Have You Lied Enough? - Chapter 5

Zuo Fanglin had three sons and two daughters, enough grandchildren to form a cheerleading squad. Yet the only child he truly worried about and kept living with him was Zuo Chi.

None of the others could compare; the old man was clearly biased toward Zuo Chi.

During family gatherings and holiday dinners, the seat next to him was always reserved for Zuo Chi.

The fattest red envelopes, the most frequent advice, the most lingering concern… all of it was for Zuo Chi.

There were many reasons for this, too sensitive to detail and too closely guarded. Except for a few very close relatives, no one knew the Zuo family even had a grandson named Zuo Chi.

Zuo Fanglin felt guilty and helpless, often repeating with a sigh, “This child only has me, his grandfather, left.”

Those who didn’t know Zuo Chi assumed his “unusual” personality was indulged by Zuo Fanglin. Those who did… well, Zuo Fanglin was probably the only person left in the world who truly understood Zuo Chi.

But Zuo Fanglin was already sixty-eight this year.

Lately, the old man often nudged Zuo Chi and said, “Find a partner soon. I’ll feel better knowing you have someone to keep you company.”

At this time, Zuo Chi would always repeat the same phrase: “What about me?”

“I still have a few years left,” Zuo Fanglin said cheerfully, showing no sign of concern about his own mortality. “Just a neck-deep in the dirt.”

Zuo Chi pretended not to hear. When he wasn’t paying attention, nothing seemed to register in his mind—a self-defense mechanism he’d learned at the age of five.

The “small shop” Zuo Fanglin mentioned that day wasn’t a single shop but an entire street and all the shops on it.

The Zuo family had caught the commercial wave early, accumulating wealth over decades. With each child branching out and succeeding, their fortune was inexhaustible.

It was forgotten who started the tradition, but when younger family members came of age, they were given a trivial business to play with. They could manage it poorly or experiment recklessly; any losses were considered just the cost of a hobby.

On the day of his coming of age, Zuo Fanglin asked Zuo Chi what he wanted.

The old man’s single question made his three uncles and two aunts so nervous they forgot to eat, fearing Zuo Chi might make an outrageous demand and empty the Zuo family coffers.

Judging by his father’s expression, they figured if Zuo Chi wanted to go to the moon, he’d make them scramble to build a rocket.

Zuo Chi found the whole thing amusing. After watching for a while, he bypassed the intimidating options and casually asked for a piece of land, then whimsically opened a string of shops.

Over the years, some went bankrupt and didn’t last, while others thrived. Either way, the properties remained his, so even if they closed, he could simply rent them out. No matter how he played it, he came out ahead.

When bored, Zuo Chi would occasionally visit the shops to wander around, though most of the time he just tapped on his keyboard to check the accounts.

The advantage of having money was that it automatically multiplied without much effort.

Today, Zuo Chi was particularly bored.

He decided to leave on a whim. Though it was still cold in March, Zuo Chi, who prided himself on being a sensible person who knew when to dress warmly, pulled on a windbreaker over his short-sleeved shirt before heading out.

He had already reached the lobby when he suddenly remembered something, like he’d stepped on his tail, and dashed back to the study to grab a copy of Mountain Peak, tucking it into his jacket before leisurely strolling back down the stairs.

When the driver at home asked where he was going, Zuo Chi waved him off and spent half an hour wandering before finding a shared bicycle.

He disliked using a driver and refused to ride in any seat other than the driver’s.

The feeling of having neither control over the journey nor its destination made him anxious.

When anxious, he would become irritable, feeling an inexplicable urge to beat someone or something. Only by watching people cry, scream, and bleed under his hands could he feel a twisted sense of satisfaction.

Zuo Chi loved to laugh because he enjoyed the feeling of happiness.

Like eating candy, even if it wasn’t healthy, he couldn’t resist popping one piece after another into his mouth.

“No snow today. The streets look so wet and shiny; perfect for cycling.”

“But I forgot; I don’t have money to buy a bike.”

“What are you doing? I’m looking for someone. Where is he? Right in front of me.”

“…The sky is cold, but I’m burning up.”

Mimicking the author’s style, he muttered to himself as he rode, snippets of conversation drifting in the wind, his clear voice blending with the gusts. He seemed quite content talking to himself.

After riding for over two hours, his fingers were so frozen he could barely straighten them by the time he arrived.

He scanned the QR code to pay, frowned at the deduction amount, and felt an impulse to buy out this stupid business.

Then free.

Ride as you please!

This street was the most bustling commercial district in Haicheng, offering a one-stop experience for eating, drinking, entertainment, and shopping. Once you entered, you could easily spend an entire day without leaving.

The largest mall stood in the very center, at the height of its popularity. During holidays and peak times, security guards had to be stationed at the entrance to manage the crowds.

Adjacent to it stood an old, long-bankrupt mall, dilapidated and outdated, looming like a forgotten landmark.

“Betrayed by rivals into bankruptcy, reborn to reclaim what’s rightfully mine! Enter and shop, and hear my revenge plan!”

“How dare a mere bastard roar? Watch me expose your true nature!”

The two establishments engaged in a spirited rivalry, much to the delight of the onlookers.

Little did anyone know that both establishments shared the same owner—Zuo Chi. The snarky banners that hung perpetually were all the result of his whims.

Inside the renovated old mall was a rice noodle shop with an exceptionally good reputation. Its prices were surprisingly affordable for a first-tier city mall—just six or seven yuan for a bowl, with the most expensive being the ten-yuan family-style platter.

Indulge yourself and add a yuan, and the boss will throw in three extra pieces of meat.

The restaurant bustled with activity. The open kitchen allowed customers to see the steaming wok through the passageway, its haze obscuring the chef’s face.

The very atmosphere of the place radiated warmth, and the patrons felt it too.

“Ride it however you want! As long as you want! And dye the basket pink!” Zuo Chi declared suddenly, stirring the rice noodle broth.

“Good grief! Give me a warning before you spout nonsense like that!” Qin Ting’an nearly spat out his mouthful of rice noodles. After gulping down two glasses of water, he glared and demanded, “What basket?”

Zuo Chi took a mouthful of noodles, swallowed, and replied with a grin, “A shared bicycle basket.”

“Why would you dye it pink?” Qin Ting’an asked, clearly unimpressed. “So girly.”

“Pink looks nice,” Zuo Chi countered, then added as if remembering something, “Tao’er’s hair is pink too.”

“Enough nonsense. What did you even want to see me about?” Qin Ting’an gestured for the server to add more broth. “I’m busy, unlike you.”

Zuo Chi grinned and drawled, “Busy with your extended graduation, eh?”

Qin Ting’an and Zuo Chi were cousins. Qin Ting’an’s mother was Zuo Fanglin’s daughter, making her Zuo Chi’s aunt. The family ties twisted and turned, but in the end, Qin Ting’an was two years older than Zuo Chi, so Zuo Chi had to call him “brother.”

Though Zuo Chi had never addressed him as such.

Zuo Chi’s blunt words had left Qin Ting’an speechless. He himself had skipped ahead to graduate early from his master’s program and now spent his days wandering aimlessly, while Qin Ting’an had been held back for two years.

It wasn’t that Qin Ting’an lacked intelligence; it was just that his father, a literary prodigy, had insisted he study finance against his natural inclinations. His mind simply wasn’t wired for such pursuits.

Qin Ting’an was brimming with artistic sensibility. He loved writing and devouring books, knowledgeable about authors both renowned and obscure, both domestic and foreign.

Zuo Chi pulled out a copy of Mountain Peak from his coat and pointed at the author’s name, “Mountain Hollow,” staring intently at Qin Ting’an. “Who is this?”

Qin Ting’an pushed up his glasses and leaned forward to examine the book. “This is a pen name. Many big shots use them. The copy you have is a limited edition; I’ve seen it too. My copy had a different cover. Where did you get this?”

Zuo Chi remained silent. Qin Ting’an’s remark about having seen it before left him with a subtle irritation.

Unaware of Zuo Chi’s internal reaction, Qin Ting’an continued, “This book is truly obscure. Compared to his other works, it’s more subtle and nuanced like gentle rain nourishing the earth. It’s brilliantly written… I’ve never figured out why he used a pen name for this. Even within literary circles, few people know about it.”

“Whose pen name?” Zuo Chi clicked his tongue, restraining his impatience.

Seeing Zuo Chi’s darkening expression, Qin Ting’an quickly answered after a moment of teasing. “Fu Wansi’s.”

Knowing the author’s name made the investigation much easier. Someone of Fu Wansi’s status couldn’t hide his secrets for long. Even if he rarely appeared in public, he was still the son of the Fu family, and a little digging would uncover everything.

Meanwhile, Fu Wansi remained completely unaware of this. He’d been dealing with personal troubles lately, holed up at home in a foul mood, refusing to go out no matter who called.

The manuscript in his hands was already six months overdue, still lacking even a preface. His editor had grown increasingly anxious, calling eight times a day to nag him.

“Teacher Fu, just give me a starting point! I can’t keep explaining this delay. Have some mercy on me!”

Fu Wansi puffed on his cigarette, thinking, Who should have mercy on whom? My brain’s about to explode from this writer’s block.

There were many reasons he couldn’t write, but the biggest was simply that he no longer wanted to.

The pen hovered above the paper, refusing to touch it.

Because the core of this book was supposed to be romance.

Romance.

If you’d asked Fu Wansi a few years earlier to prepare a lecture on romance, he would have first invited you to sit across from him, offered you a cup of tea, and then slowly and methodically explained, “What is Romance?”

He would say that pure love, as depicted in his writing, felt thin and fragile. He preferred to weave in the messy details, the rough edges and grains of sand, creating a tangled web where each fragment carried its own unique flavor. The more chaotic the mix, the more precious and tender the essence of love became, like a rare gem to be savored.

These words were difficult for the present Fu Wansi to articulate.

At thirty-four, Fu Wansi was no longer young, as Fu Wanchu had pointed out. Perhaps true clarity would make things more interesting.

Love, no matter when you think of it, it should always be something beautiful. People can fail to find love, but they have no right to say it’s worthless.

Fu Wansi scoffed inwardly. He was like a man who couldn’t reach the grapes and insisted they were sour, claiming he didn’t like them anyway.

This suppression wasn’t sustainable. Fu Wansi felt his hair turning white.

Cheng Bo, having heard something from somewhere, knocked on Fu Wansi’s door that evening, urging him to “go out and have some fun.”

“You write about love at home? Who’s there to keep you company?” Cheng Bo’s tone was blunt, teasing Fu Wansi for his solitude. “Are you going to talk to those unblooming spider plants, or maybe the flower pots?”

Fu Wansi shot back, silencing him with a single line:

“Right, I’d rather talk to the spider plants than you. Go get some rest.”

Support Have You Lied Enough?