Dragons begin with courage

"Mingfei, I heard you're going abroad to study?" The old man at the newsstand said, pushing up his reading glasses with his ink-stained fingers and glancing at Mingfei over the top of the lenses as he stacked the evening paper.

Lu Mingfei, who was flipping through a gaming magazine, didn't even look up when he heard this: "How could that be? My aunt was just messing around. I just filled out a few forms randomly, who would even look at me?"

He genuinely didn't understand his aunt's sudden "enthusiasm." He wasn't exactly a bad person, but he didn't have anything particularly impressive to offer either; his report card was downright embarrassing. Yet, he had no right to refuse. Perhaps his aunt just wanted an excuse to get his parents, who lived far away, to contribute more money; or perhaps she suddenly thought this nephew was quite resilient and suitable to test the waters for her precious son, Lu Mingze. Success would be a pleasant surprise, failure wouldn't matter—he could simply take the college entrance exam a year later, along with his cousin, and they'd both end up "reaching the same destination by different paths."

The replies he received were all pretty much the same, all polite and uniform: "Thank you for your application, but unfortunately..."

"Going abroad is great. You get a 'gilded' experience, and when you come back, you're a 'sea turtle' (a term for someone who has studied abroad and returned to China), and you make a lot of money," the old man sighed, his tone tinged with the envy of someone who had been there before.

"I don't want to make a lot of money," Lu Mingfei closed the magazine, looked up at the dappled sunlight filtering through the sycamore leaves, and squinted. "If I don't pass the exam, I'll help you run your stall. Just give me whatever you want, enough to buy me a PS2 game disc."

"You're hopeless!" the old man laughed and scolded. "How much can you make reading newsstands? I'm too old for that."

"I think it's great," Lu Mingfei said seriously. "I can sunbathe, daydream when no one's around, and watch pretty girls passing by."

He grinned at the old man, put the magazine back where it was, and turned to stroll towards the guardhouse next door.

"Uncle, do you have any letters from 'Mingfei Lu'? From America?" he asked, peering out the window.

The gatekeeper, engrossed in a magazine, didn't even look up when he heard this. He deftly pulled a manila envelope from a pile of letters and tossed it aside. "Here you go."

Lu Mingfei caught it; the touch between his fingertips was very thin. The faint expectation in his heart, one he himself didn't want to admit, was extinguished like a spark in the wind. Acceptance letters are always thick, filled with various forms, handbooks, and welcome messages. But rejection, a single sheet of paper is enough.

He clutched the envelope and walked to the shade of a tree next to the newsstand. The afternoon sun was just right, spreading out warmly and making the envelope gleam slightly.

tear-

He tore open the seal. The movement was casual, like tearing open a packet of instant noodles.

At that moment, sunlight pierced through the swaying shadows of the leaves, landing on the crisp, white letter paper that had just been drawn. The black-printed English was crystal clear. Lu Mingfei's gaze swept over the opening salutation, then the first line, the second line…

His fingers paused.

Even breathing seemed to pause for a moment.

The laziness and nonchalance on his face vanished quickly, like the receding tide, replaced by an almost blank, stagnant look. The sunlight was still warm, but he felt a chill in his fingertips.

This is not a rejection letter.

Almost simultaneously, behind the newsstand, the old man who had just been chatting with Lu Mingfei about "watching the stall and basking in the sun" slightly raised his eyelids. The kindness and worldly air on his face quietly faded, and his eyes became calm and focused. Without making a sound, he bent down and pulled a black Blackberry 9000 from under the counter piled with newspapers. The small keys made an almost inaudible sound under his fingers. He typed extremely fast and smoothly, completely contradicting the impression of being "old and slow."

The screen lights up, and a short message is sent:

He received it.

=================

At this time, in the United States.

A dull, rhythmic whooshing sound echoed through the empty room.

That was the sound of a blade tearing through the air. A figure, bathed in the cold white light cast by the training room's overhead lamp, repeated the monotonous motion of swinging a sword. Rise, fall, twist, rise again. Each movement was precise, as if measured with a ruler, carrying a resolute determination to cut through all hesitation. Sweat streamed down the taut muscles of his back, leaving deep streaks on his light-colored training uniform, dripping onto the floor and splashing into tiny watermarks.

His eyes remained fixed straight ahead, yet the depths of his pupils were empty, as if his gaze pierced through the wall and landed on some unreachable place, or perhaps, simply on his own endless loneliness.

If Lu Mingfei were here, he would definitely recognize this silent yet sharp face—Chu Zihang.

dong dong.

A soft knock sounded on the door.

The sword-wielding motion froze in mid-air, then smoothly came to a stop. Chu Zihang turned around and looked towards the doorway.

A girl in the Kassel College uniform stood there, with a capable demeanor and clear eyes; it was Susie.

"President," she said softly.

"Not yet," Chu Zihang calmly corrected, his voice slightly hoarse from the prolonged strenuous exercise.

A helpless smile flickered across Susie's face. After this year's president graduated, who in the Lionheart Club could compete with the person before her? The equally dazzling and capable Caesar Gattuso was already the student council leader. Having a freshman who had only been enrolled for a year succeed as president sounded like a fantasy, but Chu Zihang had accomplished the impossible in just one year. Now, the entire Lionheart Club couldn't even find another name with the courage and qualifications to stand up and say "I can."

She composed herself, stepped forward, and handed a document to Chu Zihang. "Your application," she paused, "has been rejected."

Chu Zihang's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. He put down the training knife in his hand and took the document. On the kraft paper cover, a bright red stamp was clearly visible—[Not Approved].

"Reason?" he asked, his voice still flat.

"There was no explanation." Susie shook her head.

"Hmm." Chu Zihang closed the file, his fingertips unconsciously stroking the rough paper.

A brief silence filled the training room. Only the soft breathing of the two individuals and the faint shouts of other students training in the distance could be heard.

"Chu Zihang," Susie said softly, looking at his profile which had returned to its indifferent state, "would you like... to go get something to eat together?"

This scene feels strangely familiar. Only, many years ago, in a classroom at Shilan Middle School, the girl who mustered the courage to extend the invitation was named Liu Miaomiao.

"No." Chu Zihang's answer was still concise and direct, leaving no room for negotiation, like the blade in his hand.

Susie seemed to have anticipated this outcome and wasn't too disappointed. She simply nodded, quietly left, and closed the door behind her.

The training room fell silent again, leaving only Chu Zihang. He walked to the wall, picked up his iPhone 3G from his coat pocket, unlocked it, and quickly tapped on the screen to dial a number.

"It's me," he said into the microphone, his voice exceptionally clear in the empty room. "My application to go to China has been rejected."

A calm response came from the other end of the phone, but the specific content was unclear.

"I understand." Chu Zihang replied with only three words before hanging up.

He didn't put down his phone immediately, but instead opened the web version of QQ. He logged in, and his friend list expanded—there was only one contact. The profile picture was grayed out, and the nickname was simply two words: Lu Mingfei.

The light from the screen illuminated his sharply defined face, and also the complex emotions that flashed across his eyes.

Fragments of that rainy night four years ago crashed into my mind without warning: the torrential rain, Deadpool's twisted howl, the desperate roar of the Maybach V12 engine, my father's blood-stained back, and... the intimidating gaze of a god.

And, in that final moment, a fleeting glimpse in the rearview mirror—the ghostly silhouette that appeared and disappeared silently in the back seat.