It was nine o’clock on the morning of September 17, 2013, in Nanling.
The subway car pulled into the station, bustling with the morning rush hour. Every seat was occupied, leaving Tang Manwen no choice but to grip a vertical pole.
Seizing the opportunity, Qin Zixin slyly wrapped her arm around Tang Manwen’s other arm.
Beautiful women invariably drew attention.
This was especially true when two peerless beauties, each captivating in her own distinct way, nestled close together.
Qin Zixin whispered a string of risqué jokes, making her cousin Tang Manwen quiver with laughter.
The mischievous girl’s hand, not content with merely holding an arm, stealthily snaked around Tang Manwen’s waist.
One, gentle and serene as water; the other, pure yet alluring as a lotus.
The two young women, in the flush of their youth, laughed and teased, their vibrant energy a truly delightful sight.
Such an embrace of beauty by beauty created a visual impact far exceeding the sum of its parts.
In a future era, when ‘otaku culture’ became a mainstream fashion statement, seeing two beautiful girls nestled together would likely prompt self-proclaimed anime fans in the comment sections to loudly proclaim bizarre phrases like ‘Yuri Saikou!’ [Yuri is the best!].
Even though Qin Zixin harbored genuinely unhealthy thoughts towards her cousin.
However, it was 2013.
China still teetered on the edge of conservatism, with the pervasive societal belief that love existed solely between men and women.
At that time, ‘lily’ was simply a common flower name, devoid of any deeper, more suggestive connotations.
“Xinxin, has Brother Feng arrived yet?”
Tang Manwen noticed Qin Zixin checking her phone, and a faint flicker of anticipation sparked within her, assuming a message from Qin Zhifeng.
“He’s driving, and he just told me he’s stuck in traffic. He probably hasn’t even left Zhonglou District yet.”
“Oh.”
Tang Manwen’s voice stretched out, imbued with a hint of disappointment.
“Sis, how are things going with that dead fatso?”
“Wenjin is only a little bit chubby; you shouldn’t call people ‘dead fatso’ all the time.”
Tang Manwen’s expression stiffened, her gaze flickering away.
Qin Zixin observed all of this, a trace of bewilderment clouding her own thoughts as she struggled to decipher what the girl was truly thinking.
[System, what’s with this girl?]
[What do you mean ‘what’s with her’?]
[I mentioned that fatty Liu Wenjin, and she seemed pretty unwilling to engage.]
[Just gossip away. See if you’d be willing to ‘engage’ if someone asked about your relationship with Yang Qichao.]
[How could that happen? Chaozi told me last time he was thinking of taking the Gaokao early. He said it feels like three or four students in the ‘rocket class’ will be leaving early next semester.]
[What are you dodging for? I asked about you and Yang Qichao. Why are you talking about taking the Gaokao early? Do you want to go too?]
[Pah! I don’t have the brains for that. I meant, once Chaozi goes to university, won’t I be free to say whatever I want?]
Qin Zixin remained utterly unfazed.
Given her figure and looks, she had long grown accustomed to baseless rumors, finding it simpler to brazenly acknowledge a relationship with some boy and be done with it.
Upon reaching Anjihui Lake Station, Qin Zixin was led off the train by Tang Manwen, following the bustling crowd.
More than half of the subway passengers had been tourists heading to Anjihui Lake.
In previous years, few people visited Anjihui Lake during the Mid-Autumn Festival, but ever since the Anjihui Lake Station was completed, the number of tourists had surged.
Nanling was a city of many hills.
The moment Qin Zixin stepped out of the subway station, her eyes were met first by a continuous stretch of low hills nearby, and then, further in the distance, by several unnamed green mountains.
The low hills were part of Mount Tang, generally ranging from two to three hundred meters in elevation.
They had remained nameless until the Northern Song Dynasty, when a Qingliang Temple was built upon one, subsequently christening it Mount Qingliang.
Mount Qingliang was predominantly covered in ginkgo trees, many of them ancient, centuries-old specimens.
In autumn, their leaves transformed into a dazzling golden hue.
As the ginkgo fruits had not yet ripened, there was no irritating stench, making the scenery truly delightful.
The distant high mountains, exceeding a thousand meters in elevation, were typically adorned with cedar trees at Nanling’s latitude.
Even in the depths of winter, they remained vibrantly green.
At the subway station exit, Tang Manwen waved to a boy in a plaid shirt.
Upon seeing her, he hastily jogged over.
The boy appeared to be roughly the same height as Tang Manwen, who stood a little over 1.7 meters.
From a distance, he looked like a fair-skinned, plump young man, his weight easily equivalent to one and a half Tang Manwens.
Tang Manwen’s face flushed crimson.
As Liu Wenjin approached, she instinctively straightened up, standing tall and graceful.
‘Damn, this guy got even fatter.’
As Liu Wenjin drew nearer, Qin Zixin’s face visibly fell at the sight of his bloated, round features.
“Wenjin, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. Here! This is some fruit tea I made.”
Tang Manwen retrieved a small thermos from her bag and offered it to him with both hands.
Liu Wenjin, holding the thermos in both his, simply beamed a foolish grin at Tang Manwen.
“I just arrived myself. I was just admiring the catalpa tree in the courtyard; there’s even a segment of a branch with a red string from a previous dynasty.”
“Oh? That old? It must be at least sixty years old then.”
“Yes, I think it’s from the eleventh year of the Republic of China, which makes it a full ninety-seven years old now. Hey, Qin Zixin, what’s with that expression? And you’re even wearing the same outfit as me, all messy and drab.”
Liu Wenjin spotted Qin Zixin standing behind Tang Manwen, glaring at him with an unfriendly expression.
He was about to retort with some sarcasm, completely disregarding her, but then he noticed Qin Zixin’s rumpled plaid shirt and couldn’t help but change the subject.
“Damn you, dead fatso! Who’s wearing the same outfit as you? The colors are clearly different! And you, from a landlord’s family, why are you dressed so shabbily?”
Qin Zixin gritted her teeth in fury.
“It’s not the same! This is an American West Coast trendy brand, understand? Do you grasp this ‘hip-hop’ vibe?”
With that, Liu Wenjin shivered slightly, his body like a blanched chicken, his face a picture of foolishness.
“Are you a ‘bro’? Why are you still trying to be hip-hop, you look like an idiot. Hey! Where are your eyes looking?”
Liu Wenjin’s eyes were fixed on the deep cleavage at Qin Zixin’s chest, only snapping back to attention when she spoke.
“You weren’t this big when I saw you last year, were you? What did you eat this past year to grow so much? Oh my goodness! I didn’t notice from afar just now.”
“What? Do I need your permission to develop?”
“No, it’s just that you never mentioned it! And you should look at the stuff you send me! This past year, everything you’ve sent has either been a gorilla eating poop or gay men using a showerhead to clean their butts. And you specifically send videos of that kind of stuff, always during dinner. Holy crap! I get it now! You’re not actually eating that stuff to get bigger, are you?!”
Qin Zixin’s breath hitched in fury, her ample chest playfully jiggling with each gasp.
Liu Wenjin’s eyes widened, his face flushing, yet his tongue remained sharp.
“Alright, I’ll stop teasing you. Look at my shoes! Aren’t they cool?”
Liu Wenjin stuck out his foot as if presenting a treasure, revealing a pair of red and black Nike shoes.
“Are you crazy?! Look at your big head, not your shoes. Sis, can you rein him in?”
“You’re the one who’s crazy! Do you know what these are? Nike Air Max! The originals!”
Qin Zixin was so exasperated she nearly laughed.
“Fatty Liu, are you really trying to be a ‘bro’? First ‘West Coast,’ now ‘swoosh shoes’—what, are you trying to fly to the heavens?”
“Why am I a ‘bro’? You’re being racist!”
“Have you ever heard what the KKK and swoosh shoes have in common?”
Qin Zixin tilted her head back, a mischievous, impish grin spreading across her face.
“What? Tell me.”
“They both make ‘bros’ run faster!”
Tang Manwen, who hadn’t understood a word, stared blankly.
She was still somewhat bewildered, having arrived only to witness the boy she was involved with arguing with her cousin about utterly inexplicable topics, like some encrypted slang.
Liu Wenjin, however, understood perfectly, and his face immediately crumpled in displeasure.
“Don’t you dare lecture me! Just give it up; you’re just jealous I’m wearing swoosh shoes, you’re spouting nonsense. Wenwen, keep your distance from this brat. I showed you the messages she sent me last time—none of them were fit for human eyes. Qin Zixin, now that I think about it, shouldn’t you be paying me for emotional damages? Every time you send that garbage during meal times, it completely ruins my appetite.”
“No appetite, yet you’re still this fat? I’d say you’re getting quite an appetite from watching, actually.”
Qin Zixin offered a cold, humorless smile.
Liu Wenjin, seething, was about to argue further, but the sight of Qin Zixin’s alluring face and the provocative swell of her chest dispelled his anger.
Liu Wenjin raised the thermos in his hand, took a sip, and immediately gagged.
“Sis, look at him! He’s disgusted by what you made for him!”
This time, it was Tang Manwen’s turn to feel embarrassed.
“Hey, you of the Liu surname, what does it taste like? Don’t throw up, tell us!”
Qin Zixin, ever one to enjoy a spectacle, grinned mischievously.
“It’s bitter, with dried lemon, and tea flavor, and some other fruit taste. That flavor is intense.”
“It’s dried mulberries, actually.”
Tang Manwen’s face turned as red as a monkey’s bottom.
“Spit it out quickly! You must have eaten rotten fruit! Hurry, hurry!”
Qin Zixin’s sweet voice was almost overflowing with malice.
“No, I won’t spit it out. Wenwen made this. It’s actually good if you drink it in big gulps, not small sips.”
With that, Liu Wenjin downed the entire thermos in one gulp, his expression on the verge of tears.
Qin Zixin couldn’t be bothered to tease him further.
She wanted to head into Qingliang Temple first to buy something to eat; they sold fried fish there.
After telling her cousin to wait for Qin Zhifeng, Qin Zixin stepped into the temple.
By nine o’clock, the sun’s rays, filtering through layers of leaves, cast a soft, hazy light into the courtyard.
Qin Zixin was the first to step into the courtyard.
The moment she entered, her eyes were immediately stung by smoke, bringing tears to her eyes.
She covered them with one hand, forcing herself to endure the discomfort as she proceeded.
Qingliang Temple was ancient and weathered.
Though called a temple, its architectural style clearly resembled a three-courtyard Suzhou-style mansion, albeit one dedicated to the ‘Old Man Under the Moon’ [the Chinese deity of marriage and love].
Within the courtyard, besides a catalpa tree growing at an almost thirty-degree angle to the ground, stood a stone incense burner, over three meters in diameter and roughly one meter deep.
It was filled with plant ash, unburnt incense sticks, and large piles of leaves.
The leaves, still damp, produced copious smoke when burned.
Burning catalpa leaves emitted an aroma akin to mugwort, but far more pungent.
The courtyard buzzed with activity.
Several children ran in circles around the tree, two even climbing its branches, while their parents stood nearby, capturing photos with digital cameras.
Qingliang Temple, with its intermittent history spanning over eleven hundred years, bore countless marks of time.
The Northern Song Dynasty left behind only the temple’s name and a bronze bell.
The groves planted during the Yuan Dynasty had long since withered away.
The Ming Dynasty bequeathed the stone incense burner and Buddha statues, while the Qing Dynasty undertook extensive renovations, though its glazed tiles had now faded to a dull grey.
The Republic of China, however, proved to be the most useless era, only knowing how to be beaten and act as compradors, accomplishing nothing else of note.