Chapter 8: The Aftermath

After leaving the principal’s office, Cheng’s lips curled in a subtle smile. Speak as people expect when facing people, speak as ghosts expect when facing ghosts—this too falls under the category of intelligence. Some scientists attribute social skills, including the ability to get along harmoniously with others, to emotional intelligence, but that’s a mistake; communication and language ability are also components of intellect. The more thought that goes into a sentence before it’s spoken, the more appropriate it will be, and the more likely it is to achieve its intended effect.

Every utterance has a purpose—be it a request, persuasion, or at the very least, an expression of emotion or opinion. Requests require sincerity; persuasion demands sufficient reasoning to move the listener. The method of expression is all a matter of skill. Everyone plays different roles in society, sometimes several at once. Between any two roles in conversation, there are differences in position and status; closeness of relationship and temperament must also be considered. What’s said must not only serve one’s own aims but also take into account how the other party will feel upon hearing it, and even anticipate their possible responses.

Cheng had anticipated every reaction from the portly principal. By placing a figurative laurel on his head, he confined the principal to the role of a “kind-hearted, humane headmaster”—leaving no room for him to adopt a stern or unyielding persona. Then, by invoking his own background and the principal’s excessive actions, he drew out emotion: a sweet, innocent-faced boy, looking up with wide, trusting eyes—“Principal! Thank you! You’re a good person!” Could the principal possibly deny it?

During the second period in the afternoon, the sunlight outside the corridor windows remained dazzling. The class having P.E. monopolized the hoop in the shade, playing in high spirits. With only three P.E. classes a week, they were a rare beacon of hope for students slogging through endless exercises. On the other side of the corridor were the first-year junior classes; the second period in the afternoon was usually not a core subject, and it was still rare for first-year teachers to claim non-core classes, yet the faces inside were still drawn and weary.

Outside, students played and laughed; inside, the classrooms echoed with recitation. On the surface, the campus was harmonious, yet underneath, unseen currents surged. Where there are people, there are rivalries. The struggles of school life are beyond adult comprehension. From the instant his fist landed on Zhang Peiyue’s face, things would never be peaceful again.

The sun was shining, a gentle breeze was blowing—a perfect day to skip class.

There was no need to overthink it: after taking a beating, Zhang Peiyue would never let it go. If he didn’t leave now, after school he’d face a gang lying in wait for him, and if they caught him this time, it would be unpleasant. In the world of schoolyard feuds, the key is to keep your footing.

Outside of dismissal times, students were not allowed to leave the premises; the gatekeeper required registration and a valid reason. Of course, those driving cars were exempt—by the gatekeeper’s logic, anyone with a good car was a good person. Although Cheng was built like an adult, anyone could see he was just a teenager. So, quite naturally, the diligent guard stopped him.

“What’s your business outside? Do you have a leave slip?”

A slip wasn’t strictly necessary; if sent by a teacher, a simple registration would suffice.

“I’m skipping class. No leave slip.”

The honest gatekeeper was taken aback. “Kid, do you have to be so blunt? If you’re skipping class, shouldn’t you climb the wall?”

“Skipping class is already wrong. If I add wall-climbing, wouldn’t that be wrong on top of wrong?” Cheng didn’t even slow his pace; as he spoke, he’d already stepped out, turning back only as an afterthought.

The gatekeeper was left dumbfounded. It actually made sense—he had no retort.

...

Hongxing County was a remote, small county, and Dongfeng Town was the most out-of-the-way town within it. The rapid advance of the times seemed to have bypassed this little corner; compared to big cities, the town retained the original look and feel of the 1980s and 90s. It was only in recent years, with urbanization, that age-old memories began to change.

A winding river, called Siyuan, divided the town in two—one side called Hedong, the other Hexi. At its deepest, the river was barely one and a half meters—perfect for children to play in during the summer. This river was the backdrop for most of Cheng’s childhood memories. It seemed that not long after disaster struck at home, the river’s water turned murky, and now almost no one dared bathe in it; a single plunge would have you breaking out in itchy, painful red bumps that wouldn’t go away for days.

A small bridge connected Hedong and Hexi. As the main thoroughfare, it became the most bustling part of town. On the Hedong side was the old Hongxing Market, now converted into a department store, though the name remained unchanged. On the Hexi side stood Cheng’s former home, now the site of the town’s only upscale residential complex—“Riverside Garden.” With the new development, two rows of willows were planted along the riverbank, making it a pleasant spot for leisure and shade.

Cheng’s home was on the Hedong side; he crossed the bridge daily. His grandmother used to sell candied fruit nearby, but now, to make more money, she cycled all the way to the county seat, sometimes returning late at night. The thought of her hardship always left Cheng uneasy. He hadn’t dared think about it before, but now, he felt he might be able to shoulder some of the burden.

Beneath the willows by the river, a chess stall caught Cheng’s attention.

It wasn’t exactly a scam, just the usual “solve the endgame” challenge. Already, a small crowd had gathered around. The rules were simple: ten yuan for a chance to challenge, the stall owner set up a chess endgame, red moves first, black second, and the challenger could choose either side. If the challenger could beat the owner, he’d win a hundred yuan; if he lost or drew, the challenge was deemed a failure.

The position was clear: black, moving second, was one step away from checkmating red, so red had to keep giving checks, using the initiative to checkmate black first. The owner had the solution committed to memory, so all challengers opted for red’s first move. At a glance, red seemed to have an absolute material advantage—the puzzle didn’t look that hard.

Cheng stood before the chess stall, running the scenario in his mind. The imagined Xiao Dao smiled faintly, taking the stall owner’s place, while Cheng played the challenger. They began their match.

This endgame, though seemingly simple, was actually quite cunning, with at least two or three traps lying in wait for unsuspecting challengers. If red advanced recklessly, hoping to clinch victory on the right with a horse and cannon, after using the horse to check, instead of moving the general, black could capture the cannon and block the horse’s leg, turning defeat to victory. There were similar pitfalls in the center and on the left. Within a short time, Cheng and Xiao Dao had simulated the match dozens of moves deep, accounting for nearly every possible variation, and finally realized: it was a forced draw.

No matter whether you chose black or red, a single misstep would spell certain defeat; if both sides played flawlessly, a series of exchanges would lead inevitably to a draw. In other words, the owner had picked an unwinnable endgame for the challengers.

That hundred yuan would not be easy to earn!

But then again, isn’t life itself a complicated endgame? Why not take up the challenge?

———

Anyone here fond of Chinese chess?