Chapter 23 – Youth

Qin Yuezhang could no longer remember exactly when he first met Wei Qinzhou.

They had been very close friends as children, living in the same neighborhood. His mother was a typical career-driven woman, always on the frontlines of journalism, wielding her sharp pen to win every prestigious news award.

It’s often said that behind every successful man, there’s a successful woman. But many men aren’t willing to simply stay in the shadows of a successful woman, remaining unnoticed.

So, when Qin Yuezhang was seven or eight years old, his parents peacefully divorced, each pursuing their own life’s purpose. Still, they were responsible parents, making sure to arrange regular reunions with him.

The reason Qin Yuezhang and Wei Qinzhou became such good friends was simple—Wei Qinzhou was also from a single-parent household.

Kindred spirits.

Once, while playing at Wei Qinzhou’s house, Qin Yuezhang casually asked about his father. Wei Qinzhou’s mother happened to be present and merely smiled, saying, “Xiao Wei’s dad? Oh, he was a small-time cop who died in the line of duty.”

At this, Wei Qinzhou would always frown seriously and retort, “That’s not true! My dad isn’t dead! See that set of The Legend of the Condor Heroes? My dad just bought it for me!”

Mrs. Wei would shrug helplessly, giving Qin Yuezhang a look that said, You understand.

But Qin Yuezhang didn’t understand at all. If Wei Qinzhou’s father was dead, why did Wei Qinzhou refuse to acknowledge it? And if he was alive, why had no one ever seen him?

Wei Qinzhou had another quirk that set him apart.

While other boys obsessed over Naruto, Ultraman, and Captain America, Wei Qinzhou had an old-fashioned love for martial arts.

He read The Assassins’ Chronicles and devoured Jin Yong’s complete works. He collected trading cards of all the martial arts heroes from TV shows and novels, lining them up and counting them over and over, memorizing each hero’s exploits. He jotted down martial arts techniques and painstakingly copied classic quotes into notebooks, often cramming them into his essays—even when they made no sense.

“A true hero is one who serves his country and his people!”

Wei Qinzhou loved brandishing his custom-made sword-shaped umbrella, twirling it in the air with a few passable “sword flourishes” while imagining himself as a peerless martial arts hero, righting wrongs and defending the weak.

Saving the people from suffering, propping up a crumbling nation, then vanishing without a trace—leaving no name behind.

Just thinking about it thrilled him.

Qin Yuezhang, however, found it all just noisy.

Xu Anran.

Yes, he had always been strange.

On the train, he had been a train attendant, but now, he had become a volunteer teacher in the teaching team.

Gu Lanshan said, “Man, our boss is amazing! I’m so jealous of those senior technicians like him!”

“Senior technicians?”

“Yeah. Ordinary technicians like me—if we can’t find the Anchor Point, we can easily get lost in Snowscape. So, every mission needs a senior technician to act as a ‘guide.’ If we can’t locate the Anchor Point on our own, they’ll bring it right to us.”

I understood now. No wonder he could integrate into the dream, just like Yan Ru, with a perfectly plausible identity.

“But how the senior technician ‘guides’ us, why they don’t get lost in Snowscape—that’s core technology, and I haven’t been cleared for that yet.”

I couldn’t resist mocking him. “Weren’t you the one who bragged about being a ‘golden technician’ earlier?”

Gu Lanshan immediately bristled, fiercely defending his dignity. “I am Weiyao Technology’s technician with the highest success rate! Companies have to train employees step by step, don’t they? Who just lays all their cards on the table right away?”

I nodded. “Fine, golden technician.”

I thought back to every interaction with Xu Anran on the train—how he had always smiled with a gentle warmth, like a real train attendant.

He was far more troublesome than Gu Lanshan.

My one and only advantage right now was that none of them knew about Qin Yuezhang and me swapping identities. I had to carry out my plan within this timeframe.

Otherwise, they wouldn’t give me another chance—I might never get near Blizzard again.

When entering Blizzard’s simulated dream space, you only retained the coded memories loaded by Blizzard. Only by touching the Anchor Point could you awaken your true consciousness.

I had already found the first Anchor Point I had designed—the bloodstained glutinous rice cake—and completed the first step. But I didn’t even know what the second Anchor Point was.

He had only told me that the second Anchor Point was something my subconscious deemed the least likely to appear. Supposedly, this was to protect the technicians working in Blizzard’s dream space, preventing their full consciousness from awakening and causing accidents.

But if it was something my subconscious believed would never appear, how could it appear in the dream? It was a total contradiction.

No rush. If I couldn’t pry anything out of Gu Lanshan, maybe Xu Anran would tell me.

The morning assembly had ended, and students were trickling back to their classrooms. A few stragglers loitered at the back, roughhousing while leering at the girls ahead, whispering among themselves before bursting into loud laughter.

“Come on, let’s go find the boss!” Gu Lanshan said, tugging at my arm to chase after Xu Anran.

But up ahead, Yan Ru stood waiting for me.

I pulled free from Gu Lanshan. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up later.”

Gu Lanshan’s gaze flicked between Yan Ru and me before nodding. “Alright.”

As the crowd thinned, Yan Ru asked, “Are you and Gu Lanshan keeping something from me?”

I stiffened, feigning nonchalance. “Why would you think that?”

“The way he looks at me—his eyes dart away, he glances to the right involuntarily, and his smile is stiff.”

I said, “Then ask him. I don’t know.”

Yan Ru’s expression darkened. Just as he was about to say something, a worn-out basketball flew out of nowhere and smacked into the back of his head.

Thud!

Caught off guard, the basketball bounced limply to the ground, hopping twice before rolling to a stop at my feet.

Like a severed head after a swift blade.

Yan Ru turned to face the group of laughing boys. The leader—tall and lanky—stood with his hands on his hips, smirking. “Hey, you… murderer’s kid. Bring the ball back.”

His cronies erupted in laughter, some pointing at Yan Ru as if mocking a stray dog no one wanted.

I once read that when you face hardship, you should endure it. Because years later, when you look back, you’ll realize the boat has long passed the mountains—those hardships won’t matter anymore.

Their jeers echoed in my mind, swirling like embers flaring back to life.

But that boat never made it past the mountains. It was still trapped in the whirlpool, doomed for eternity.

Before anyone could react, before Yan Ru could respond, I lunged forward and punched the boy in the eye.

“Ah!”

The boy staggered back, clutching his eye while the other glared at me with venom.

His gaze was so hateful that Yan Ru stepped between us, shielding me in case the boy retaliated.

Looking at Yan Ru’s back, I felt a pang of sorrow.

I expected the boys to charge at us, but they didn’t. Instead, they pointed at Yan Ru and me, hurling threats before huddling together and running off.

The one I’d hit turned back with a sinister glare. “Yan Ru, you little bastard, calling in backup? Sun Danhao remembers this. Just you wait—I’ll make sure you regret it!”

Once they were gone, Yan Ru turned to me. “Why did you hit him?”

I asked, “Aren’t you angry?”

Yan Ru shrugged, “Not particularly. Besides, isn’t that exactly what they wanted?”

Fair point. Only those truly stung would lash out.

“Let’s head back to class.” Yan Ru slung an arm over my shoulder, pulling me along.

I let him drag me a few steps before noticing his ears had turned bright red.

I had no idea—nor any interest—in what he was thinking. That thought resurfaced in my mind.

Back in the interrogation room, he had looked down on me with cold detachment, judging my ruthlessness and madness from his lofty perch.

Now, the tables had turned. Let him experience the youth I had lived through.

What choice would he make then?