Chapter 087: Distinct from the Rest

In March of 2002, a heavy snowfall blanketed the streets of Hefei, covering everything in pristine white. Zhang Tan loved to sit in the music classroom, cradling his guitar, and perform the classic song "The First Snow of 2002" before his six classmates.

"The first snow of 2002 came later than ever before," he sang.
"The minibus parked at the door took away the last fallen yellow leaf."
"The first snow of 2002 lingered by the shores of Shuangfeng Lake, a tie hard to break."
"You are like a butterfly flitting to and fro, swaying in the season when snowflakes dance."
"I can never forget the feeling of holding you in my arms, warmer than the fire hidden in my heart."
"I forgot the fierce northern wind outside the window, once again overlapping tenderness and longing..."

The guitar suddenly grew passionate, Zhang Tan’s brows quirked as he teased the girl beside him, who was gazing at him with adoration, "Cover your ears, the next lyrics aren’t exactly suitable for children."

The girls giggled, covering their mouths. Amid their laughter, Zhang Tan’s clear voice soared through several scales: "It’s your red lips that have claimed my everything, your caring that ignites my passion again. Your endless tenderness melts the ice and snow, your sweet words change the season."

The song ended.

Applause erupted, lively and heartfelt, even though the audience was small. The girls were full of admiration, while the boys were consumed by envy.

One girl, chin cupped in her hands, acted cute, "Tan, did you really write this song yourself? Amazing!"

Another balled her fists, "It sounds so good."

A third, a little shy, said, "The song is great, the guitar’s great, and your singing is great too."

Zhang Tan felt a bit shameless, seeking vain glory in front of his classmates… but seeing the girls’ admiration was truly exhilarating.

He was proud at heart.

"Well, just a small attempt, wrote it casually," Zhang Tan admitted without hesitation that the song was his own. After all, that Daolang from another world couldn’t just come over and sue him.

The fourth girl, starry-eyed, joked, "Zhang Tan, you’re so handsome. I think I’m already in love with you."

"Ah, if being handsome is a crime, then I am beyond redemption," Zhang Tan replied, rubbing his chin and lips, a bit lacking in confidence.

He was sixteen this year, and the fuzz at the corner of his lips was about to become a mustache.

With the good nutrition over the past half year, his height had shot up, and so had the fuzz at the corner of his mouth. He was reluctant to shave it off. Since shaving only made it grow faster and thicker, he didn’t want to start using razors and shaving cream so young. Though in his previous life, his beard had always been thick, with the makings of a full beard, he still preferred to delay shaving for as long as possible.

He was still young, and everyone he met was like bean sprouts—he didn’t expect to find a girlfriend yet, so appearance wasn’t so important.

Besides, he was confident his talent could win over any girl.

At worst, the dark fuzz circling his lips could make him look more serious.

No beard, no gravitas; with beard, reliable!

It was a sign of maturity.

…

Life had been fulfilling lately for Zhang Tan. Aside from the beard hurting his image, everything was moving in a good direction.

The traditional Chinese edition of "The Four Great Constables Shake the Northeast" sold thirty-two thousand copies in Hong Kong and Taiwan, with three print runs, earning him a post-tax royalty of over 530,000 New Taiwan Dollars, which converted to more than 136,000 RMB. Of course, Fresh Culture hadn’t collected all the book payments yet, so his royalties would be delayed.

Before the deadline for the April issue of "Legend of Ancient and Modern Times: Martial Arts Edition", Zhang Tan managed to send in the sixty thousand-word first part of "Poison Hand". The royalties hadn’t increased, still 200 per thousand characters, earning him over ten thousand. Serializing in the magazine alone brought in monthly earnings of ten thousand, which was already quite impressive.

And most anticipated, the simplified Chinese edition was successfully signed. Hunan People’s Publishing House priced "The Four Great Constables Shake the Northeast" at 23.5 yuan each, with an initial print run of ten thousand, paying him a 6% royalty—14,100 yuan before tax, which he’d have to pay himself.

What Zhang Tan hated most was paying taxes—his hard-earned money!

And once the taxes were paid, his mother would call to demand the money, before it even warmed his pocket. His mother insisted it was for his future marriage fund.

"Getting married is a bit early; the legal age is twenty-two, another six years away."

"And who knows when I’ll meet someone suitable, someone who stirs my heart?"

"In my last life, I had a few short-lived relationships, none lasted a year. Apart from these hands, I can barely recall what any of my ex-girlfriends looked like. In this vast sea of people, will we ever meet again? Even if we did, there’s probably nothing more to learn—life is a multiple-choice question, choosing one means rejecting the other."

Sometimes, as he walked, Zhang Tan let his mind wander.

As the Swallow said, "Idle hands are still idle hands."

The sunlight after the snow was lovely, but as the snow melted, the air grew bitterly cold, freezing his hands.

Zhang Tan hurried toward the classroom, and on the way, he ran into Liu Luyao walking alone.

"Hello," Zhang Tan said, hands in pockets, textbook tucked under his arm, casually.

Liu Luyao looked up and smiled prettily, "It’s so cold and you’re still wearing so little."

"Is it cold?"
"You don’t feel cold?"
"Do I look like I’m cold?" Zhang Tan hunched his neck and retorted.

Liu Luyao was puzzled, "You look very cold."

"Really?" Zhang Tan frowned in thought, "Now that you mention it, I do feel cold. No, I need to go back and add another layer. See you!"

"Oh."

Prompted by her, Zhang Tan ran back, intending to return to his rented room and add a down vest over his coat.

Liu Luyao stood on the main road, watching Zhang Tan’s retreating figure. Suddenly, the sunlight seemed especially bright and clear. Zhang Tan was a charming boy. Though his looks were average, he possessed enviable talent and an unintentional, reassuring demeanor.

Encouraged by her desk mate, Zhou Chengcheng, Liu Luyao had written Zhang Tan a love letter. The outcome wasn’t surprising—she was rejected. Yet this did not lessen her fondness for him; it only made her think Zhang Tan was better than other boys his age. Those boys just busied themselves around her, being mischievous to catch her attention.

But to her, those antics were childish to the point of ridiculous.

Truly ridiculous, not humorous.

"Humor belongs to Zhang Tan," Liu Luyao thought, clenching her fist inside her cotton coat pocket.

After being rejected, she always felt embarrassed and awkward whenever she met Zhang Tan—a side effect of confessing and being turned down. Yet Zhang Tan was gentle, always accommodating her awkwardness, acting as if nothing had happened, nodding, smiling, or raising his brows in greeting. When they occasionally chatted, he always made her laugh, always so humorous.

He was unique.

Extraordinarily magnetic.

A sweet feeling blossomed in Liu Luyao’s heart, a secret belonging to a young girl: "So this is what it feels like to like someone—it’s such a wonderful sensation."

Sunlight danced across her face, her smile radiant.

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A new week begins—requesting Sanjiang votes and recommendations!