Yang Haoran understood Wei Ming’s meaning and said indifferently, “Why worry about others? We come into this world and will eventually leave it. The gazes and criticisms of bystanders are like bees buzzing past on the roadside—annoying, perhaps, but what do they have to do with us?”
Rat’s words earned a thumbs-up from Wei Ming, who sighed in admiration. “I figured we were both just a couple of academic slackers, but who knew slackers came in different grades? Your mindset is on a whole other level, Rat. You’ve got some real chops—I never saw that coming.”
At the same time, those words stirred something inside him, igniting an idea that had been quietly simmering.
Still, he believed their conversation remained mere armchair philosophizing. Ideas were one thing, but how many people dared to act on them, given society’s taboos?
Yang Haoran showed no delight at Wei Ming’s praise. Instead, he rolled his eyes. That passage came straight from Aunt Shen’s novel Bitch and Master. It was the female protagonist consoling the male lead, urging him to drag his mother into their depravity and easing his inner doubts.
He had simply borrowed it to sound profound. Even a slacker like him had been deeply inspired when he first read it, so it stuck with him.
“Your mom…” Yang Haoran corrected himself. “Hasn’t Aunt He always been single? Besides, I can tell she values you as her son a great deal. You know, back then, just to help us get along, she even treated me to a private dinner.”
Wei Ming couldn’t help asking, “Really? How come I never heard about that?”
“Obviously,” Yang Haoran said, exasperated. “Why would Aunt He tell you? Do you never use your brain? All that size for nothing.”
Back when Aunt He had invited him to that solo meal, she had specifically shared details about Wei Ming’s family background.
From her, Yang Haoran learned the truth: Wei Ming’s mother, He Muchen, had divorced her husband when Wei Ming was young. He had grown up in a single-parent home, which explained his Oedipal tendencies as an adult. Deep down, it stemmed from a childhood lack of security and a lingering attachment to his mother.
Truth be told, Yang Haoran was much the same. His own mother had been consumed by company affairs when he and his siblings were little, leaving them with scant companionship.
Before the two could continue, the class bell rang shrilly, forcing them to drop the subject for now.
In the end, their discussion stayed in the realm of idle theory. But later events would catch them both off guard.
This was history class. The teacher was a middle-aged man sporting a Mediterranean hairstyle. He lectured with fervent passion, his face flushed as if on the verge of ecstasy. It seemed as though if the students didn’t immerse themselves in the history he described, he would plunge into it himself first.
Yang Haoran had no idea what the others thought. He just found himself dozing off. Halfway through the period, he suddenly realized he’d overlooked something.
Only when his hand brushed the small box in his pocket did it hit him: his mother had told him to drink a bottle of supplements before class. On second thought, with the lesson underway, he’d wait until the next break.
Meanwhile, the two girls slipped away to a secluded corner of the school grounds. They settled on a bench beside a lush expanse of green lawn and began chatting. Eager to build rapport, they shifted smoothly from class gossip to personal matters, sharing hobbies and interests. What started as awkward stiffness melted into laughter and easy camaraderie, punctuated by bursts of joyful giggles.
Their brief exchange greatly boosted their mutual fondness. When the bell rang, Yang Mengyao felt a pang of reluctance. She hadn’t expected Xiao Shaowan to be so approachable outside class—no trace of the aloof chill she projected there. Instead, Shaowan brought a refreshing breeze, like a sip of spring wind.
This dissolved Yang Mengyao’s preconceptions and wariness. Their conversation grew even more relaxed and enjoyable.
Afterward, she reflected that having Xiao Shaowan join her brother as one of his women might not be so unacceptable after all.
Throughout their talk, Xiao Shaowan played the roles of attentive listener and subtle guide. Yang Mengyao might have seemed to lead, but Shaowan held the reins.
More than once, Shaowan felt surprise—even shock—at Yang Mengyao’s vibe. She came across as an innocent girl untouched by the world’s grime, pure-hearted and guileless. Shaowan didn’t fully buy it at first. She probed indirectly with loaded examples, only to discover Yang Mengyao truly knew nothing of those sordid training games. She even found Shaowan’s topics witty and fun, oblivious to the veiled barbs lurking beneath.
In the process, Shaowan envied Yang Mengyao’s simplicity; it reminded her of her own former self. At the same time, she pitied this busty, youthful-faced girl. Once the Master set his sights on her, her fate was sealed: she would end up like Shaowan—a Mother Beast plaything for the Master. In the end, she might even wear a collar and chain, locked in a cage alongside Shaowan, reduced to the Master’s private forbidden fruit.
