Meng Tingjing focused on endurance, wondering if this was retribution. He hadn’t treated Song Yuzhang like this before.
After finishing the telegrams, Song Yuzhang said, “I want to make a trip to Chongbei.”
“Chongbei? What for?”
Song Yuzhang took a light breath. “There’s someone I want there.”
“Who?”
“An old engineer from the Chongbei arms factory.”
Meng Tingjing pondered briefly. “You’ve made contact?”
“More or less. Zhang Changshan did me a favor.”
Meng Tingjing said, “Can’t you send someone to bring him over?”
“The old man has a terrible temper. Agreeing to meet at all is already giving face.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Song Yuzhang stroked Meng Tingjing’s back again, smiling. “Be good—don’t get any bad ideas.”
Meng Tingjing really wanted to grab him by the collar and shove him into the bathtub. Holding it in for a long while, he finally snapped, “Good my ass!”
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