In early September in Huizhou, the leaves on the Keda campus were sun-scorched and curled. Cicadas droned from the trees, their calls long and drawn-out.
Room 215, Honors Program Men’s Dormitory.
The old, worn wooden door had been ajar, but it was suddenly shouldered open from the outside with a BANG.
A huge woven plastic bag poked through first, followed by Wang Dayong’s face, flushed red from the heat and slick with sweat.
He was panting heavily. He kicked the door shut behind him and strained to drag the bag—which stood nearly half as tall as he was—into the room.
The bag hit the floor with a THUD, kicking up a fine cloud of dust.
"Good lord, I actually made it back alive."
Wang Dayong tossed the other two bulging plastic bags onto his desk and collapsed into his chair like a melting pile of sludge.
Chen Zhuo, who was sitting at his desk reading, turned around at the commotion.
Looking at Wang Dayong’s grimy, disheveled state—as if he’d just crawled out from a crowd of refugees—Chen Zhuo couldn’t suppress a small smile.
"You’re back." Chen Zhuo put down his pen. "Smooth trip?"
"Smooth? Like hell it was."
Wang Dayong snatched the palm-leaf fan from the desk and began fanning himself for dear life.
"Thirty-six hours on a green-skin train, in a hard-seat car! It was so packed I couldn’t even find a place for my feet."
He complained in a rapid-fire barrage while fanning himself.
"The whole car reeked of instant noodles, sweat, and—I don’t even want to know who took their shoes off—stinky feet, all swirled together. I tried to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, but the aisle was just a mess of bodies lying everywhere. I had to literally hop on one leg the whole way. I almost died holding it in."
As he listened to Wang Dayong vent, Chen Zhuo stood up with a smile. He picked up his own enamel mug, walked over to the thermos, and poured a half-cup of warm water, handing it to his friend.
"Here, have some water. Rest up a bit before you start unpacking."
Wang Dayong took the mug and downed the water in a few big gulps—GULP, GULP—before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"It feels so good to be back in the dorm."
Wang Dayong let out a long sigh, feeling some of his energy return.
He stood up, walked over to the giant woven bag, and started undoing the tightly knotted nylon rope at the top.
"I brought a lot of good stuff from home this time."
Wang Dayong started pulling things out, eagerly showing them off to Chen Zhuo.
"Look! My mom’s homemade sausages, perfectly air-dried. And these jars of chili sauce—they’ve got diced beef inside. My mom says the cafeteria food has no flavor, so she told me to bring these and share them with you. They make any meal taste amazing. Seriously, they’re insanely good."
Soon, a small mountain of jars, bottles, and oil-paper packages of all sizes was piled on the desk.
"Tell your mom I said thanks,"
Chen Zhuo said with a smile.
Wang Dayong waved his hand, laughing it off.
He was in the middle of unpacking when he suddenly stopped and turned to look at Chen Zhuo’s desk.
"Hey, Xiaozhuo."
Wang Dayong looked around.
"Where’s that wuxia novel I lent you before the break? *Blood Battle at Black Wind Stronghold*. Where’d you put it after you finished it?"
Chen Zhuo pulled open the drawer beside him and took out a worn old book with a tattered cover and curled corners, handing it over.
Wang Dayong eagerly took it and flipped through a couple of pages, his eyes lighting up.
"Did you finish it over the summer break? How did it end?"
Wang Dayong pulled a chair over and sat down, his face full of anticipation.
"The main character, the one who uses a single saber—did he storm the stronghold all by himself at the end, cut down that one-eyed bandit leader, and rescue the millionaire’s daughter?"
Watching Wang Dayong’s expression, so eager to hear the story, Chen Zhuo tilted his head slightly.
"Nope,"
Chen Zhuo said calmly.
"Huh?"
Wang Dayong froze, the fan in his hand stopping mid-swing.
"He didn’t cut him down? Then what happened? Did he get captured by the bad guys?"
"Not that, either."
Chen Zhuo gazed at the glaring sunlight outside, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
"The hero struggled all the way up the mountain, but it turned out the diesel generator at Black Wind Stronghold had broken down, so they couldn’t pump any water."
Chen Zhuo said with a perfectly straight face.
"The weather was so hot that the one-eyed leader and the millionaire’s daughter both died of thirst. The hero never even drew his saber. The whole trip was for nothing."
Wang Dayong’s mouth hung open as he stared blankly at Chen Zhuo.
He stared blankly for a good five or six seconds, as if his brain had short-circuited.
He looked down at the wuxia novel in his hands, its cover emblazoned with a swordsman holding a blade, then back up at Chen Zhuo’s placid face.
"But..."
Wang Dayong scratched his already messy hair.
"What kind of bizarre bootleg copy did I buy? This plot is completely absurd! Where the hell did they get a diesel generator in ancient times?"
Chen Zhuo finally couldn’t hold it in and let out a soft laugh.
He shook his head, not taking the bait.
"I’m gonna head downstairs. Going to the mailroom to check for letters."
Chen Zhuo closed the drawer, grabbed his meal card from the desk, and stuck it in his pocket.
Only then did it dawn on Wang Dayong that he was being messed with.
"You little rascal, Xiaozhuo! You’ve picked up some bad habits. Now you’re even messing with me."
Wang Dayong chuckled and swore good-naturedly, picking up his fan again.
"Go on, get out of here. Hey, since you’re going, grab me a popsicle from the campus store on your way back. Mung bean. It’s boiling today."
"Sure."
Chen Zhuo agreed, pushed open the door, and left.
The new semester had just started, and the campus was full of students coming and going.
Red welcome banners were stretched across the paths, and upbeat pop music drifted from the campus radio station’s loudspeakers.
Chen Zhuo walked along the edge of the road, trying to stay in the shade of the trees as much as possible.
The mailroom was in a small courtyard behind the administration building, housed in a fairly large, single-room structure.

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