Chapter 19

Upon waking again, Feng Yan no longer wanted to open his eyes; the secret in the game remained unsolved, that physician, even that Princess in the game, Feng Yan became interested. He thought: 'If I could just stay at this point and play a bit longer, that would be interesting.'

Chen Hao saw Feng Yan's thought and said: 'This might be possible, but don't even think about it; tonight you can go home.'

'Going home?' Feng Yan laughed, thinking: 'Is that place still home? I feel nothing anymore.' He then recalled the remaining tree stumps, the sturdy trunks already being turned by saws fitted with gears, aimed at their bodies; in just a few seconds, the great trees that had accompanied their childhood memories, they—with a loud boom—collapsed to the ground and could never rise again. Chen Hao looked at Feng Yan, not knowing what he was thinking, and asked: 'What are you thinking about?' 'Nothing, let's go.' Feng Yan said. They returned to the classroom, just as before, studying hard, yet they could never imprint these things in their minds; they always forgot them so easily. Feng Yan gave a self‑mocking smile and said: 'This might be a good thing—at least it lets me quickly forget some bad things, like …' Feng Yan's eyes grew dim. It had been over half a month since the incident between Feng Yan and Wang Tingwan, and it had been nearly a month since he told Yang Xin about it. In the so‑called game world, or perhaps in a dream, he had been violently beaten; Feng Yan felt as if these events had happened just yesterday. He closed his eyes, recalling everything, until the sound of a book slapping the desk rang out.

'Feng Yan, you, recite!' the Chinese class monitor looked at him. Feng Yan smiled and said: 'Come on, we're already so familiar, why do we still need to recite?' He lifted his head, showing the earnest eyes of a child, gazing at her; the result was merely the sound of the Chinese textbook hitting his head. 'If you don't want to recite, then just copy it out.' the monitor said, then left, but stopped again and said to another monitor: 'You go supervise him.' Feng Yan silently cursed: 'This guy, not playing like this—shouldn't this be handed over to the homeroom teacher?' Another monitor approached; Feng Yan looked, smiled, and thought: 'This will be easy, ha.' He slowly came over, looked at Feng Yan, and said: 'Copy it out; she asked me to watch you.' Feng Yan chuckled and said: 'Don't be so serious, Lao Huang.' Yet again he received a heavy blow to the head. Feng Yan, helpless, said: 'At least give me a hint, have pity on this poor soul who's slow at memorizing, okay?' 'Sure.' she replied. As a result, this hint turned out to be the entire lesson; Feng Yan handed over what he had written and said: 'I've finished writing; is that alright now?' 'Yes, it's fine.' the monitor answered. Lao Huang's mind was in a jumble, but he said nothing. 'Well, then let's leave it at that.' Feng Yan smiled and continued: 'That'll do.'

Just like that, Feng Yan's morning reading passed in this way.

Until afternoon, after school, Feng Yan was still the same, dragging his belongings, returning to the home he hadn't visited in half a month—yes, it was home, that place truly was home; do whatever you want, no one would say anything, Feng Yan thought. Chen Hao had already left with them, while Feng Yan dragged his lockbox slowly, walking very slowly. He imagined Yang Xin and her walking together, chatting and laughing, and scoffed: 'Tch.' He thought: 'What business is it of theirs how I am? I should just look after my own affairs—poor grades, teachers always give me special attention, parents working away all year won't; I suppose I'm just a free‑range state, a wild‑raised kid—how could someone like me be persuaded by grades?' Feng Yan gave a self‑mocking smile and muttered to himself: 'It seems I still have some self‑awareness; I'm not one of those so‑called arrogant people.'

Feng Yan raised his head—he had arrived at the station, the train passed, and he stood in the aisle. 'Classmate, come here!' a girl said to him. Feng Yan sat down beside her, looking out the window at the scenery: the straw in the rice fields had been dug up and was being bundled bit by bit, the trees were bare. 'Oh, I see it's almost winter.' Feng Yan thought. He continued looking; the pine and cypress trees remained green as usual. 'Originally there are still some trees that refuse to yield,' he thought, 'so I know how I should go on.' Feng Yan also thought, as he gazed at the scenery outside the window, he unknowingly fell asleep. He dreamed of a forest, within which white mist floated. Could one hear hoofbeats in the forest? Feng Yan followed the sound, only to find himself stuck in a mud pit. He struggled desperately, yet still unable to get out; he sank slowly until his body was completely submerged in the mud. Feng Yan jolted awake; after waking, he felt even more dazed.

After a sudden brake, he found himself holding a girl in his arms—the very girl who had called him earlier. Her face flushed, and Feng Yan saw this, slowly releasing his grip. He apologized embarrassedly: 'Sorry, I fell asleep, sorry, classmate.' The girl said nothing; Feng Yan looked at her and thought: 'She's actually quite a pretty girl. (As for what she looks like, fill it in yourself—I'm too lazy to write.)' The girl sized up Feng Yan and shouted: 'You're the one who directly challenged the principal back then!' 'Don't say it, please don't say it—there are so many people on the bus.' Feng Yan made a small gesture to signal her, and at the same time said: 'That was just me being in a bad mood, having run into the principal spouting nonsense there; besides, he says the same thing every term but never follows through—I was just stating a fact, right?' The girl remained silent. Feng Yan continued gazing outside at the scenery that seemed familiar yet utterly alien to his hometown. He sighed: 'Ah.' The girl asked: 'What's wrong?' 'I don't know; I feel like I no longer recognize my home—everything's changed too fast, my memories have been turned into real memories by the saw, and I can no longer see those upright figures; they're slipping away from me bit by bit.' Feng Yan said, his eyes showing reluctance, even sorrow. The girl couldn't speak, looked at him, then glanced out the window and said: 'Perhaps true memory is just those things that make us nostalgic.'

'That's true,' Feng Yan said. 'I'm getting off now, goodbye!' The girl watched his back as Feng Yan stepped off the bus, watching the vehicle continue forward until it disappeared from his sight. Feng Yan glanced up at the sky—it was completely dark. He pulled his lockbox and walked on, receiving a text message from Chen Hao asking whether he wanted to play together today. Feng Yan replied that he wouldn't play today; he should rest a bit, after all, games need to stay fresh.

Having put down his phone, he lifted his gaze to the sky—black, a vast expanse of darkness. Feng Yan walked forward, realizing that it wasn't only the sky that was black; people were the true essence of black. Black is mysterious, yet why is it also described as evil? Because it's unknown? Then why did antiquity revere black as noble, merely because it's hard to dye? Feng Yan pondered these questions but found no answer. In that instant he understood: these are merely our human definitions—what do they have to do with nature? The so‑called world is just that as well; evil or justice depends only on how people perceive this conflict, most seeing it as justice, yet it seems not quite right. Feng Yan fell into doubt again as he walked the small path toward home; all around was still black, but this blackness now held a hint of warmth—perhaps this is home, Feng Yan thought. This is when he finally grasped that the pastoral ideal is the true meaning of life: drawing near to Mother Nature and following her laws.

Feng Yan returned home; the next day he went to his favorite place.

It was a piece of abandoned farmland; because it had been farmed year after year, the soil could no longer yield a good harvest. Later the family left the land fallow, and Grandma approached them to discuss taking over the plot, planting saplings. Now it has become a vast forest that shades the sky. Here, the logging crew had once asked Grandma for permission, but she flatly refused, so Feng Yan still retains this place as a memory. Lying on the ground, the tree leaves have turned yellowish; he narrowed his eyes, forming a rectangle with the index fingers and thumbs of both hands. Looking at it, Feng Yan said: 'So the sky is actually about this big—close to what I imagined.'

'If it's about what you imagined, why are you still here?' Feng Yan followed the voice and saw a familiar face—Lin Xiyan. He smiled and said: 'How did you know I'd be here?' 'Simple,' she replied, 'you're someone who clings to the past; those vanished things, your own memories, you never forget.' Lin Xiyan said. Feng Yan's eyes grew dim, and he murmured: 'Perhaps I am that kind of person.' He continued softly: 'This place is the last of my memories.' He slowly rose and went on: 'I don't know when it started, but I've liked coming here; whenever I'm in a bad mood, I come here, or when I have doubts, I also come here. When the wind blows here, it brushes my face, and it seems to speak; at those moments my worries disappear.' Lin Xiyan looked at Feng Yan, unsure what to say, and finally asked: 'Why is this? What happened to turn someone as honest and simple as you into someone like this?' 'People,' he answered, 'as they grow up they must wear masks, play the roles they need, and in doing so become the very sort they dislike most—adapting to the times, perhaps that's how it is; but over time the mask becomes the true self.'

Lin Xiyan looked at him and asked again: 'Why else have you come here?' 'Perhaps it's so I can still turn back, become my true self.' Feng Yan replied, 'Don't worry, I'm still me; no matter how I change, as long as I hold to my original intention, this person remains the original one.' Then he added, 'By the way, what do you think of a pastoral life?' Lin Xiyan pondered and said: 'That's a wonderful way of life—no involvement in worldly strife, no pursuit of fame or profit, naturally there aren't many sordid things happening.' Feng Yan nodded and said: 'I used to think the same, but later events made me realize that while the pastoral life is indeed beautiful, we still need to walk through the world; that is the proper path. Only by seeing the world's filth can we appreciate how hard‑won its beauty is. I always thought I had no special talent; if I had to claim one, it would be my poor grades, the most frequent talks with the homeroom teacher, teachers making home visits and forcing me to smile while promising to reform. Now I understand these are also a kind of trial, or perhaps a tempering—realizing that others only look at your results, not your struggles; when you succeed they'll say, 'This kid's got it,' and if not, the opposite. That's how people talk, and we are just their after‑dinner chatter.'

Lin Xiyan looked at Feng Yan and finally understood: the boy before her was beginning to awaken, constantly gaining insight, grasping the truth of the world, and she also smiled, saying: 'You've always had this talent—seeing through the essence of things.' Feng Yan startled, then understood, and laughed: 'Then let's go.'

Feng Yan understood that the pastoral life is an ideal way of living that only becomes clear after one has endured the world's corruption.

Lin Xiyan and Feng Yan laughed together as they returned home, and Feng Yan thought: 'Well then, it's time to begin.'