Chapter 76: As Long as There’s Still Care, There’s Always a Way Part 2

Su Ye did indeed receive the transaction notification. She went online to look up the bike’s model and specs based on the photo Yue Chengqi sent, falling into a long silence.

A day later, as Yue Chengqi was riding north, she received a message: Return it. Buy a brand new one.

Sitting by the roadside in her helmet, Little Yue read the message three or four times in disbelief.

It was true she had bought it second-hand; the owner was in a rush to sell, so they only charged her sixty thousand yuan. That was already enough to make her heart ache, and Su Ye wanted her to buy a new one? A brand new one cost over a hundred thousand! She wouldn’t do it! You couldn’t just squander money like that, even if you were rich!

She replied firmly: Not returning it. New ones are too expensive.

A few minutes later, two hundred thousand yuan appeared in the account Su Ye had given her.

“…” She had forgotten. This woman was now very rich—insanely rich. She was no longer the person from years ago who had to carefully budget just to buy a television.

Yue Chengqi: It’s too late. I’ve already left Guangdong.

Su Ye: Sell it and buy a new one. Or just throw it away.

Yue Chengqi clutched her phone to her chest, her heart aching as if trying to warm Su Ye’s heart, which she imagined had grown cold and numb from money.

Even with money, you can’t be this wasteful!

Soon, Su Ye added: Old ones are unsafe. Your mother would be worried.

…She wouldn’t even use the word “care,” insisting on hiding behind the banner of Yue Wenfeng just to speak up?

Yue Chengqi suddenly felt a surge of frustration. She scrolled up and down the screen, waiting for Su Ye to say that she was also worried. But there was nothing. Su Ye vanished after that last sentence.

Su Ye’s social feed was still stuck on the New Year’s greeting. It was almost the Spring Festival, yet the esteemed CEO Su had no intention of even reposting Everguest’s corporate news. Her lonely feed was exactly like her current lonely personality.

Yue Chengqi waited a while longer. Seeing no further messages, she tucked her phone away and climbed back onto the bike.

If you don’t care, then don’t talk. Anyway, if I get into an accident, it won’t be on your head, and Yue Wenfeng won’t hold you responsible. Hmph.

What Yue Chengqi didn’t know was that Su Ye had already contacted the nearest dealership for that motorcycle brand and arranged everything for the registration. All Yue Chengqi had to do was nod, and she could go pick it up immediately.

Su Ye had been waiting for her reply, so anxious she was suffering from insomnia.

In the middle of the night, the CEO—who hadn’t cared about traffic accident news in years—was hunched over her computer, refreshing local news reports. She kept glancing down at the chat window where her last message sat unanswered, then opening Yue Chengqi’s social media.

Over and over again. It seemed this was the only way to slightly alleviate the agitation in her heart.

As dawn approached, Su Ye rubbed her brow and let out a sudden, dry laugh.

She picked up her phone and, in another act of self-deception, deleted the last message she had sent. She slumped over the computer desk in silence for a long time before slamming her fist against the table.

Forget it. This is fine too. Next time, just spend the money more freely. That money belongs to Yue Huan anyway; there’s no need to report to me anymore. That way, I won’t have any more inappropriate thoughts.

Restrain yourself.

Su Ye, you must restrain yourself.

From that day on, Yue Chengqi’s social media circle stopped updating with detailed content. Instead, whenever she reached a new location, she would post a “check-in” visible to everyone. Below each check-in, mutual friends would quickly flood the comments. Some of her peers asked her to bring back souvenirs, while a few elders from Yue Huan’s generation told her to stay safe.

Su Ye slowly scrolled through these posts, just as she had scrolled through years of loneliness and helplessness.

She couldn’t leave a mark on time, and she had no chance to leave a mark on Yue Chengqi’s life.

Until one day, Yue Chengqi posted a “visible only to her” update. It was a string of digits—it looked like a phone number.

Su Ye tried searching for the number. Calling was out of the question, and it didn’t show up on WeChat or QQ. What was this number for?

She called Hao Siwei in and asked, “What social media apps do young people use where you can search for accounts using a phone number?”

Hao Siwei replied, “Is there anyone left who doesn’t turn off phone number searching?”

“Cut the nonsense and tell me.”

“Uh, let me think… Boss, have you tried the Big Eye app or Douyin? I remember those two can usually be searched by phone number.”

Su Ye had tried Douyin; nothing.

She looked down, found the so-called “Big Eye app” in the store, downloaded it, and registered. Using a default account with a string of numbers for a name, she searched for ages but couldn’t find the option to search by phone number, forcing her to ask Hao Siwei for help again.

Soon, she unraveled the mysterious riddle Yue Chengqi had left for her.

Seeing the rare look of joy on Su Ye’s face, Hao Siwei hesitated. In the end, she decided not to mention that visiting an account nowadays leaves a record.

Her intuition told her that maybe not knowing was better than knowing. Furthermore, the owner of that phone number seemed to be intentionally using this feature of the Big Eye app; otherwise, there was no reason to go through such a convoluted process.

That being the case, there was no need to tell CEO Su that for a small fee, the owner could see exactly who was visiting her profile…

Hao Siwei left the office with her heart doing nervous somersaults.

Su Ye spent ten minutes figuring out the basic functions of the Big Eye app. But the “Visitor Records” feature was hidden quite deep. She didn’t study her own page closely and naturally missed the information. She wouldn’t discover it until much, much later.

She looked at Yue Chengqi’s account. It recorded more photos, more reflections, and more direct, comprehensive location check-ins than her other social media. Every post revealed the girl’s spiritual vitality and her inherent steadiness. All of this made Su Ye feel glad she had set her free, glad she had let her go out to see the world.

How free. How lovely.

Su Ye left work early and found a corner in a quiet bar. She ordered a drink and sipped it slowly, scrolling through the posts from the very first one.

There weren’t actually that many. Neither Yue Chengqi nor Yue Huan had a showy personality, so this felt like a hidden sanctuary where no one knew her.

But when she reached the latest post, Su Ye noticed people were commenting.

[Wow, is this beautiful sister planning to be a travel blogger? You traveled from Ye City to Guangdong in a month! Sister, would you consider coming to Yunnan?]

Su Ye frowned and looked back from the beginning. Similar comments had started appearing midway through, all recommending places for the blogger to visit. And under Yue Chengqi’s more reflective posts—especially her commentary on the epitaph in the Shaanxi Museum—it was… a total battlefield.

Su Ye skimmed the content, took a sip of her wine, and laughed at the absurdity of it.

Weren’t these “people” in the comments section just providing more evidence for Yue Chengqi’s arguments? Just a sentence from an ordinary person—not even a complaint—was enough to trigger them to this extent. How was that anything but absurd?

Su Ye suddenly felt a sense of release.

The only people in this world who truly understood them were themselves.

She put her phone down on her lap, leaned her elbow on the sofa armrest and rested her head in her hand, slowly savoring the wine.

Her own feminist thoughts came partly from herself and partly from Lin Wanjia and Yue Huan. And Yue Chengqi’s feminism came from Su Ye. This near-perfect loop occurred at every stage of their lives, making them two sides of the same coin, mutually causal. It was their destiny to be forever entangled in the first half of their lives.

Fortunately, it’s only the first half.

She downed the rest of her drink in one go. Feeling a sudden sharp pain in her stomach, she couldn’t help but hunch over for a moment before standing up and slowly walking out.

*

A few days later, Yue Chengqi looked at the visitor list, noting the frequent visits from a default account with an An City IP address. She tilted her lips into a faint smile.

It seemed her plan had worked. Furthermore, Su Ye hadn’t discovered the visitor list issue yet; otherwise, she wouldn’t be appearing as a “frequent visitor” every day. This was good. She needed to maintain this, to let them both—primarily Su Ye—get used to having Yue Huan in her life again.

Slowly. As long as Su Ye gradually stops resisting the idea of seeing me, everything will be possible.

Before putting her phone away, she took a photo of the distant, emerald mountains. She posted it to both platforms with her IP location—Sichuan, Hushan Village. Then, she reached up to snap down the visor of her motorcycle helmet, leaned forward, and twisted the throttle, leaving a long track in the dust-covered asphalt road.

Her destination was a famous guesthouse she had researched online called “One Night’s Lifespan.” This guesthouse was nestled in a very simple village where the natural scenery was perfectly preserved. It served as a gateway to several major attractions in Sichuan; the only catch was that she’d have to ride in and out of the mountains every day. No big deal.

“You can register right here!”

Yue Chengqi held her helmet in one hand and gripped a pen in her pocket with the other. She had been prepared to fill out a manual registration form, but the young girl leading the way gave her a sweet smile and pushed forward an ID scanner.

The guesthouse was deep in the mountains, but the equipment and decor were surprisingly advanced.

The girl processed her registration, her eyes flickering toward the helmet every now and then. The black-and-white helmet was a heavy-duty model for safety; held in one’s arms, it looked almost as wide as a person’s shoulders. Its semi-transparent black visor reflected the lights of the room. Just looking at it, the girl thought it looked incredibly cool.

Yue Chengqi quickly noticed her gaze and smiled. “Interested in this?”

Li Xiao nodded, then quickly shook her head. After a few coughs, she solemnly handed over the room cards with both hands. “We’re just like the city here; we use cards for the power. You have two cards. If you lose one, there’s a five-yuan replacement fee. Please take them.”

Yue Chengqi took the cards, thought for a moment, and handed the helmet to Li Xiao. “Try it on if you like. It wasn’t expensive. Just bring it to my room later. Is the kitchen available for guests?”

“Yes, yes! Turn right when you go out; there’s a kitchen. The cost is included in your room rate. You can cook whatever you like. Our ingredients are very fresh—grown and raised right here in the village. It’s a great deal!”

A girl was still a girl, after all. Once she had the helmet in her hands, she couldn’t put it down, completely forgetting professional protocol. She even forgot to look at the guest, playing with the “big toy” with a sense of pure, worldly untainted innocence.

She didn’t even notice the guest hadn’t left.

When she finally looked up, she was startled to see Yue Chengqi still standing there. For a split second, her brain ran through every work procedure, nearly planning her own funeral. But… she hadn’t missed anything, had she?

Li Xiao blinked, her voice trembling slightly. “Big Sister, is there something else?”

Yue Chengqi tilted her head and gave a brilliant smile. “Don’t be nervous. I just wanted to ask about your boss.”