At that moment, Yì (Yì,毅)—the designated cannon fodder—stood frozen, unmoving, as if time itself had paused. He had no mind to sense his own body. All that filled his thoughts now… was food. Steaming xiǎolóngbāo (xiǎolóngbāo,小笼包), glistening yet light shāomài (shāomài,烧卖), crispy and juicy shēngjiān (shēngjiān,生煎)…
—Oh, and his Qīng (Qīng,青)…
"Ah yō, so many delicious things! I really want to go back and eat more… Such a pity—Qīng'er, I'll just have one more bite… hmm?"
But dreams, well, they always end, don't they? As he drifted deeper into his food fantasy, a sudden chill ran down Yì's spine. His body, which should've reacted a beat late, still felt… nothing. Why didn't it hurt?
Yì remained dazed for a long while, until the meow of a kitten snapped him out of it. He opened his eyes and scanned the scene before him—only to witness a miracle. What he saw felt both familiar and utterly foreign.
Hovering mid-air was a bow. A bow that looked strikingly similar to the one Yì was skilled with. But this one… it floated like a divine artifact, shimmering with silver light. It had positioned itself directly in the path of the giant beast's attack. And that massive shockwave from earlier? Gone—vanished without a trace.
—A savior… What is this magical bow?
He had never seen a weapon so radiant, so unique, so… strange. Yì stood there, stammering and slack-jawed, staring at it like a fool. This mystical bow resembled his own Yāngyǒu (Yāngyǒu,鸯酉)—a longbow, forged entirely from metal—but it seemed to be missing a string. And it didn't look like a Guardian's exclusive weapon either!
—Wait a minute!
Suddenly, Yì's eyes sharpened. He turned quickly to check on the child… Wū, Ājùn (Ājùn,阿俊) was safe! Then…
The kitten, however, seemed… different. Not abnormal, but the shadow that had been protecting the child had expanded—like it had been patched and reinforced. It looked sturdier now.
Though Yì didn't understand what had happened, the crescent-shaped mark glowing on the kitten's forehead suggested a sudden evolution of its beastly powers. Perhaps it was the effect of the divine weapon before him.
Still, a battle should look like a battle, right? Yet the opponent inside the attic seemed disinterested in fighting… Such provocation clearly didn't sit well with the giant beast outside.
After all, Qīng used to say—giving your all is the greatest respect you can show your opponent! But here was Yì, facing a powerful enemy, still hesitating, still distracted… Was he going to fight or not?
What truly drove the beast mad was this: such a weak opponent… It had been attacking for ages, and still couldn't take him down. Enough was enough! Who could tolerate this? One moment someone jumps in to help the weakling look cool, the next a weapon pops out to block the attack—so stubborn!
Furious, the monster roared, slammed the ground, and opened its mouth wide—Boom! (轰)—spitting out a mouthful of blood that defied logic, preparing to unleash its power again. But the same move was useless against a Guardian. Its proud shockwave had no effect, and only left it confused.
Of course, monster brains aren't known for their brilliance. Even knowing it was pointless, it kept attacking—again and again. Each strike stronger than the last, yet still ineffective. It was exhausting itself. Smoke puffed from its thick lips as it stood there panting—huff, puff, wheeze!
Still, a giant beast is no joke.
Moments later, its eyes began to glow—dark red, like ink-stained fury. As if injected with new power, it launched into a frenzy of nonstop attacks—mindlessly firing off sausage-like missiles, eyes blazing with laser beams…
Faced with this absurd onslaught, Yì was surprisingly calm. He knew, ever since the divine bow appeared, the tide had turned.
As long as the Silver Bow remained, they were safe. But if the beast kept firing like this, the house—and maybe the entire town—would be in danger. The protective shield outside was already in tatters, and his teammates were still nowhere to be found!
—What now? Let me think… Aiyō, it's so hot…
As a Guardian, one must carry the weight of the world. So, Big Brother-in-law Yì fired up his invincible brain once more—steam practically rising from his head. Luckily, the Silver Bow seemed to sense something. It glowed and floated closer to Yì, as if beckoning this dim-sum-headed warrior to pick it up and fight back.
—Come on, bro, let's counterattack together… Huh? What are you waiting for? I'm already here—move!
Faced with the divine invitation and a golden opportunity, Yì hesitated again. Though the Silver Bow looked like his own, there was one insurmountable technical problem… Like all Guardian-exclusive weapons, it lacked a bowstring.
Worse still, after many tests, Yì knew the beast's defenses well—his own arrows wouldn't work.
After a moment, the Silver Bow flashed again, urging him to act. The kitten meowed beside him, cheering him on.
With everyone encouraging him, Yì finally pulled himself together. He looked carefully, then reached out to grab the weapon.
—Hmm… Up close, the bow was pure silver. Though larger than his own, it felt surprisingly light. Its surface was adorned with mysterious patterns and runes… And the moment Yì gripped the handle, those runes lit up—and an invisible bowstring appeared.
—Mm! Now everything's ready… Oh—except for one last thing.
Still missing… a divine arrow.
After all, facing this giant beast, even the army's top archer would struggle with ordinary arrows. Its defense was nearly impenetrable—thick skin, dense muscle—and this one was especially enraged!
In response, the Silver Bow shimmered again. Yì (Yì,毅) felt a surge of power rushing into his body, filling him with confidence.
As he pulled the bowstring, he muttered to himself, "If only I had one more powerful arrow… I could definitely take it down—hmm? The string's in place now. Does that mean I can channel an energy arrow?"
—Ah, the dream is beautiful.
But despite his hopeful inner monologue, nothing happened. No arrow. No energy. Just empty air.
—What now? Even the best cook can't make a meal without ingredients!
Just then, at the critical moment, an arrow appeared—flashing into existence, perfectly aligned between grip and string.
—Heh, Heaven's helping me now!
It didn't look like an energy arrow, though. But it was in the right place, and it carried a strange mix of familiarity and mystery… Could it be the legendary treasure passed down by the Zhūgě Clan (Zhūgě,诸葛)—the Golden Arrow?
Yì froze mid-thought. Whatever it was, the opportunity had arrived. He straightened his back, glared fiercely outside, and with practiced ease, nocked the arrow and drew the bow—just like he did with the lesser monsters.
—Whoosh! (咻)
A streak of golden light shot forth… and in the next instant, the giant beast vanished from sight, leaving behind only a faint trace of crimson regret.
Just then, reinforcements arrived—perfect timing. Outside, the bruised Deputy General clapped enthusiastically with his ragtag band of survivors: "Big Brother-in-law, your hundred-pace precision lives up to the legend!"
Heh. But this time, Yì didn't get carried away. Holding the bow in one hand, he reached out with the other to retrieve the arrow—
—Hmm? Hey, I'm right here… Where are you going?
But the precious arrow ignored him. With a swoosh, it flew back on its own, greeted the Silver Bow, lingered briefly beside Ājùn (Ājùn,阿俊)… and just as Yì reached for it, it vanished. The Silver Bow disappeared with it.
—We won? Wū, thank goodness… No real harm done. But why do I feel a little… used?
The battle was over. The weak had triumphed over the strong. Yet Yì stood there, dazed, as if his brain had short-circuited. He felt like a tool—used by the divine weapon. It was a bit depressing.
He chuckled to himself, naming the move he'd just performed: "Seven-Star Dragon Abyss." Then he scratched his head, pondering—though they survived, it was only thanks to a miracle. Perhaps that's why the Elders could rest easy in seclusion… Still, the future would require greater caution. That was way too close!
Thus, another crisis for the child of destiny was resolved—thanks to his family. But for Ājùn, this was only the beginning. The truly terrifying trials were yet to come.
Because in just one year, the boy would reach school age. He'd have to attend classes alone every day…
The school for young Guardians was the cradle of enlightenment for children across the Suōluó Continent (Suōluó,桫椤大陆)—a temple of knowledge that laid their foundation. Each of the Five Counties had its own locally flavored branch, all part of a unified system: standardized teaching, balanced faculty, and no worries about school district housing.
Ājùn's assigned school was on the far side of the White Tiger County's (Báihǔ,白虎郡) capital city. That meant a long daily trek across the central district. To others, it might not seem far—but to Ājùn, it felt like a journey across worlds. He'd already begun fantasizing about a school right next to home.
Of course, his anxiety wasn't about waking up early or the long walk—it was about the countless strangers he'd have to face on the way. And most of them weren't very friendly.
To help, Big Sister Qīng (Qīng,青) even requested permission from the Elders to move again—after all, they'd already relocated twice. But the request was denied.
Qīng couldn't accept that. She repeatedly explained her reasoning—logical, heartfelt, and accurate. The Elders agreed with her views, but still refused.
Because some things… can be avoided for a while, but not forever. The child had to face them himself. The previous moves were to create a nurturing environment—he was still young then.
But now, the boy had grown. He needed to be tempered. To learn to face the world. After all, reality is harsh. If one clings to the ivory tower and avoids the storm, the road ahead will only be harder.
Soon, Ājùn began his first semester. Unlike other children, he wasn't excited or full of anticipation. What lay ahead was a challenge unlike any he'd faced before.
Not academically—Ājùn was brilliant. Under his family's guidance, he'd already self-studied all the school's courses. Within his physical limits, he'd also trained in the foundational skills every young Guardian must master: martial arts theory and basic techniques.
Typically, every preschool-aged child on Suōluó Continent must attend nearby academies and dojos for pre-enrollment training—building core abilities, studying traditional culture, and reading classics from the Hundred Schools of Thought and ancient texts.
Ājùn was no exception. But because he was… exceptional, he became an exception. He could study at home. To outsiders, he seemed enviable—learning when he wanted, playing when he pleased, sleeping in, gaming at will. A dream life.
—But who knew the truth behind it? Few did.
Every day, he dragged his half-broken body through lessons—working harder than others, progressing slower. Training more seriously, but only in small doses. Though his stamina was limited, Ājùn gave it his all. Within his brief training windows, he'd already mastered Qīng's sword techniques and Yì's archery. The Deputy General even praised him as the next Hundred-Pace Archer.
Yet even so, the boy remained anxious. Nervous about the higher-level skills he'd soon have to learn at Guardian School.
Yì, as a senior and family member, often comforted him: "Don't overthink it. One good skill is better than a thousand lessons."
But his well-meaning advice earned him a scolding from Qīng—accused of misleading the child.
The tension between practical survival and ideal education… may resurface again.
The day before school started, Big Sister Qīng (Qīng,青) took time off work and, together with Big Brother-in-law Yì (Yì,毅), brought Ājùn (Ājùn,阿俊) to the town's pedestrian street to shop for school supplies.
Ājùn was thrilled. These rare outings with family were precious to him—he didn't go out often, so the outside world always felt fresh and exciting.
When he was very young, the Elder had instructed him to stay home. And Ājùn, ever obedient, did just that. He never wandered, never ran off. Instead, he read, studied, and practiced daily self-care routines—massage, guided breathing, and meditation. These were methods taught by the Elder, drawn from a health manual of the Sacred Healer Clan (Shèngyīzú,圣医族). The book detailed his physical constitution, weaknesses, recommended wellness techniques, and even spiritual guidance.
Ājùn had been reading this manual since he was little. It was said to be unique to the Suōluó Continent (Suōluó,桫椤大陆), compiled for each young Guardian from birth by the regional branches of the Sacred Hospital. Beautifully bound and highly practical.
In his secret base—his attic—one wall was lined with books. Yet even that wasn't enough. Ājùn had a habit of cherishing old books, unable to part with any. He kept them all, maintaining them regularly.
So his family built him another reading nook in the living room, filled with new books. And if that wasn't enough, the Elder's room held a whole library—ancient, rare volumes, far older than Ājùn himself.
Still, no matter how good the environment, a child's nature resists confinement. Being locked in one place inevitably breeds a sense of repression. Ājùn might seem silly and slow, but he understood clearly—his family's strict care was all for his own good.
So, kind-hearted as he was, he never wanted them to worry. He showed his maturity, his thoughtfulness. Though solitude could be lonely, he had his kitten companion—Xiǎofēi (Xiǎofēi,小绯)—to keep him company.
He loved spending time with Xiǎofēi. This shopping trip was no exception—even if she was just a kitten. Of course, there was one important family member missing: the Elder. Her absence weighed on Ājùn's heart, a quiet regret and guilt he couldn't shake.
Fortunately, the day went smoothly. They bought everything they needed and even had lunch at a restaurant—a rare treat. But Ājùn noticed something strange: people kept staring at them.
—Hmm… What's going on?
Those people seemed to glare only at him. Their mouths murmured things he couldn't hear, and some even gave him hostile looks.
He'd seen scenes like this on TV—usually aimed at villains or monsters. Was it because of the kitten on his shoulder? But Xiǎofēi was so cute! Why wouldn't people like her? What's scary about a meowing cat?
—I love her! Let's meow together—meow meow meow meow meow…
After lunch, Qīng and Yì took Ājùn to a large supermarket. The house was low on groceries, and his snacks were down to just a few packs.
The three of them wandered the aisles like a real family. Ājùn's eyes sparkled with curiosity as he browsed the shelves. So many delicious snacks! But he only picked them up to look, then put them back. He knew he couldn't eat them—just a feast for the eyes.
Yet again, he felt watched. Just like that time in the clothing store, where a kind saleslady helped him try on clothes. But this was a supermarket—no need for personal attendants, right? A bit too attentive…
He noticed these people were different. They whispered warnings: "Don't touch that," "Put it back," "I'm watching you." Thankfully, whenever Qīng or Yì glared at them, they shut up or walked away. Still, wave after wave of this was exhausting.
Later, as Ājùn put down a packet of instant noodles, still puzzled, a familiar voice suddenly interrupted him.
Startled, he turned his head. Qīng and Yì were deep in debate over which seasoning to buy. But beside him stood an old man, glaring with disgust.
"Hey! You little brat—trying to steal again, huh?"
—What's going on? Uncle, who even are you?
Ājùn was confused. Everyone else was shopping normally—why was he being accused of theft?
Wait… That voice sounded familiar. He looked closer—ah! He knew this man. He used to run a small grocery store. Ugly face, bad temper. What, did he upgrade to a supermarket now?
As a child, Ājùn rarely went out. He only knew his family and a few kind neighbors—like Auntie Zhāng next door.
He remembered one time when they ran out of soy sauce. Yì, ever simple-minded, asked Ājùn to go buy a bottle from the nearby store. He had too many dishes cooking to leave. Ājùn happily agreed. The store owner? This very old man.
When he arrived, before he could ask for soy sauce, he was drawn to the snacks. He picked one up, looked at it, put it back. Then picked it up again. Over and over.
He knew he wasn't allowed to eat it. But he'd seen it on TV so many times… He really wanted to try it. Just as he was about to put it down and ask for soy sauce—
"Hey! You little thief—trying to steal from my store!"
The man, with his slick black hair, had been watching from afar. He'd already decided Ājùn was a thief.
"I didn't…"
But the child, frightened, began to tremble. His body reacted strangely. Though his teeth chattered, he forced himself to explain: "—I was just looking. I came to buy soy sauce…"
"Hmph! You think I don't recognize you?"
The man cut him off, full of rage. To him, explanations were just guilty excuses. He knew this kid—and without hesitation, shoved Ājùn out of the store with all his strength.
"Get out! This store doesn't welcome thieves like you!"
This moment of injustice and trauma… may shape Ājùn's future interactions with the world.
Terrified, wronged, and deeply hurt, Ājùn was pushed by a powerful adult hand. Though the man knew no martial arts, he was still a grown-up—and Ājùn, just a child…
Across the counties of the Guardians, many ordinary folk lived—just like the small shop owner. Some lacked talent, others had it but no means to develop it. Though descendants of Guardians, they lived lives no different from commoners.
After being shoved, Ājùn (Ājùn,阿俊) stumbled, nearly falling outside the shop—only to be caught just in time by a kind passerby.
But the shock sent him into a sudden sleep. He vaguely heard Big Brother-in-law Yì (Yì,毅) shouting angrily at the shop owner… and then, as always, Yì tried to hold back a laugh. Strange as the twist was, Ājùn caught a glimpse of a shiny bald head—and a mess of black hair-like debris scattered on the ground.
Not long after the incident, Ājùn was kept safe at home. He shut himself in his attic for days, his body aching on and off, his heart shadowed by trauma.
Yì, of course, was scolded harshly by Qīng (Qīng,青), sporting bruises for days. As for the shop owner who falsely accused Ājùn of theft—whether out of guilt or shame—he closed his store and disappeared. Later, Ājùn overheard Auntie Dàmǎ (Dàmǎ,大码) and Yì chatting: apparently, the man had moved away.
But judging by today's events, it seemed the shop owner had made enough dirty money to open a supermarket. Perhaps dissatisfied with his staff's vigilance, he took matters into his own hands—still just as unpleasant.
Faced with another round of false accusations and déjà vu, Ājùn thought for a moment… then decided not to bother explaining. After all, the emotional scars from last time had already begun to heal, thanks to his family.
So he ignored the man and continued browsing—deliberately picking up and putting down a product several times. The shop owner, once confident and brimming with vengeance, saw this as defiance. The boy seemed more rebellious than before—challenging his authority!
He rolled up his sleeves, took a deep breath, ready to unleash his fury.
But just as he was about to strike, a chill ran down his spine. Two towering figures appeared behind him, radiating anger. The outcome? Predictable.
The family continued shopping happily. At checkout, Ājùn went to fetch Xiǎofēi (Xiǎofēi,小绯), his kitten. On returning, he saw the annoying shop owner again—now bald.
—Or rather, the supermarket owner?
He was pushing carts back into place, working diligently. Maybe he wasn't all bad—at least he was hands-on and responsible.
While waiting for his family, Ājùn overheard the cashiers yelling. Their tone sounded like complaints about the boss… Bold employees! Maybe the old man was a bit pitiful after all.
"Hey! Old man, move these carts already—seriously, can't even manage the basics. They're blocking customers!"
After this episode, Ājùn finally let go of the long-buried knot in his heart. After all, life was hard for everyone. The family walked home, chatting and laughing.
Of course, some people still gave them strange looks. But the closer they got to home, the less frequent it became. Occasionally, they even ran into kind neighbors who greeted Ājùn warmly.
Just before reaching home, the family stopped. Ājùn had been drawn to a game store's display.
He'd seen this toy on TV countless times—a game console, or maybe a game itself. He knew he couldn't own such fun things like other kids. So he usually watched gameplay videos during his limited TV time.
His screen time was strictly regulated—no more than half an hour a day, and never in one sitting. The Elder had warned: too much TV harms the eyes and body, especially games that require constant focus.
Ājùn agreed. He knew his body was special. Watching too much made him tired, triggered symptoms. So he was very disciplined.
Still, being homebound most of the time, he sometimes felt bored. He envied other kids who could play freely outside.
Thus, the TV became his "friend." But gaming? That was harder. Deep down, he believed he could manage a healthy relationship with this "new friend."
"Come—good boy, have a seat!"
In front of him stood a kind old lady, waving him over. She was the game store owner, close to the family. Seeing Ājùn again, she happily brought out a chair for him to sit and watch.
"Thank you, Granny Sūn (Sūn,孙婆婆)!"
Ājùn was used to this. He greeted her and sat down. He often visited this shop during his rare outings.
Granny Sūn was always welcoming. She let him touch and explore freely, always offering a seat. No snacks or tea, of course—not because she was stingy, but because everyone knew to be cautious with Ājùn's condition.
Not that he minded—he wasn't into snacks anyway. The Elder had warned him to watch what he ate. Illness enters through the mouth.
So Ājùn usually watched game videos or competitions for a while, then went home.
The games were fascinating. He always wished he could play just once. The immersive experience, the virtual thrill—it made him feel limitless.
But after thirty minutes, he had to leave, reluctantly.
Sometimes, during esports tournaments, he stayed longer. So long that his family had to come looking for him.
This longing for connection through virtual worlds… may shape Ājùn's future choices.
Early the next morning, Ājùn (Ājùn,阿俊) was already awake. After all, today was the first day of school. It seemed Big Sister Qīng's (Qīng,青) summer wake-up training had paid off. Though still tired, Ājùn knew some things were worth pushing through.
He stretched lazily, eyes half-closed, glancing at the sun outside—and at Xiǎofēi (Xiǎofēi,小绯), the kitten still curled up asleep. Ājùn always found it curious. Other kittens, according to his books, slept early too—but none seemed to love sleeping in like Xiǎofēi. Could it be his own late rising had influenced her? He pondered quietly. He had to work harder—not let his shortcomings affect his family.
As usual, he washed up, dressed, and packed his bag. He'd been doing this on his own since he was little. The Elder said it was to build independence.
After tidying his backpack, he hesitated—worry flickering in his eyes. But soon, he stood tall and headed downstairs for breakfast.
The dining room was as quiet as ever. Only Big Brother-in-law Yì (Yì,毅) was in the open kitchen, preparing breakfast. But today, something was different—he had a baby girl in his arms, sipping milk.
—Wait, where did this child come from?
She wasn't Yì and Qīng's biological daughter. She'd been brought home secretly by Qīng the day after the attic incident, returning from a mission abroad.
The little girl was adorable—round, fair cheeks, big eyes, a tiny mouth, a proud nose, and skin so soft it seemed to glow. Like Ājùn, she was told to call them Big Sister and Big Brother-in-law. As for the Elder, she hadn't met her yet.
Ājùn called her "Little Sister." Of course, he'd hoped for a younger brother to play with—but a sister was just as good. She was close to him. Her first word? "Brother."
Yì swiftly plated a delicate breakfast. As Ājùn ate, he watched Little Sister curiously. She nestled against Yì's chest, drinking milk. Ājùn's breakfast was simple—just rice and rice. But Yì shaped it into fun designs and added light seasoning.
Still, Ājùn felt Yì didn't need to go to such lengths. Even plain rice was fine—because the Elder had told him rice was the best food for his recovery. "Fàn lì, fàn lì"—rice gives strength.
This strength, or gǔqì (gǔqì,谷氣), came from the refined essence of daily meals. It was the body's foundational energy—protecting against heat and cold, supporting internal balance. The Sacred Healer Clan called it "zhēnqì" (zhēnqì,真氣), distinct from innate power.
Looking at Little Sister, Ājùn reminded himself—he had to grow up fast. He was a big brother now. He had to help take care of her.
After finishing in the kitchen, Yì sat down to continue feeding her, mumbling about how babies needed breast milk. Formula alone would hinder growth.
Ājùn had heard this complaint many times. He'd even seen Yì try to convince Qīng—only to be met with flushed cheeks, shouting, and the occasional slap. Was Yì asking too much?
Ājùn thought formula was fine. He'd grown up on this brand—great taste, good source, zero additives…
Still, he was curious. Today, he finally asked at the table: "Big Brother-in-law, why doesn't Big Sister agree with you?"
"Pfft!"
Yì nearly spat out his tea. Little Sister seemed amused too, giggling at his flustered face.
Yì sighed, smiled, patted Ājùn's head, popped a pacifier into Little Sister's mouth, and glanced at the clock. "Time for school," he said cheerfully.
—Hmm… Was my question funny?
Ājùn wondered, then checked the time. No room for small talk. He greeted Yì and Little Sister, slung on his heavy backpack, took a deep breath, and marched toward school.
Just as he stepped outside, he couldn't help but turn back. Yì and Little Sister were waving at him.
Suddenly, his backpack didn't feel so heavy. Strength welled up inside him. He touched the snacks in his pocket—ready to face the day.
The snacks were from Qīng. Ājùn had read the school handbook—no snacks allowed, especially not in class. But Qīng told him not to worry. They'd applied for an exception—and the school had surprisingly approved.
Morning light bathed the streets. The city buzzed with life. Children walked, chatted, and munched under the sun.
At the game store corner, Ājùn quickened his pace. He followed the route he'd studied last night—hoping to avoid attention. He didn't want to be stared at like a zoo animal every day.
Originally, he planned to run. But after trying, he realized his body couldn't handle it. So he switched to speed walking.
Even with all his planning, people noticed. Wave after wave passed, their eyes brushing his anxious gaze…
When he finally reached school, hoping to rest, he realized his obsession had been misplaced.
—Great. Even running wouldn't have helped.
Everywhere, classmates mirrored the adults—same stares, same tones.
Despair crept in.
—I… How do I stay here? I just want to go home.
But he didn't retreat. He didn't spiral. He shook off the gloom.
Qīng had told him: don't worry about others' eyes, words, or thoughts.
Yì had said: "Eyes and mouths grow on other people's faces. You can't control that, right? So just ignore it."
—Hmm… That makes sense. But doing it… is so hard.
This moment of resolve—against judgment and isolation—may shape Ājùn's inner strength in future trials.
As expected, Ājùn (Ājùn,阿俊) spent his first day at school in quiet misery.
Thankfully, the teachers seemed kind. They didn't say much, and their gazes were calm—especially his homeroom teacher, who felt like someone on the side of kindness. Ājùn was allowed to eat when he needed, rest when he felt tired—and no one sat near him anyway.
Still, it felt like special treatment. Though Big Brother-in-law Yì (Yì,毅) often pulled strings, Ājùn believed he shouldn't be singled out.
Because those "adorable" classmates… their eyes had grown stranger. If the teacher hadn't been in the room, someone might've thrown paper balls at him.
Then came lunch. The cafeteria auntie gave him a mountain of food. It was nice—but odd. Ājùn looked up carefully—ha! The masked server was Auntie Zhāng (Zhāng dàmā,张大妈). She worked here now. Finally, she could spoil this poor child with extra portions!
Of course, some of the bigger eaters nearby weren't happy. They protested loudly. But Auntie Zhāng ignored them, waving her ladle with flair. She scooped tiny portions onto their trays, saying they were too fat and needed to slim down.
Now Ājùn had offended another crowd. Staring at his tray full of love and care, he felt conflicted. Auntie Zhāng's kindness overflowed—but could he really enjoy it alone? Maybe he should share…
He ate slowly, savoring the meal. Halfway through, he stopped. His stomach had reached its limit.
The Elder had warned: eat until seventy or eighty percent full—never overeat. Today, Ājùn had already eaten more than usual. Still, it was only half of what other kids consumed.
After a hearty burp—Burp! (嗝)—he prepared to slip away. But Auntie Zhāng arrived just then, asking if he wanted more.
He smiled awkwardly, shook his head, thanked her, and—still burping—carried his tray away, trembling slightly.
At that moment, the whole cafeteria stared. Some students glared. But Auntie Zhāng simply sighed and smiled, saying nothing.
She knew how hard this child's life had been. All the pain he carried—alone, with just that small body to bear it.
She wanted him to taste every delicious thing she made. To fatten him up, right here at school.
She'd seen his struggles firsthand. Once, Ājùn and the ever-hungry Yì had snuck off to a small restaurant for a "better meal."
But afterward, Ājùn turned pale, clutching his stomach, groaning. The food felt stuck inside him. He burped endlessly—Urgh! (呃),Guh! (鹅～)—with rhythm, even speaking mid-burp. It was heartbreaking.
It was like a column of water trapped in a vertical straw—unable to move once the bottom was sealed.
The whole family panicked. No one slept that night. Ājùn suffered quietly, hiding in his attic, never complaining, never crying. His eyes welled up—but no tears fell. He kept pretending to be fine, comforting his family.
"Don't worry. I'm feeling better."
"Better? Where?"
That night, Auntie Zhāng happened to visit. Seeing his condition, her heart shattered. Furious, she blamed the careless guardian—Yì. Together with Qīng, she scolded him harshly.
They agreed: Ājùn must've eaten something wrong—or too much. The well-meaning but clueless Yì was thoroughly reprimanded.
That night, the child's groans and Yì's yelps echoed together—rising and falling in painful harmony.
Since then, Ājùn never broke that rule again. He became extra cautious—not just for himself, but for the guardian who'd taken the blame.
After that, Auntie Zhāng often sighed.
"Ājùn, even when you're like this, you still hold it in. Still think of others. Cry, child. Just cry. It must be so hard to keep it all inside…"
"My dear boy, if you won't feel sorry for yourself, I will. Seeing you like this… it breaks our hearts. Even someone as rational as me… I'm about to cry."
This emotional restraint—this refusal to cry—may one day erupt in ways no one expects.