Chapter 287: Meaningless Action

Then, A Xing pulled out from beneath a pile of coffee grounds and cigarette butts a comic weekly that was half soaked in sewage and whose cover was tattered.

"Weekly Shonen... a vessel of hot‑blooded passion, ultimately accompanied by caffeine residue and nicotine traces. This is the inevitable destination of spiritual nourishment materialized, a kind of amusing demoted metaphor."

Yan Feng Qili's eyebrows twitched.

Then, A Xing reached deeper and produced a lone knitted glove with a hole in it, as well as a half‑broken plastic toy sword.

"The solitary warm guardian, and the broken heroic dream. Both abandoned together. Perhaps their owner endured the growing pains, perhaps it was simply a loss. Yet their coexistence forms a silent allegory of growth."

Yan Feng Qili found that, involuntarily, as A Xing explained, they began to interpret the possible "stories" these scraps might carry?

This forced ascription of meaning to meaningless objects is absurd to the extreme, yet possesses a strange allure.

Much like the twisted curiosity he feels when watching others struggle in pain.

Finally, A Xing solemnly retrieved from the bottom of the bin an item—a filthy, color‑indistinguishable, limp thing that seemed to be the remains of a Doll rabbit, with only one ear left and a button eye missing.

She cradled the trash with both hands, turned toward Yan Feng Qili, and a glimmer seemed to flicker in her golden eyes.

"Look,"

Her voice carried a solemn reverence of a treasure discovered, "The ultimate form of a childhood illusion. Worn, incomplete, yet it exists here. Its journey ends here, or rather, reaches a stage. Only by exploring this can one grasp that the container holds not merely discarded things but a monument where countless paths converge. Every discovery is a tiny tribute to that trajectory."

Yan Feng Qili fell completely silent.

He looked at the unsightly thing in A Xing's hands, then at her face, which bore no hint of jest, only pure seriousness.

Reason String told him it was all nonsense, a forced association.

But something deeper—the void he could never satisfy through common sense, faith, or others' suffering—was lightly scratched by this absurd philosophy.

(Meaningless action... forcibly given complex explanations... the process itself venerated as a standard... )

(Isn't this another form of... )

He suddenly stepped forward a few paces, no longer content to be a bystander.

On the other side of the alley stood a slightly cleaner blue trash bin.

"Then,"

Yan Feng Qili spoke, voice still flat, but on close listening a faint ripple appeared, "What else might this container... hold?"

A Xing glanced at him, then at the blue bin, and nodded, as if approving the student's initiative.

"Practice is the only way to test possibility."

She said, "Need gloves? I have spares."

Yan Feng Qili shook his head, reached out directly, and, a bit stiffly, lifted the lid of the blue trash bin.

A not-strong but unmistakable foul odor assaulted his nose.

He furrowed his brow, but did not retreat.

He mimicked A Xing's manner and began rummaging.

First a few empty cans, then crumpled advertising flyers.

His movements were clumsy, devoid of grace.

A Xing observed from beside, offering timely "guidance": "Don't be impatient. Feel the textural differences upon contact. Pay attention to layers; the surface is often blunt, the deeper requires patience."

Yan Feng Qili slowed his motions.

He felt a soft, damp object; pulling it out, it turned out to be a half‑inflated, stinky sock.

"... This, a remnant of the warm guardian?"

He subconsciously tried to apply A Xing's "theory".

"It can be read that way,"

A Xing nodded, "But it could also be an accidental residue of a hurried routine. The point lies in the moment you discover it and forge a connection with it."

Yan Feng Qili tossed the half‑sock aside and continued downward.

His fingers brushed a hard object; pulling it out revealed a rust‑spotted yet rather stylish old keychain bearing a vague puppy figure.

"The companion of a key, a symbol guarding a portal. Rust signifies replacement, oblivion. A tiny relic of loyalty."

He muttered, unaware that he was attempting to interpret.

As the rummaging continued, a strange emotion began to sprout in his perpetually hollow chest.

It was neither joy nor pain, but a kind of... curiosity of the unknown, and the fleeting illusion, as if grasping something tangible, when one "interprets" "meaning" according to some absurd Rule.

Much like watching another's suffering, that instant sense of existence is affirmed, only now the fuel shifts from their pain to the trash within the bin.

He even began to speculate, "Beneath this pile of newspaper... could be the corpse of information?"

He turned it over; indeed, more waste paper and fruit peels.

"Next to this bag of kitchen waste... perhaps hides the ultimate form of daily consumption?"

He pried it open and found a broken plastic hairpin.

Each discovery, no matter how trivial or even disgusting, under the forced‑operating "Garbage Bin Philosophy" filter seemed to acquire a quasi‑meaningful halo.

Yan Feng Qili's expression remained largely unchanged, yet his rummaging grew smoother, even tinged with a hint of focus.

A Xing crossed arms and watched beside him, nodding occasionally, like a teacher seeing a student improve.

After an indeterminate time, the sunlight shifted angle.

Yan Feng Qili finally halted, his hands stained with a few smudges, yet he seemed unfazed.

He looked at the chaotic surroundings of the trash bin he had explored, then at the results he had just unearthed—several worthless scraps.

However, his heart did not, as usual, plunge into deeper void immediately after the act.

Instead there was a subtle sense of having done something, having experienced something—a fleeting fulfillment, like an illusion.

He looked toward A Xing.

A Xing also stared at him, then, deliberately removed the glove, folded it carefully, and placed it back into the small pouch.

"That's about it."

A Xing said, "Exploration must have limits; excess will rob the fresh feeling of discovery. The remaining possibilities are left for the next time, or for other 'Pioneer'."

Yan Feng Qili silently nodded.

He looked at A Xing's Calm, unruffled face, recalling her earlier absurd yet somehow self‑consistent remarks, and his own brief, strange immersion in them.

This girl…

He suddenly stepped back, hands hanging at his sides, and, facing A Xing, extremely formally—bowed.

"Thank you very much."

Yan Feng Qili's voice still had little inflection, but his wording was oddly solemn, "Your… guidance has given me… new Cognition."

He straightened up, those hollow eyes fixed on A Xing, saying word by word:

"…teacher."

A Xing: "…?"

But she quickly regained Calm, nonchalantly nodded, as if accepting the address.

She thought for a moment, pulled a small stone of unknown origin from her pocket, and handed it to Yan Feng Qili.

"A souvenir." She was concise.

Yan Feng Qili solemnly took the cold little stone with both hands, as if receiving a relic.

He glanced at the stone, then at A Xing, bowed again: "I will keep it properly, teacher."

"Hmm."

She responded, then turned and walked toward the other end of the alley, to seek the next container radiating possibilities, leaving Yan Feng Qili alone standing in place, looking at the two overturned trash cans, thoughtful.

The winter wind blew through the alley, stirring up a few scraps of waste paper.

Yan Feng Qili lifted his hand, looked again at the stone in his hand and the slight stain on his fingertip; deep within those hollow eyes, some indescribable thing seemed to be gently stirred.