"The Mortal Chapter Of Qing Zhuan" - Chapter 2
Childhood Anecdotes Through the Years
Let’s rewind to when I was in fourth or fifth grade. At that time, Mimi the cat was still vigorous and healthy, and I was still very young. I had two best childhood friends: Shi Shiwen and Gao Jichang. Back then, the relationship between our Li and Xi families hadn’t soured yet. The three of us would always bring Mimi along to the river to play or head into the mountains to catch wild rabbits. Our childhood friends from the village would, every spring after the river ice melted, fashion a large homemade net and, as the reservoir upstream released water, we’d rush into the river as a group to catch fish and shrimp with our bare hands.
Every holiday, the three of us would bring Mimi along to join the fun. At first, Mimi was extremely unwilling to go—he had to be held and carried every single time. His disdainful gaze and struggling attempts never failed to make me laugh, and I would give his head a gentle pat, amused by his resistance.
That changed one day when we ran into some older kids from our village who’d caught so many fish their baskets couldn’t hold them all. They gave us a bunch. We three kids built a fire by the riverbank and roasted the fish. As the smoky aroma filled the air, Mimi’s nose twitched. Suddenly, he sprang off my lap, eyes wide, darting around until he located the source of that mouthwatering scent. Then, he stared intensely at the sizzling fish, meowed excitedly, and brushed against our legs, tail held high in delight.
When the fish was ready, Mimi ate most enthusiastically, devouring it with gusto. Since we didn’t know how to process freshwater fish properly back then, they often smelled earthy when cooked. So whenever we caught larger fish like carp, crucian carp, or silver carp, we’d usually take them home to Mom to handle. Smaller fish either went to feed the pigs—or, like that day, were cooked by the river as a special treat for Mimi.
From that moment on, whenever Lao Gao grabbed his fishing net to go fishing, Mimi would run over and rub against my legs, signaling that he wanted to go too. Over time, he even became familiar with the older village kids. Whenever one of them appeared with a fishing net over their shoulder, Mimi would slip over and rub against their legs, softly meowing. Watching his eager behavior made us burst out laughing, and Mimi—like he understood us—would play shyly by hiding behind my legs and grooming himself, eyes slitted shut in a purr.
…
School Days and Summer Heat
Going to school was also full of memorable moments. As the heat intensified, the cicadas outside the classroom’s big willow tree chirped in relentless waves.
I vividly remember a hot Friday afternoon: after our midday nap, everyone was groggy. Our beloved homeroom teacher—my mentor—walked in from the hallway carrying a stack of weekend test papers. He nudged the front-row students, insisting everyone freshen up by washing their faces.
I was sitting by the window. Even though a thin white curtain separated me from the outside, it couldn’t block the oppressive heat sweeping in. Waves of warmth hit us like they wanted to swallow us whole.
My desk partner, Gao Jichang, had gone to wash his face to ease his drowsiness. Usually gentle, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, and well-liked by the girls, he looked disheveled under the heat.
That was the age when many girls were beginning to experience their first feelings of puppy love. After class, they’d cluster in circles, chatting endlessly about the latest Taiwanese idol dramas they watched—debating who was the most handsome, the charming male lead, or the supporting heartthrob. During PE, they’d sit under the willow tree in groups, gossiping about who might be dating whom in the class. I’d watch all of this, drifting off into daydreams.
When they’d gossip around me, I felt like I was listening to a comedy routine. Sometimes, they’d ask me, “Yuanzi, who do you think is the cutest boy in class?” Bewildered, I’d reply, “Do we even have ‘cute’ boys?” They’d exclaim, “You’re like an emotionless robot!”
Looking back, I realize how innocent—and perhaps emotionally slow—I was. I was often oblivious to others’ affections. Only years later did I finally understand what moments I had unintentionally missed.
Due to the heat, our teacher had to drag a chair to the podium and sit while teaching, frequently sipping water. He taught both Chinese and Math—the subjects I either loved or absolutely loathed.
I adored Chinese, to the point of bias. I’d score as high as 140, while Math brought me down to 40. When test results came out, my teacher always had mixed feelings—proud that I topped the class in Chinese, but frustrated that I was at the bottom in Math.
I used to joke with myself: “I’m number one… in two opposite categories!”
One usual day, late in the Math class, he gave us a surprise quiz. My mind would go blank. Lao Gao would adjust his glasses, smile, and whisper: “Brace yourself, Da Yuanzi—it’s nightmare time again!” I’d nod, “Counting on you, LG!”
After sitting together for so long, we’d developed a silent understanding. I’d sneak peeks at his answers through a secret signal—he’d subtly flick my eraser toward him, or nudge it with his toe. I’d pretend to pick it up, catching a glance at his paper and memorizing his work as quickly as I could. When the teacher said, “Pens down, pass the papers forward,” I’d sit up normally and wait for the collection.
Of course, there was no such thing as a free lunch. My payback was treating him to my mom’s potato pancakes. Somehow, everything she made turned out delicious—especially those potato cakes, which quickly won over Lao Gao.
When class ended, our teacher walked out slowly, paused, and called back: “Yuanzi, come with me to get the Chinese composition notebooks!”
He was a highly respected teacher—five consecutive years recognized as a model teacher by the city, three-time provincial excellence awardee, and mentor to students who entered top universities. School officials held him in high esteem. Despite his achievements, he never became arrogant—he often reminded us to stay humble, steady, and build our lives, step by step, like constructing a palace from within.
When I returned to class, sure enough, the girls were surrounding Lao Gao, asking if he had weekend plans—and the same with Shi Shiwen too. That was the daily conundrum I faced: why did they call me a heartless robot? If it were you, wouldn’t you feel something being between two cute guys? But I felt nothing—because I’d never been taught what it meant to like someone.
My father was busy treating patients out in the countryside, and my mother was occupied with household tasks. Who had time to teach me about romance? Growing up, all I ever heard was, “Study hard; improve every day.” I never knew what it meant to like someone, to feel that tender, vague emotion.
All my classmates were pairing off, forming relationships—while I was still home playing with Mimi by the river, chasing butterflies in the fields, lying on grassy hills and sniffing the sweet-smelling flowers, picking wildflowers with Mimi by my side, sharing berries… That was when Wenwen invited me over to show me things I had never seen before: photos of foreign architecture, toys, British snacks his aunt sent from studying in the UK.
Honestly, spending time with him broadened my world. I understood so much more, glimpsed foreign landscapes I’d never imagined. Some of it I couldn’t fully embrace, but those moments filled my heart, enriched my soul, and gave me a window into the wider world.