Chapter 212: Old Things

**Chapter 212: Relics of the Past**

The moment Wen Xian saw who was being beaten on the ground, his breath caught for a second.

…Shen Zhao? How could it be Shen Zhao?

From the moment Wen Xian had known Shen Zhao, the man had always been poised and unflappable. His fashion sense was impeccable—aside from that tattered trench coat he liked wearing at home (which Wen Xian found unbearable to look at), Shen Zhao was always dressed in crisp suits, paired with satin ties and handmade loafers, the epitome of a young, successful business tycoon straight out of a TV drama.

The first time Wen Xian had seen Shen Zhao was at a Shen family banquet. By then, Shen Jixing was already dead, and Wen Xian had returned home for the funeral. Shen Zhao had been surrounded by a crowd, and Wen Xian had only caught a glimpse of his profile—sharp and elegant, like an ink-wash landscape in a frame. Even the unflattering overhead lights hadn’t diminished his presence in the slightest.

Even knowing the man was a wolf who repaid kindness with betrayal, Wen Xian had still been momentarily dazed.

But now, Shen Zhao’s backpack lay on the ground, books scattered everywhere. He was wearing a washed-out school uniform, the 33rd Middle School emblem on his left chest nearly faded away. He was curled up in a corner, arms desperately shielding his head and abdomen. His shirt had been yanked up and torn during the scuffle, revealing a slender waistline, the skin marked with bruises.

“…”

This was Shen Zhao—the same Shen Zhao who had forced him into marriage and left the Wen family powerless.

How could he be in such a state? How could he be allowed to be in such a state?

A surge of anger flared in Wen Xian. In his mind, even if Shen Zhao were to face retribution, it should be in a courtroom, with lawyers and judges declaring his sentence—death penalty or imprisonment. Not cornered in some back alley, beaten down by a bunch of thugs.

Wen Xian’s hands moved faster than his brain. Before he could think, he had already laid out two of them flat. He yanked the blond thug by his hair, dragging him away from Shen Zhao, then spun around and kicked the purple-haired one charging at him, pinning Shen Zhao between himself and the wall.

The thugs clearly hadn’t expected someone to barge into their midst. They immediately tried to fight back, but Wen Xian was tall and well-built, over six feet tall, while the thugs were scrawny and malnourished. Despite their numbers, none dared charge him directly.

The purple-haired one craned his neck to glare up at Wen Xian. “Back off, pal.”

“Back off?” Wen Xian let out a laugh but didn’t respond. Instead, he pointed toward the back gate of the foreign language school. “You wanna keep going? My school’s right next door—I’ll shout for the guards.”

Coincidentally, not long ago, some thugs from the 33rd Middle School had beaten up a student from the foreign language school—a top student bound for Tsinghua or Beida. The school had promptly stationed security guards at the back gate. The foreign language school wasn’t short on funds, so they’d hired hulking ex-soldiers. They were only five minutes away, and a single shout would bring them running.

The blond and purple-haired thugs exchanged glances, hesitation crossing their faces.

They were delinquents, not idiots. If the guards showed up and things escalated, they might end up in jail. With a final curse, they scattered.

Wen Xian kept Shen Zhao shielded behind him until the thugs’ figures disappeared at the end of the alley. Only then did he relax, leaning lazily against the wall with his hands in his pockets.

He thought to himself: That was sheer impulse. What now?

Wen Xian and Shen Zhao loathed each other. Shen Zhao had married him for the Wen family’s business connections, while Wen Xian’s father had been powerless to refuse. Coming to Shen Zhao’s rescue like this was sheer impulse.

Shen Zhao had never mentioned attending the 33rd Middle School.

When Wen Xian had met him, Shen Zhao was already in power, his past records scrubbed clean until no traces remained. Wen Xian had even hired a private investigator to look into his cousin’s death, but it had turned up nothing.

Wen Xian lowered his gaze. “You alright—?”

—If you’re fine, just go home. I’m leaving.

But before he could finish, Shen Zhao, still curled up, pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and doubled over coughing violently.

Wen Xian’s words died in his throat.

He had never seen Shen Zhao like this.

Shen Zhao’s uniform was covered in dust, his forehead slick with cold sweat, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. His cheekbone was bruised, and he had bitten his lip hard enough to draw blood.

Pathetic.

He looked like he was in unbearable abdominal pain, bracing himself against the wall with difficulty before slowly straightening up. He wiped the dust from his face, then glanced at Wen Xian through his tousled bangs before quickly looking away: "...Classmate... thank you."

Even though he was clearly hurting badly—his voice shaky and uneven—he still thanked Wen Xian first.

"..."

Wen Xian didn’t say anything. He watched Shen Zhao quietly. There was a sheen of unshed tears in Shen Zhao’s eyes, like he was fighting them back, leaving only a thin glimmer behind.

Reflected in that shimmer was Wen Xian's face.

After thanking him, Shen Zhao lowered his gaze, hiding his disheveled appearance. Meanwhile, Wen Xian wondered: *Had Shen Zhao always been this stubborn since childhood?*

Even during sex.

Though Wen Xian had married Shen Zhao, he never planned to sleep with him. Shen Zhao had killed Shen Yuechuan’s entire family—Wen Xian was disgusted.

It was just a business marriage, each getting what they wanted. Wen Xian had even prepared for an open relationship. Who knew what got into Shen Zhao, insisting on sleeping together?

Forced into the marriage by his father, Wen Xian was already angry. He made no preparations, took him roughly, waiting for Shen Zhao to beg so he could walk away. But halfway through, Shen Zhao’s shoulder blades tensed sharply, arching like a butterfly about to take flight. His hips trembled from the pain, yet he stayed silent, as if giving in would kill him, turning sex into a wordless struggle.

Just like the Shen Zhao standing before him now.

As Wen Xian thought bitterly, he saw Shen Zhao offer an apologetic smile. Whether or not his leg was injured wasn’t clear, but he moved slowly, limping as he reached for his backpack, like he meant to walk home in that state.

So Wen Xian stopped him, picking up the bag first and brushing off the dust, stuffing the scattered textbooks back inside.

The first one he grabbed was a Chinese literature book, its pages filled with dense notes. Shen Zhao’s handwriting, like the man himself, had always been elegant—clear, refined, and strikingly beautiful, the strokes bold and unyielding, like bamboo that refused to bend.

Wen Xian mused to himself: *I bet Shen Zhao’s signature on the divorce papers will look just as good.*

With that thought, he swallowed his original words and changed the latter half: "Where do you live? I’ll take you back."

Since he’d gone this far, might as well go all the way—call it good karma.

Shen Zhao froze, reaching for the backpack, his lips moving slightly as if to say, “Don’t bother.”

“Come on, it’s no trouble, really,” Wen Xian cut him off, slinging the backpack over his shoulder. “My car’s parked just ahead—only 200 meters away. How far do you even live? Besides, what if those thugs come back after I leave? You wanna get jumped again?”

“…”

Wen Xian extended a hand toward Shen Zhao: “Can you walk? If not, lean on me.”

“…”

Wen Xian urged again, “Come on, it’s getting dark. I’ve got dinner waiting.”

He’d only had one bite of his egg pancake—he was starving.

Shen Zhao lowered his eyes: “…Okay.”

After a pause, he reached out carefully, gripping Wen Xian’s arm. His dusty fingers left streaks on the clean white uniform. Just as Shen Zhao started to pull away, Wen Xian held tighter, taking most of his weight: “Alright, follow me.”

His car was parked at the mouth of the alley—just a few hundred meters away.

Wen Xian had a personal driver who picked him up after school—a long-wheelbase Lincoln, a pretty flashy car for Nanhu back then. Wen Xian pulled open the door and gestured: “Get in.”

Shen Zhao pointed at his clothes: “I’ll dirty your car.”

They were covered in dirt, and part of them had been torn by the thugs, showing a strip of his waist.

Wen Xian: "Why does it matter?"

In the future, the cars Shen Zhao drives would be a hundred times better than this.

The car door was too high, and Shen Zhao, limping, struggled to climb in. Wen Xian hoisted him by the knees, easing him into the backseat before climbing in himself and locking the door.

Wen Xian: "Where do you live?"

Shen Zhao: "No. 471, Lingjiangzhuang Road."

Lingjiangzhuang Road wasn’t far—just a kilometer or two away. It was also part of an old, unrenovated district, with outdated facilities, making it the lowest-priced and lowest-rent area in the entire southern city.

Wen Xian leaned forward: "Uncle Wu, head to Lingjiangzhuang Road."

The driver acknowledged and steered into traffic.

The car fell silent for a moment.

Shen Zhao occupied only a small space, fidgeting with his clothes. The uniform had been washed countless times, losing its elasticity, and the zipper had been torn off by thugs, revealing a flash of pale skin at his waist that Wen Xian couldn’t help but notice.

He averted his gaze to the window and suddenly said, "Uncle Wu, do I have any clothes in the car?"

Thanks to Wen Xian’s mother, Mrs. Zhang, who constantly worried her son would catch a chill, she bundled him up like a snowman every morning. As a healthy teenager, Wen Xian never felt cold. He’d leave the house in thick clothes only to peel them off in the car, so there were always extra clothes lying around.

Wen Xian kind of remembered this routine, but he was long past his high school days and couldn’t recall where the clothes were kept.

Wu Kang replied, "In the storage box in the middle of the backseat."

Wen Xian found the latch, opened the compartment, and fished out a trench coat. Just as he was about to hand it to Shen Zhao, he froze.

…Wasn’t this Shen Zhao’s coat?

Shen Zhao owned a black trench coat, loose-fitting and a size too big for him, drowning his frame in a way that looked frumpy, not fashionable. Yet Shen Zhao swore by it, while Wen Xian had always wanted to toss it out.

For someone as striking as Shen Zhao to wear such a coat was a crime against fashion.

But now, here it was, crammed in his storage box.

"..."

Wen Xian was certain this was his first time meeting Shen Zhao—he’d never been in this car before.

Where did the coat come from?

But the storage box held only this one jacket, along with a few of Wen Xian’s undershirts, none of which he could offer. Grimacing, he passed the coat over.

Wen Xian’s clothes were all made of fine fabric—crisp but comfortable. Shen Zhao took it, pulling it snug around himself before mumbling, "Thank you."

Wen Xian: "...Yeah."

He stared out the window, spacing out.

Trees flashed by as the car moved, and the closer they got to Lingjiangzhuang Road, the worse the road conditions became. The concrete was pockmarked with potholes, bumping the car every few seconds.

Wen Xian felt like he’d been here before.

Everything today felt weirdly familiar—the younger, softer-looking Shen Zhao before him, the trench coat crammed in his storage box, the uneven road, and the scenery rushing past the window.

His gaze lingered on the hem of Shen Zhao’s coat as it hit him: *"I think I once saved someone... and gave them a coat."*

During Wen Xian's fearless high school years as the second young master, he got into plenty of fights and walked many classmates home. Mrs. Zhang loved buying clothes for Wen Xian—his wardrobe was overflowing with different outfits. He wasn’t picky, grabbing whatever was closest to wear, never paying much attention to the styles.

But now, old memories resurfaced in his mind. He was suddenly back in senior year, that sweltering afternoon.

He had skipped evening study hall and left early. Hearing the sounds of a scuffle and shouting from an alley, he peered in and saw a slender young man curled up in the corner, desperately shielding his abdomen. His body was covered in angry bruises, yet he endured the beating in stubborn silence, only letting out pained gasps when the pain became unbearable.

Just like Shen Zhao.

Wen Xian thought, and then what happened?

He rushed forward, pulled away the yellow-haired and purple-haired bullies, and warned them that security was nearby, shooing them away.

Then, he helped the young man pick up his backpack, offered to take him home, and in the car, gave him one of his own shirts.

Was that young man Shen Zhao?

Wen Xian wondered, "So we’ve met before?"

Before Shen Zhao achieved fame and success, they had crossed paths once.

But why, even after ten years, had Shen Zhao kept that shirt—until it hung loose and the color washed out—without ever discarding it?

Why?