Song Yuzhang: Extra 12 - Past Events Like Smoke III [Featuring Nie Yinbing]
In barely two days, Song Yuzhang had grown quite familiar with Nie Yinbing. When he learned that Nie Yinbing had graduated from a military academy, Song Yuzhang briefly considered retreating—grab some travel money and run. But on second thought, how could a real man shrink back at the first sign of difficulty? So what if he tugged at a tiger’s whiskers?
He braced himself to humor Nie Yinbing, only to discover that Nie Yinbing was actually rather easy to deal with. True, the man was arrogant and had a talent for saying unpleasant things, but he was undeniably generous—and almost completely without guard against others. Gradually, Song Yuzhang nearly forgot that Nie Yinbing was supposedly “military academy–trained,” assuming instead that he must have idled his way through school and now merely boasted about it.
After secretly striking a deal with the racecourse owner, Song Yuzhang finally had money in hand. He loved money, but he was no miser. As soon as he had some, he immediately invited Nie Yinbing out for food and drink.
“Number Eight really did us proud today!”
Raising his glass, Song Yuzhang said, “Come, to our victory!”
Nie Yinbing lifted his glass as well. Their cups clinked crisply. Song Yuzhang drained his in one gulp and laughed. “That’s the spirit!”
Nie Yinbing had originally neither smoked nor drunk. Within days of meeting Song Yuzhang, he had broken both abstinences.
It wasn’t exactly that he had sworn them off—he simply never liked them. He found no pleasure in their taste and thus never touched them.
Yet in Song Yuzhang’s hands, they seemed to possess some special charm. A cigarette or a sip of liquor could bring an extra glow of delight to his face.
Nie Yinbing took a sip. The wine tasted the same as ever—slightly bitter, slightly sour. He couldn’t discern any fragrance or richness in it. But when he saw Song Yuzhang’s eyes narrow slightly, his curled lashes trembling as he swallowed, it felt as though the liquor sliding down his own throat had gained some sweetness.
Song Yuzhang ate and drank heartily. Just as he rose to settle the bill, Nie Yinbing stood as well.
“No need.” This time Song Yuzhang truly meant to treat. A good con was nine parts truth and one part lie; when it was time to be genuine, he never stinted. He pressed a hand to Nie Yinbing’s arm. “I’ve got money today. Yinbing, if you consider me a friend, don’t fight me for this.”
Nie Yinbing’s expression tightened. He was rarely held by the arm like that—it felt like a restraining gesture, and he was not accustomed to it.
“No need.” He withdrew his arm and reached for his wallet. “You’ve only got that little money on you. I’m not short of a meal. Whether we’re friends or not isn’t decided by a single dinner. I don’t need drinking companions.”
Song Yuzhang withdrew his hand. “All right. When I’m better off, I’ll show my sincerity then.”
As Nie Yinbing paid, Song Yuzhang stood behind him, smiling faintly and thinking: Damn it, nothing decent ever comes out of his mouth.
If not for the fact that Nie Yinbing was truly wealthy—and truly easy to fool—Song Yuzhang wouldn’t have bothered with him for a single day.
After eating and drinking their fill, they walked back to the hotel together. It wasn’t far, and Song Yuzhang suggested they stroll to aid digestion.
“Are you stuffed?” Nie Yinbing asked.
“Not exactly,” Song Yuzhang replied with a smile.
“Oh. Good,” Nie Yinbing said as he strode ahead. “The way you eat is rather greedy.”
Song Yuzhang ground the sole of his shoe firmly into Nie Yinbing’s shadow. “Is it? Then I’ll have to watch myself.”
“No need. It makes people’s appetites improve.”
“Haha.”
Song Yuzhang could understand why Nie Yinbing kept to himself. With a mouth like that, who wouldn’t want to punch him? Unless they were a saint—or, like Song Yuzhang, had their own ulterior motives.
Near the hotel, Song Yuzhang’s eyes lit up at a figure in the corner. “Yinbing, wait for me a moment.”
He walked over to a flower girl.
She was small and likely very young, reaching only about to his waist.
Soon, Song Yuzhang returned carrying her basket.
Inside lay scattered white jasmine blossoms. He picked one up and sniffed it. “Very fragrant.” Turning to Nie Yinbing, he urged, “Let’s go, let’s go. She’s waiting for me to return the basket.”
Nie Yinbing glanced back. The girl’s features were delicate; she looked shy.
“I noticed her selling flowers here a few days ago,” Song Yuzhang said, twirling a blossom. “I had no money then. I promised that once I won, I’d come buy her flowers.” He swapped blossoms, sniffing another. “A gambling vow must be honored. Otherwise, there’ll be no luck tomorrow.”
Nie Yinbing walked beside him with hands clasped behind his back, not understanding why he wanted to befriend a gambler.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Song Yuzhang still smelling the flowers. He seemed genuinely fond of them. To Nie Yinbing, all the white jasmine looked identical. Yet Song Yuzhang examined each carefully, his brows and eyes tightening and relaxing with the rise and fade of fragrance, as though seriously appraising fine tea.
How could someone be so alive?
Nie Yinbing often found life dull. It had nothing to do with material comfort; he simply couldn’t find his place in the world. He always felt out of tune, unable to settle and appreciate its beauty.
Song Yuzhang stirred something strange in him.
At the door to his room, Song Yuzhang handed him a jasmine blossom.
The petals, sold all day, had begun to yellow and curl slightly. The flower rested delicately against Nie Yinbing’s dark suit.
“This one’s the most fragrant,” Song Yuzhang said. “Put it in your room. The scent’s refreshing—good for sleep.”
Nie Yinbing lowered his gaze to the pale bloom between Song Yuzhang’s fingers. For some reason, he felt almost afraid to touch it.
“It’s not worth much—I know you can afford your own,” Song Yuzhang said boldly, half teasing as he nudged it upward. The petals brushed Nie Yinbing’s cheek. “It’s just a token. Take it.”
As if frozen, Nie Yinbing stood there. After a moment, thawing slowly, he raised a hand and almost snatched the jasmine from Song Yuzhang’s grasp, then turned, opened his door, and slammed it shut.
Song Yuzhang jumped at the bang. What’s that about? Giving him a flower and he pulls a face?
Lowering his head, he picked another blossom from the basket and sniffed it, privately delighted.
Ha! The one he’d given Nie Yinbing was actually the worst in the basket.
Inside, Nie Yinbing pressed one palm against the door, staring blankly at a point in the air. His chest thudded painfully. He pressed a hand there; the faint fragrance slipped into his nose. Looking down, he saw the white jasmine clutched in his palm, resting against his chest.
The blossom drooped. Under his gaze, a petal fell, drifting onto the dark red floor. For no reason he could name, a strange sorrow rose in him—as if some part of himself had fallen with it.
From then on, Nie Yinbing often watched Song Yuzhang.
He rarely gazed at anyone so long, aside from family. Song Yuzhang was always smiling—at every moment. The smile was never forced; it came straight from the heart, as though the smallest thing could make him happy.
When he won, he smiled. When he lost, he still smiled, casually slapping Nie Yinbing’s arm. “So irritating—just short again. Yinbing, do you think the racecourse has some trick to manipulate results?”
Nie Yinbing turned toward the track. Strangely, though he often watched Song Yuzhang, whenever Song Yuzhang looked at him, he would look away. He didn’t know why; it simply happened.
“Possible,” he said.
He had always loved horses. Though racehorses weren’t warhorses, they were glossy and strong—once they would have captivated him.
But now his gaze would not settle. It drifted, stealing glances at Song Yuzhang.
Song Yuzhang was lighting a cigarette with a new lighter—click, flame, smooth and fluid. He never tried to show off; yet in the simplest gestures he was already captivating.
Am I bewitched by him? Nie Yinbing questioned himself.
They said heroes cherished heroes, that mutual admiration between men was natural.
Yet he admitted plainly to himself that he and Zhao Jianfang were utterly different people—hardly kindred spirits.
“It’s getting hot,” Song Yuzhang said, tugging at his collar.
Nie Yinbing noticed how pale his skin was.
“I’m going to buy a drink,” Song Yuzhang said, pressing a hand to his shoulder. “You want one?”
Nie Yinbing waved someone over to bring two whiskies with ice.
Leaning close to his ear, Song Yuzhang murmured, “Don’t have the racecourse staff buy it. They’ll charge thirty percent extra.”
“Just errand fees,” Nie Yinbing replied, hand tightening slightly.
Warm breath brushed his ear, along with soft laughter. It was distinctly masculine, tinged with tobacco—yet pleasant.
“Young master, I know you’re rich.”
The laughing voice withdrew, but Nie Yinbing’s ears burned.
“Then give that thirty percent to me. I’ll fetch it for you,” Song Yuzhang teased, bumping him with a knee.
“I don’t need you to run errands.”
“All right, I was being presumptuous,” Song Yuzhang said with a helpless smile.
Nie Yinbing’s ears burned hotter still. When the whisky came, he gulped it down—but the heat spread, from ears to cheek, down to his chest.
He touched it unconsciously. His heart thudded. For an instant, he imagined a cluster of white, wilted jasmine at his chest—fragrant and forlorn, falling everywhere.
“Report to the division commander! The troops are ready! Awaiting orders!”
Nie Yinbing snapped back from memory. On his desk sat a bowl of fresh jasmine floating in water, petals tender and bright.
He stared at the blossoms and said coolly, “Move.”
The troops—barely a hundred, all elite—stood in stern formation.
Rumors said the war would soon end, yet as that rumor grew stronger, the enemy grew more frantic, massing hundreds of thousands to charge inland.
This was a natural barrier. His task was to stop them—or at least delay them at any cost.
Nie Yinbing was not a man of many words. He mounted first, gaze sweeping across the young faces—young like his own. “Advance!”
He snapped the reins. The warhorse reared and surged forward. In his pocket, a slightly damp jasmine pressed against his uniform, releasing a distant fragrance—beautiful as the past, as yesterday. His chest burned as it had then.
Soft petals scattered in the gallop. The city gates burst open. Nie Yinbing drew his pistol and leapt into the brilliant white daylight.
“My name is Zhao Jianfang.”
“And yours?”
“Nie Yinbing.”
“Yinbing… ‘Ten years drinking ice cannot cool hot blood.’” The smiling man lived up to his name, fragrant as flowers, eyes bright and shining. “A good name. I like it.”
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