Thousands Of People Thought Of Him - Chapter 2

Cake

That light remark hit everyone present like a punch—especially Fang Baiyu.

His expression froze, as if the words triggered some memory, and his reaction was visibly intense.

But that awkwardness only lasted five seconds. He quickly turned away with a bitter smile and said, “Well, it’s my fault for leaving too early. It’s normal that you don’t remember me.”

Ying Fusang didn’t deny it. After all, he had already spent five whole minutes and still hadn’t figured out who the other person was.

Fang Baiyu’s words, however, seemed to jolt the other two. Their expressions toward Ying Fusang grew even colder.

Ying Shouchuan frowned and was the first to speak harshly. “Ying Fusang, what kind of act are you pulling now?”

Ying Chenglang didn’t even bother scolding him this time. He quickly turned to comfort Fang Baiyu. “Don’t mind him, Xiaoyu. He’s got something wrong in the head. We may forget a lot of people, but we’d never forget you.”

Fang Baiyu skillfully avoided his touch, forcing a smile. “I’m fine.” Then, he looked toward Ying Fusang and shifted the topic: “But, Xiao-Sang still hasn’t answered my question.”

The two were momentarily stunned, not quite understanding his insistence, but seeing how determined he was, they turned their eyes to Ying Fusang again.

Already dizzy and unwell from his cold, Ying Fusang hadn’t really heard what they’d been talking about—he had been too focused on recognizing faces. But based on past experience…

“I’m not going.”

“Ah…” Fang Baiyu’s face faltered slightly, as if the refusal had been too blunt and hurtful.

Seeing this, the two others immediately changed their tone.

Ying Shouchuan’s face darkened. “As a member of the Ying family, what reason do you have to skip it?”

“Yeah, you really think you’re that important, huh?” Ying Chenglang added with a cold snort.

Ying Fusang had guessed right: no matter what he said, they would be dissatisfied anyway.

A tickle rose in his throat. He covered his mouth and coughed a few times, then replied listlessly, “Fine, I’ll go.”

What Ying Shouchuan hated most was that indifferent, couldn’t-care-less attitude of his. He was just about to snap again when Fang Baiyu beat him to it.

“Xiao-Sang, are you sick?” Fang Baiyu asked with concern.

“Just a cold,” Ying Fusang answered, since his tone seemed genuinely caring.

Ying Chenglang sneered mockingly. “Sick again? You’re so damn fragile.”

Ying Fusang glanced at him lightly but said nothing.

“What kind of look is that?” Ying Chenglang was instantly irritated.

Since starting high school, thanks to Ying Chenglang, Ying Fusang had to find his own way to and from school every day.

In his first year, he scraped together money to buy a bike, but things kept happening—needles hidden on the seat, tires slashed, the whole thing dismantled. Out of concern for his own safety and to avoid the repair costs, he eventually gave in and bought a monthly pass for shared bikes.

So, hearing that remark, Ying Fusang simply withdrew his gaze.

That one glance—light as a feather—still managed to ignite the fire inside Ying Chenglang. If it weren’t for their mother’s strict instructions not to leave any visible marks on him, he would have beaten him right then and there.

Not wanting to waste any more time, Ying Fusang smiled politely. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be going.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and left with his glass of water.

Watching his retreating back, Ying Shouchuan’s frown deepened, and Ying Chenglang pounded the sofa in frustration. “What kind of attitude is that?!”

No one noticed that Fang Baiyu had silently taken in everyone’s reactions, his expression thoughtful.

…

This villa had three floors—not including the attic—and space was certainly not in short supply. But ever since Ying Fusang was brought from the orphanage at age eight, he had been assigned the cramped attic room.

Even the servants found it pitiful.

But Ying Fusang himself didn’t feel anything about it.

Back in his room, he first used a red pen to carefully correct the mistakes on his test paper, then tidied up the desk.

After finishing, he gave his dizzy head a hard shake.

That only made the dizziness worse.

When you’re feeling unwell, you should…

Suddenly, amid the mental fog, a moment of clarity broke through. Ying Fusang opened a hidden compartment in his locked drawer and pulled out a fairy tale book.

It wasn’t thick, with a bright and exaggerated illustrated cover clearly aimed at children. Beneath the faded cover were yellowed pages, worn from frequent use.

A new book ten years ago—now a cherished old item.

He flipped to the first page, where a line of elegant handwriting greeted him:

“Sangsang, to simply live is not enough. One must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower to love.” (Note 1)

He held the book and silently read the line three times.

Perhaps it was just psychological, but the discomfort in his body seemed to ease a little.

…

Monday again.

The moment Ying Fusang stepped into the classroom with his left foot, the whole class seemed to freeze, as if someone had pressed pause. Everyone abruptly fell silent and stared at him with mixed expressions.

But as soon as he looked up, all those gazes vanished again, and the noise resumed.

Still not recovered from his cold, he wore a mask that day.

Just as he sat down and reached for his books, a crumpled paper ball suddenly flew in from the back and hit his desk.

Ying Fusang didn’t react immediately. He calmly evaluated the risk for three seconds, then slowly opened the paper.

On the scrap, scrawled in red pen, were a few crooked words forming a sentence:

“How did it feel getting doused in water in the middle of winter?”

Sun Wenhao, who had just been showing off his newly dyed yellow hair to his little gang, had spotted Ying Fusang and dramatically wrote that message. Now he sat in the back, eyes glued to the reaction, waiting for a sign of embarrassment.

“Film this—we have to catch this moment,” he whispered.

The tall, lanky guy held his phone low. “Already rolling.”

Ying Fusang didn’t react at first. He read the note, thought for a few seconds, then picked up a black pen and wrote something.

There was no dramatic change in expression. It was like he was wearing a mask—impenetrable and unreadable.

“What’s that freak writing?” muttered the short, chubby one crouching nearby.

“Pfft, whatever. Let’s see what clever little comeback he’s got.” Sun Wenhao snorted, full of disdain.

Then they watched, wide-eyed, as Ying Fusang calmly capped his pen, crumpled the paper again, and—

Threw it into the trash can.

Yellow-hair: “…”

Tall guy: “…”

Chubby: “…”

After throwing away the “trash,” Ying Fusang just started reviewing his text, completely focused, as if nothing had happened.

Sun Wenhao’s face twisted in rage. “You! Go fish it out of the trash!” he barked at the chubby one.

Reluctantly, he obeyed. The three of them crowded around and unfolded the paper again.

On it, in neat black ink, was written:

1.

They stared at it, speechless.

They were only able to bully Ying Fusang because Ying Chenglang had silently given them permission. But after all, he was a Ying—there were limits to how far they could go.

So no matter how furious he was, Sun Wenhao could only grit his teeth and say, “Whatever. He got lucky.”

…

A week flew by without a break. December 20th came quickly—it was Ying Chenglang’s 18th birthday.

The celebration was held in one of the most prestigious hotels in A City, with a 500-square-meter ballroom. The guest list was filled with the rich and powerful—showing just how much importance the Ying family placed on the event.

Ying Fusang didn’t understand. No one wanted him there—so why was he still forced to attend?

As usual, no one spoke to him at such gatherings. That suited him fine. He quietly found a corner and sat down by himself.

As soon as Ying Shouchuan saw him, his expression turned guarded, his eyes following his every move. But that tension eased once Fang Baiyu entered the venue.

Guests trickled in. The banquet began.

The lights dimmed, leaving only a single spotlight. Ying Chenglang slowly descended the grand staircase. His hair was immaculately styled, and he wore a tailored black tuxedo with a rose brooch on his chest.

His steps were elegant, head held high like a proud swan.

After Chenglang gave his thank-you speech, his father, Ying Deqing, took the stage. One by one, the speakers gave their emotional speeches, reading well-crafted scripts.

The whole thing was long-winded and boring. Ying Fusang sat in the corner, nearly nodding off.

No one knew how much time passed before a round of applause burst out from the audience.

He opened his eyes and looked toward the stage. A few servers were wheeling out a massive, four-tiered cake.

It was time to cut the birthday cake.

Just then, Fang Baiyu suddenly stepped away from Ying Shouchuan, holding a glass of champagne, and made his way through the crowd directly to Ying Fusang.

“Xiao-Sang, haven’t seen you in a while. How have you been lately?”

Since the other had taken the initiative, Ying Fusang stood up and replied politely, “I’m doing well lately,” then quickly added after a few seconds’ mental scramble, “Mr. Fang Baiyu.”

Fang Baiyu chuckled at his formal tone. “Aren’t you going to have some cake?”

Ying Fusang shook his head. Before he could explain, a server nearby suddenly charged toward them, tray full of wine glasses in hand, head down and seemingly not watching where he was going.

Ying Fusang, who could smell a setup from a mile away: ?

Before Fang Baiyu could react, he had already taken a big step back.

The server’s elbow grazed his arm, and the tray wobbled. Wine sloshed out from the momentum.

Ying Fusang had clearly dodged, but the server’s balance seemed to be horrendous. He twisted awkwardly—almost unnaturally—falling again toward him.

The wine glasses all tipped and spilled.

Ying Fusang looked down at his soaked clothes and fell silent.

Fang Baiyu gasped again.

The server finally steadied himself and began apologizing profusely.

“I’m so sorry! Let me help you get cleaned up!”

A few guests had turned to look. Ying Shouchuan also frowned and seemed ready to come over.

“Better go get cleaned up, Xiao-Sang,” Fang Baiyu agreed.

Ying Fusang hated being the center of attention. So he nodded.

The server—whether by accident or design—led him through a path that had to pass by the stage.

Just as he passed by Ying Chenglang, a slice of cake suddenly smashed into his face.

The cake fell to the ground, and sticky frosting clung to his hair. Fortunately, he had shut his eyes just in time.

Ying Fusang turned his head upward.

In his field of vision, Ying Chenglang was crouching beside the cake, tone apologetic, but his eyes gleamed with mockery and triumph.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry. I must’ve lost my grip.”