Chapter 193: I

National Highway 107 is the busiest arterial road in Zhonghuajia, connecting Beijing in the north to Pengcheng in the south, appearing as a thick red line on every published map.

But in reality, this thick red line varies in width and road condition—some sections are worse than blue provincial roads or green county roads, even consisting of nothing but gravel.

Many of these road conditions make even long-haul truck drivers groan, let alone new drivers.

Hao Jian is a textbook new driver, having held his license for less than half a year, a true greenhorn on the road.

Yet when he decided to drive from Pengcheng northward along Highway 107 for two thousand li, he felt no dread—only excitement.

Going home—his first return in fourteen years, and in his own "small sedan"—filled him with uncontainable joy.

As for the legendary terrible road conditions on Highway 107, Hao Jian dismissed them as trivial.

Because the vehicle Hao Jian drove wasn't a sedan at all—it was an SUV.

Before Pengcheng Seventh Factory allocated him a purchase quota for an imported car, Hao Jian had quietly schemed, cultivating connections with relevant personnel to secure an imported vehicle with "strong off-road capability."

By 1982, Zhonghuajia had begun mass-importing Japanese cars, and the exceptional off-road performance of Mitsubishi and Toyota SUVs stunned a populace long accustomed to the Beijing 212.

Could there really be such an advanced jeep? Climbing mountains and traversing rough terrain as if on flat ground, and riding inside it was even more comfortable than in a Volga?

So Hao Jian had long dreamed of buying a Mitsubishi or Toyota to drive all the way back to his hometown.

But many others shared his desire—every unit wanted a Land Cruiser or Pajero, yet there were so few quotas, how could they possibly be distributed? Especially since Pengcheng Seventh Factory was a tiny outfit.

In the end, what landed in Hao Jian's hands was a compact Soviet-made off-roader—the Lada Niva.

The friend who pulled strings to get him the car felt a bit embarrassed, so he went all out praising its rugged off-road abilities:

"Full-time four-wheel drive, center differential lock, capable of climbing mountains and crossing seas, once stuck in a ditch, a stomp on the accelerator gets you out—no matter how far you go, it won't fail."

Hao Jian wasn't disappointed at all—after all, the money for one Land Cruiser could buy three or four Ladas.

Though Pengcheng Seventh Factory had funds and Li Ye had granted Hao Jian full financial autonomy, spending six figures on a car that couldn't haul cargo still pained him deeply.

This Lada Niva was just right—not too heavy, not too light; its two-door, five-seat design looked striking, and crucially, it could reach 130 km/h with fuel consumption under ten liters per hundred kilometers. With two extra fuel drums, it could cover over a thousand kilometers in one go—perfect for Hao Jian's needs.

After the new car was registered, it was already the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth lunar month; Hao Jian wasted no time, loading his wife and child onto the road home.

It turned out the "friend" hadn't exaggerated too much—though the Lada Niva got stuck multiple times over the thousand-plus kilometer journey, four-wheel drive was four-wheel drive: step on the gas hard, and most times it freed itself.

Once, truly stuck, Hao Jian nervously went to a village by the roadside for help—and encountered none of the rumored road bandits or hostile locals; before he'd even finished handing out two packs of cigarettes, a group of kind souls pushed his car free.

But with all the stopping and starting, the thousand-plus kilometers took two days to complete; only deep into New Year's Eve did Hao Jian finally reach Jiangcheng.

Watching the pitch-black night outside, Hao Jian's wife, An Xiaolian, softly said: "Husband, why don't we stay in Jiangcheng tonight and head to Xiaocheng tomorrow? Look at your eyes—they're bloodshot, almost scary."

Hao Jian, struggling to keep driving, replied offhandedly: "We're already in Jiangcheng—what's another hundred li? I'll get there with two stomps on the gas."

An Xiaolian glanced at his messy hair and stubborn, irritated eyes, then urged again: "It's nearly eleven. Even if we get there today, your parents will be asleep."

"Even if they're asleep, I'll wake them up," Hao Jian grinned, baring his teeth. "I'll wake them all up so they can see what their useless son has become—and see how beautiful and lively our little Cuicui is."

An Xiaolian fell silent for a long while, then spoke gently: "Let's rest one day in Jiangcheng. You're too anxious now—you might say something foolish when you meet your parents."

"Who said something foolish? Who are you calling foolish?"

Hao Jian slammed on the brakes, stopping the car dead in the middle of the road.

"What foolishness? Don't I have the right to ask them? Why were they so cruel? Why refuse to recognize Cuicui? I'm their own son!"

Seeing her husband bring up old grievances again, An Xiaolian snapped: "Enough! Cuicui's illness is cured now—I've let it go. What's left for you to resent?"

"If you want to rant, go rant by yourself—don't wake the child. She's been jolted for two days on this ride, threw up twice already. As a father, you don't care at all."

"And ask yourself honestly—is this frantic drive really about fighting with your father and mother?"

"I—I just want to ask…"

Hao Jian froze under An Xiaolian's question, mumbling twice in confusion, then fell silent.

For years, Hao Jian had held a deep, suffocating resentment.

When his daughter Cuicui fell ill and needed money to survive, he wrote home begging for help.

His father quickly sent him 120 yuan, along with a letter.

The letter said the 120 yuan came from selling Hao Jian's older brother's bicycle.

Hao Jian immediately mailed the money back—how could his father, earning forty yuan a month, not afford a few yuan a month for his granddaughter's medicine? Why sell a bicycle?

So Hao Jian concluded his father was silently telling him: "Our family has too many children; forty yuan must be split eight ways—it's not enough. A girl child? If she can be cured once, cure her. If not, we can't afford to fill the hole."

From his father's perspective, it was an unavoidable decision—Hao Jian had four siblings, plus parents, a grandmother to support, and over a dozen grandchildren and nieces/nephews. Forty yuan truly wasn't enough. But wasn't there still a hierarchy of urgency?

So Hao Jian held onto that resentment: he would treat his daughter himself—even if she died, he'd bury her himself—and cut off all ties with home, never to return.

But once he started earning big money under Li Ye, the target of that resentment shifted.

Back at Qingshui County High School's gate, Hao Jian had vowed: he would return home driving his own sedan, showing his family that his "sickly daughter" wasn't a burden, but a golden phoenix they could never reach.

So the very day he bought the Lada Niva, he sped northward, returning home in glory.

A new driver, driving over a thousand kilometers alone—how exhausting it must have been.

And what drove Hao Jian through all that hardship—was it truly deep-seated hatred?

Hao Jian himself hadn't realized his feelings had changed. The resentment in his heart had grown fainter as he neared home, while another emotion grew stronger.

But as his closest companion, how could An Xiaolian not notice?

In the end, Hao Jian and his family stayed at a hotel in Jiangcheng.

Lying on the hotel bed, he tossed and turned, unable to sleep, faces flashing before his eyes.

Fourteen years had passed, yet those faces remained crystal clear—voices, smiles, expressions as vivid as yesterday.

…

On the first day of the New Year, Hao Jian overslept.

"Xiaolian, why didn't you wake me?"

Hao Jian checked his watch, leapt up, and hurriedly pulled on his clothes and shoes.

After a thousand-li journey home, exhausted from sleepless nights, it was already noon.

An Xiaolian said nothing, only gave her daughter a glance.

Hao Cuicui timidly stepped to her father's side, reaching out small hands to help him button his shirt and tie his shoelaces.

Hao Jian's gruff expression melted into a smile. "My little Cuicui is so good. Dad can do it himself—have you eaten?"

Hao Cuicui nodded. "Mom and I ate first. I said to wake you up for breakfast, but Mom said let you sleep until you're rested before we drive on."

"Dad's rested—we're driving now."

The doting father scooped up his daughter, rubbing his stubbly cheek against hers, then headed out to the car.

Hao Cuicui whispered softly: "Dad, you have to eat first, or you won't have energy to drive."

"Dad will eat at home. I'll tell you—your grandma's cooking is delicious."

Watching her husband carry their daughter out of the hotel, beaming, An Xiaolian smirked slightly, then followed behind with a smile.

She didn't point out his changed expression—over the past two years, he'd become too erratic, too impulsive. Only after a night's sleep had he returned to normal.

It was a good thing.

The red Lada Niva sped on, finally entering Xiaocheng by afternoon.

"I used to take this road to school—ten years later, nothing's changed."

"Cuicui, look—that's where Dad went to school. The third tree from the left still has my carving—I'll take you to see it later."

"Who built that new house? Why block the road? Such a lack of public decency."

As he neared home, Hao Jian grew more and more like a restless chatterbox—muttering nonstop, stomping the gas harder, honking the horn "beep-beep-beep," scaring chickens, startling dogs, and making everyone dodge out of his way.

Hao Jian had been sent down to the countryside at seventeen, enduring years with no hope of returning to the city, before marrying An Xiaolian, a village beauty.

Before marriage, he had no means to visit home; after marriage, he stayed away out of spite. Now, altogether over a decade had passed—would it be normal if he didn't act this way?

Fortunately, in 1983, there were almost no cars on the road; everyone heard the horn and scrambled aside. The hit-and-run industry hadn't yet taken off—otherwise, Hao Jian's driving style would've left him stranded in some ditch by now.

Hao Jian reached the northern part of town and saw seven or eight children picking up dud firecrackers outside his family's gate.

Hearing the car horn, the eldest boy quickly herded the others to the front of their house, spreading his arms to shield his younger siblings' curious glances, letting Hao Jian's car pass.

But the red car stopped right in front of the boy.

Then out stepped a husband and wife, and a girl noticeably younger than the boy.

The children's eyes lit up instantly.

This girl was so beautiful—her two braids tied with colorful butterfly bows, white socks with little leather shoes, and her new clothes looked stylish.

But her face looked thin—probably like them, going days without meat.

The boy, gathering courage, asked: "Who are you looking for?"

Hao Jian looked at the boy's face and knew instantly—he was his older brother's son.

He grinned and said: "I'm looking for Jīwázi."

"."

The boy froze—Jīwázi was his father!

"Then who are you?"

"I'm your second uncle."

"Second uncle?"

"But the second uncle works the fields on Dongshan—how can a farmer drive a car?"

"Is he lying to kids?"

"Maybe—he's trying to trick you! I'm going to call Mama. Don't let him kidnap you!"

The children chattered in astonishment, completely oblivious to Hao Jian's awkward, amused expression.

Hao Jian pulled a stack of red envelopes from his suit pocket and waved them. "Come on, say 'Second Uncle,' and you each get a lucky red packet. First one to say it gets two!"

In Yangcheng, tradition placed great importance on auspicious signs—long ago, New Year's money was wrapped in red paper.

Unlike Dongshan, where in the 1980s people simply handed out cash openly—everyone could see how much was given. If you gave a child a five-yuan note, you were clearly prestigious; if you gave five fen, you had to slip it secretly.

Hao Jian's red envelopes were at least ten yuan each—very generous.

But the seven or eight children watched him warily, not one calling him "Second Uncle," leaving him thoroughly flustered.

An Xiaolian, watching her brilliant husband being outwitted by a group of children, smiled and whispered a few words to her daughter, Hao Cuicui.

Hao Cuicui struggled to open the car door and pulled out a pile of candies in all sorts of colors, then stood beside her father.

"So no one wants to call me Second Uncle? Then these candies'll go to other kids."

Hao Jian's car horn had blared so loudly it drew neighbors' children over too; seeing the variety of sweets and snacks, they all kept licking their lips.

Finally, the youngest girl looked at Hao Jian timidly and whispered, "Second Uncle, Happy New Year."

Hao Jian beamed, pulled a fifty-yuan red envelope from his pocket along with a bag of candy, crouched down, and asked with a smile, "Is your dad Hai Da Mao or San Wa Zi?"

The girl, her mouth full of candy, didn't look up. "My dad's Hai Da Mao."

"."

Hao Jian froze, his smile stiffening on his face—had he given this to the wrong kid?

He'd lost touch with his family for years; he didn't even know how many younger cousins had been born. This little girl was probably just a neighbor's kid who'd come along to play.

"Second… brother?"

A hesitant call made Hao Jian, crouched on the ground, lift his head.

Hao Jian looked up and saw a woman around twenty.

His memory flipped back, revealing the image of a little girl who used to cry.

The girl who'd taken the red envelope ran over and hugged the woman's leg, babbling incoherently.

Her mouth was stuffed with sweet candy; she couldn't form clear words.

But Hao Jian wiped his eyes and sighed, "You can't call me Second Uncle. You must call me Second Uncle by marriage."

(End of chapter)