Chapter 63: Memories of Winter

After Xu Yuan was taken away by the police, almost everyone turned their gaze toward Xu Chuyin backstage.

He wore a black jacket and a duckbill cap, standing there with a figure even more slender and refined than his brother’s, not shying away from the scrutiny of the crowd. The dark hat concealed his expression; from a distance, he stood in the shadows, his entire body enveloped in darkness. The shadows in the far corners seemed desperate to drag him into the abyss, but he neither fled nor showed a trace of fear, anxiety, or sorrow.

At that moment, he watched as his elder sister took the blame and faced the consequences. The woman’s eyes, full of blood and hatred, stared at him without mercy, but he did not flinch.

In this instant, Xu Chuyin displayed the most fundamental trait of a child born to a prominent family—calmness. He was calm enough to face countless darknesses in this world.

Just as he could help Xu Yuan commit crimes, he could also watch her take the fall without blinking.

Xu Yaocuan stepped forward, the scent of smoke lingering about him. He placed his hand on his younger brother’s shoulder and patted him gently.

Together, they looked toward the woman receiving her award on stage.

She stood atop the platform, admired by all, her talent shining brightly. Meanwhile, Xu Yuan had fallen from grace, despised by the masses, burdened with a criminal name, her life forever ruined.

What a remarkable comeback this was!

Xu Yaocuan’s lips curled into a smile, offering this assessment before he left.

At the pinnacle of selfishness and profit, a society devoid of warmth.

Blood kin tearing each other apart.

In this bustling world, all strive for fame and fortune.

Zhong Huayan stood bathed in light, cradling a bouquet of flowers. Everything felt like a dreamscape, with cheers echoing endlessly around her. Her gaze landed on Fu Yanyan in the front row. He did not exaggerate his gestures, nor did he speak, not even displaying much emotion, yet his presence was like an immovable mountain. It seemed that simply seeing him brought reassurance.

He appeared to be the pillar of stability for the entire capital.

She had yet to know if she was ranked first in the whole school; at this moment, the ranking no longer mattered.

Li Yanyan, did you see this?

Would you be as happy as I am?

And I... am I able to feel a hint of satisfaction?

Her lips curved upward. Usually reserved, her smile now bloomed radiantly, dazzlingly bright, more brilliant than ever before. Inside, she remained desolate and composed.

Clutching her bouquet, she walked backstage. Tomorrow was the next grade’s art festival performance.

Just as she was about to open the door, she seemed to bump into someone. Her hairpin fell to the ground with a clear sound—her hair tumbled down, cascading to her waist.

“Ah...”

“Sorry, cough...”

The man’s voice was warm and low, tinged with a gentle cough. He seemed sickly, like the last melting snow of spring, his eyelids barely lifting, his manner extremely reserved. He squatted to pick up the hairpin and handed it back to her. His hands were so clean and slender, paler and more delicate than the white pin itself.

Looking up, his gaze was as if brimming with tears, but upon closer inspection, he hid it away again. He was tall, yet frail and polite. Though simply dressed, his wrist bore a Hallucination watch worth millions. A graceful young gentleman, as refined as jade.

“Fang Wenjin?”

She recognized him—the young man who had just played piano at the opening ceremony.

“Yes, sorry, I was in a hurry. Did you get hurt anywhere?”

He was gentle, not at all arrogant.

“It’s all right, I should be the one apologizing—I walked too quickly.”

Just as she took the green hairpin, she heard the man cough, his hand pressed to his chest, the sound neither heavy nor light, yet he looked utterly exhausted.

“Are you... all right? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Zhong Huayan felt the collision hadn’t been that serious.

But seeing his poor health, his cough accompanied by shortness of breath, she hurried to pour him a cup of hot water.

He leaned against the backstage wall, his white clothes trembling slightly with each cough. “Come sit here, drink some water.”

He sat down, took out a box of medicine, slowly peeled it open, and swallowed the pills with the water.

“I’m fine, just a bit of a cold.”

“That’s good. I need to hurry back—someone’s waiting for me outside. Will you be all right on your own?”

Zhong Huayan was a little surprised. With his condition, why didn’t this young master have a servant or assistant to care for him?

“Your Kunqu performance just now was excellent.”

“Thank you. They all thought my dancing was better.”

“The dance, I forget as soon as I see it. But that Kunqu piece—I haven’t forgotten it in five years.”

Her hands paused as she packed her things. She looked up at him.

Fang Wenjin seemed about to speak, tears welling up before words could form. His face was calm, but the tears slid down to his cheeks, his lips trembling as he finally spoke.

“You don’t remember me?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

Zhong Huayan remembered.

In her memory, on that snowy winter night, the Zhong family’s celebration was in full swing—artificial fireworks and meteor showers, thousands of luxury cars, a grand banquet set with over a thousand tables, everywhere the famous Moutai brand. Snow fell on cigars, wisps of smoke dissolving in the winter garden.

That evening, after her performance, she saw a masked boy holding a pipa. The teacher was whipping him, each lash drawing red blood onto the snow. The masked boy wore only a thin shirt, likely just entered middle school, and because he played poorly, he was brutally beaten. His tears fell stubbornly, his gaze numb, his lips calm. That crying face etched itself in her memory.

She intervened.

She distracted the teacher, using a simpler teaching method to show him how to play that scene from "The Peony Pavilion."

It was then that Zhong Huayan learned Fang family’s young master suffered from asthma, tone-deaf, frail since childhood. The Fang family regarded it as a disgrace, so they always found a stand-in for the young master’s performances.

That masked boy, crying incessantly, was the young master’s stand-in.

Fate intervened—the night she indulged her love for chocolate, she had chocolate filling added to every cake at each table.

That, in turn, triggered the Fang young master’s asthma, and he died before the ambulance could arrive.

At that time, the Fang young master was already terminally ill, so the family did not pursue the matter.

Initially, when she heard the name Fang Wenjin, she did not associate it with the Fang family, for in her memory, that child had already passed away.

But the Fang Wenjin before her, with that crying expression, reminded her of the masked stand-in!

Could it be that to secure their status, the Fang family supported a lookalike stand-in?

“You... look so much like her, even your singing is alike. Others can’t tell, but I can—you have the same transitions…”

“Singing is just singing; many people have similar styles.”

She ignored Fang Wenjin’s plea, packed her things, and left.

If she had died, it was best that it remained so forever; there was no need for anyone to be overly persistent.

Persistence itself is a cruel denial.

He watched the woman’s retreating figure, began coughing again, and silently tapped a message on his phone. Several bodyguards came to assist him.

“Young master, she’s already gone far.”

He came back to himself—what a pity—how could they have exchanged only a few words?