Chapter 68: CH 61

Chapter 61: Glittering Fragments

Song Yu nodded politely at Nan Jia, using that as his greeting, and then went straight into the seat across from Yue Zhishi. He spoke without any emotions in his voice, as if he was a household service robot with an outstanding appearance.

“No duck blood and vermicelli soup today. Only mixian rice noodles.”

“Mixian’s fine too.” Yue Zhishi very happily took the bowl from Song Yu. He then asked, thinking of what Nan Jia had just said, “Have you participated in the arts festival before?”

“Mn.” Song Yu nodded, casually separating out the cutlery. “I was in my faculty’s debate team for a bit.”

Nan Jia was smiling when she said, “I even competed against your brother once in a semi-final. He really was the dark horse in the first years’ competition. Everyone initially thought this person who didn’t know how to talk wouldn’t be articulate at all, and then he turned out to be a golden fourth speaker.” 

“It’s not that he’s bad with words. He just doesn’t like talking.” Yue Zhishi explained for Song Yu immediately, but his heart yearned to see the sight of Song Yu in a suit, sitting at the long tables of a debate competition. 

Yue Zhishi poked the tip of Song Yu’s foot with his own. “Then will you participate this year?”

Shaking his head, Song Yu said, “I don’t have the time. I stopped last year.” 

Nan Jia shrugged as well. “I was chatting to his faculty’s coach a while ago, and he was really regretful about Song Yu. He felt like he was a really strong seeded player. You have to know — the attacking and defence strategies of a second or third speaker are actually really easy to learn and practice. There’s no lack of excellent second and third speakers, but it’s actually very hard to find strong fourth speakers.”

Yue Zhishi had also participated in debate competitions in high school, and he very much agreed with what Nan Jia said. “That’s right, especially when the strength of the two teams are equal and it’s hard to figure out who has the stronger position. In situations like that, the later you speak, the more pressure you have. It’s often up to the fourth speaker to fight for success.”

Song Yu was indifferent. “It wasn’t as exaggerated as that. The second and third speakers are always the main force of the team.”

“It’s regretful anyway.” Nan Jia said to Yue Zhishi, smiling, “But I feel like, other than his studies, everything your brother does is just for fun and just to get some experience. You can be like him too and try a few more things. It’s university. You should grab all the opportunities you can to enrich yourself.” 

They didn’t talk much further. Nan Jia very quickly finished her food, returned her plate and then said goodbye to them as she left. She was always very busy, rushing from one place to the next, but she lived every one of her days to the fullest.

With no one there to chat with, Yue Zhishi peacefully sat there, pondering as he ate, and then after a little while, he raised his head. “Song Yu.”

Song Yu didn’t even look up. “It sounds like my name comes out of your mouth easier every time you say it.”

Yue Zhishi squeezed Song Yu’s legs in between his own, rocking them slightly before he let go. “It feels more intimate that way.”

“Why did you stop going to the debate team? You could’ve been able to enter the university team if you continued, and you might’ve even been able to participate in those championship competitions.”

And then, as if he was cutely whining, Yue Zhishi said very softly, “I want to watch you compete too.” 

Now that it was only the two of them, Song Yu’s explanation increased. “I originally joined with the intention of killing time. After participating for two years, I realised it really was something that required a lot of time. I needed to continuously train. Just for one argument, I needed to repeatedly research information, guess the other team’s arguments and then find a way to dismantle it. All of that work doesn’t come from thin air; it needed time and energy. I didn’t have the energy to continue with it, so after I quit the team after my last planned competition.”

He then said, “Besides, there are many more people who love debating more than I do. I should leave the opportunities to them.”

Yue Zhishi bit his chopsticks and nodded. He realised Song Yu was very different from other people — if it was someone else the same age as him who was lucky enough to enter the faculty team, even if he didn’t initially want to join the university team, he would still definitely want to continue winning after competing for a while. He would’ve entered a different path.

“Everyone said you’re really good at it, that you have talent. Don’t you think it’s a pity to give it up?”

Song Yu opened a bottle of water and took a sip. “Those who find giving up a pity — it’s because they stopped doing something they weren’t able to do to begin with.”

He handed the bottle over to Yue Zhishi, hinting at him to also have some water. He continued speaking only after Yue Zhishi obediently took it. “There are limits to how much energy a person has. It’s already difficult enough to focus on one thing and to do that one thing well.” 

“Sometimes you really feel feel like someone who climbs mountains.” Yue Zhishi gazed at him, a small smile emerging on his face. 

Song Yu raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

“Didn’t we watch that documentary together before? Those mountaineers who needed to climb thousands of metres above sea level were all so focused. They plan out everything to the smallest detail before starting their journey, and during their climb, they only have one goal: to continue upwards. They abandon everything else, and they’re more concentrated the higher they go.” 

A process like that was extremely similar to how Song Yu lived his life. Just like the optimal algorithm for pruning, all unnecessary paths were filtered out, reducing the complexity and increasing the efficiency rate of his life.

Yue Zhishi’s eyes slowly lost focus as he spoke about mountain climbing, and he looked like he was a bit lost in his thoughts.

“Say, do you think my dad was also someone like that?”

He looked at Song Yu, asking uncertainly, “Why do you seem more like him than I do?” 

Song Yu was silent for a moment, and then he said to Yue Zhishi, “Uncle Yue wasn’t someone who knew how to do only one thing. He was very brave, and he would always try out the things he wanted to do in order to broaden the scope of his life. That’s another wonderful way to live. You’re the one who’s actually similar to him.”

Yue Zhishi was a little flattered. “Really? You think I’m like him?”

Song Yu nodded. “You are the best parts of your parents put together.”

His words were a bit overly solemn to be said over lunch. Yue Zhishi was a bit embarrassed, but he understood Song Yu; he had never been able to compliment others, so everything he had just said was rare true words from his heart.

They’d pretty much finished their food by now, so they cleaned the table, leaving the cafeteria after they returned their bowls and plates.

Even though Yue Zhishi wasn’t very willing to separate from Song Yu, he was no longer sick, and so he still needed to return to live in his own dorm. His dorm mates had also been very worried about the last few days. Song Yu agreed with his thoughts as well, so he walked Yue Zhishi to his dorm — he needed to attend a meeting later that afternoon to discuss the schedule of their research paper, and he didn’t know how long the meeting would last. 

The weather had turned cool, but the leaves still stubbornly held onto the colours of spring. As he walked, Yue Zhishi suddenly raised his head and asked Song Yu, “Do you think I should go to the debate competition or the clothing design competition?”

His indecisive nature always came out during times like these to interfere with his decisions. “Logically speaking, wouldn’t the debate competition be more helpful to my studies?” 

A car drove towards them from the front. Song Yu didn’t answer his question immediately; he circled around Yue Zhishi, swapping places with him without a single thought. 

“Speculative reasoning is helpful to anything you do.” He spoke after the car drove away from them.

Yue Zhishi nodded thoughtfully, but then he heard Song Yu say, “But the most important thing isn’t if it’s helpful. It’s whether you like it or not.”

It felt like all of his piled up thoughts about choosing the debate competition had been pulled out and flipped over by Song Yu — he’d easily poked at what his heart actually wanted, as if he extremely understood him. Yue Zhishi couldn’t help but laugh, and he asked, “How are you so sure I want to do the other one?”

The empty campus roads were very quiet, and their entire journey had been covered by osmanthus flowers drifted onto the ground, all the various fragments of autumn exhaling their sweet fragrance. Song Yu’s footsteps merged stably, consistently with Yue Zhishi’s own steps, and his reply was also very tranquil.

“Other than who you would end up liking, I’m very sure about everything else you like.”

Yue Zhishi’s footsteps abruptly paused, the rhythm of their pace thrown completely into disarray. 

After getting together with Song Yu, his heartbeats were always extremely unstable. This was different from before, where Yue Zhishi had already gotten used to guessing the reasons behind Song Yu’s actions, obtaining tiny hints from his slight expressions. But now, Song Yu sometimes exposed himself so directly, as though he was a cat revealing his soft underbelly without a single precaution. 

No one can defeat a cat’s belly. 

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His ears might be burning and his heart may be speeding, but Yue Zhishi still caught onto Song Yu and stopped him from continuing forward. He faced him, and he looked directly into Song Yu’s eyes. “I would only end up liking you.”

“Since you didn’t know something so simple, I guess you’re not that amazing after all.”

Song Yu’s eyes shifted from his reddened ears to his pair of eyes, slightly wanting to laugh. “Are you trying to goad me into doing something?”

“I’m just stating a fact.” Yue Zhishi lightly curved his head down, a little smug. 

Seeing him like that, Song Yu couldn’t hold back his hand from tapping his nose. “What are you so happy about?” 

Yue Zhishi shamelessly boasted as he held onto Song Yu’s hand, “I’m happy for you, because now you entirely, thoroughly understand the person who is Yue Zhishi.”

Song Yu was defeated by Yue Zhishi’s magical speaking abilities. In front of Yue Zhishi, all of his negative emotions had nowhere to hide, nowhere to live — they briefly showed themselves only for a short little while, and then they were strangled just as they were born by just a few words from Yue Zhishi.

“Then right now, should I say it’s a great honour?” 

“Yes.” Yue Zhishi patted his shoulder, and the two of them broke into laughter, facing each other.

His other two dorm mates were also in once he returned back to his dorm, other than Jiang Yufan who was out on a date. They asked how Yue Zhishi had been the last few days, and then he shared the snacks he’d just bought with them. 

Yue Zhishi didn’t take an afternoon nap. He spent a while looking through the arts festival recruitment information Jiang Yufan had sent him, and then he consulted with senior Nan Jia on WeChat. In the end, he decided to sign up for the clothing design competition.

Nan Jia initially wasn’t aware Yue Zhishi knew how to draw, and she was even a bit shocked when she saw the drawings he sent over.

[Senior Nan Jia: You drew all of these? Did you learn drawing before? They’re all so good.]

[Le Le: It’s just a hobby. I really like watching anime, so sometimes I would draw a bit too.]

[Senior Nan Jia: This is fantastic — our faculty was missing a competitor like you who has a background in drawing.]

After registering, Yue Zhishi received the time and place for the preliminary round. He became somewhat nervous, so he stood up and paced around his small dorm twice before he finally thought of something, sitting down and opening his laptop.

He asked Nan Jia for the video recording of Song Yu’s final debate competition. After ten or so minutes, Nan Jia sent it over, and she included a message.

[Senior Nan Jia: By the way, Song Yu was surrounded by a lot of rumours after this. Pretty much no one was talking about the competition itself, only gossiping that he might not be single for much longer. But the gossiping masses stopped talking about it after Song Yu stayed single.]

A bit puzzled, Yue Zhishi smiled as he typed.

[Le Le: It was that awesome? Then I guess I’ll need to seriously pay attention.]

In the video, Song Yu was wearing a suit, and he didn’t look much different from now other than what he was wearing. A minute sense of loss grew in Yue Zhishi when he saw this; maybe this competition wasn’t important to Song Yu, but to Yue Zhishi, it was. 

He really wanted to be involved — even if he wasn’t able to personally attend and watch the competition, he still hoped Song Yu could tell him about it and give him the chance to say a single jiayou. 

But passed by time was in the past, and he remained not having been involved. The dazzling Song Yu in the video had no connection with him. 

By the time his thoughts returned back to the video, the debate moderator had already started introducing the topic of the debate: between science and humanities, which one was more important.

Yue Zhishi felt like this topic was very familiar. It was most likely because this topic truly was very common, and he might have debated a similar topic in high school. When the affirmative and negative teams were announced, Yue Zhishi pretty much burst into laughter — because Song Yu’s team had unexpectedly been given the negative side. 

To argue humanities was more important than science — that was essentially telling Song Yu to debate with himself.

From the start of the introductions to the free debate, Song Yu didn’t speak at all. He acted as though he was a free bystander outside the competition itself, recording down all the different arguments he heard. Even though the free debate had opportunities for him to battle with his words, he stood up very rarely, and when he did, it was mainly to support his team’s arguments as the other side tried to undermine them.

Song Yu only started to perform when it came time for the conclusions. He didn’t speak quickly, yet he was very stable, the first half of his concluding remarks precisely catching almost all of the holes in the other side’s arguments. He dismantled the other team’s logical reasoning one by one, as if he was taking down the building blocks of the other team’s meticulously built mansion of logic. 

The camera even purposefully switched to the other team’s fourth speaker, who’d yet to speak. He had already lost his ability to control his facial expressions.

Song Yu disliked using emotions or feelings to affect the way someone thought; he didn’t want to sweep the audience along with emotional storytelling, even though it would’ve been advantageous for his position in this particular competition. 

He remained as calm and unhurried as always — but in his final statements, he quoted words from someone else, and it didn’t seem like something he would do at all.

Yue Zhishi froze, rewinding the video back a few seconds and listening again to Song Yu’s final words. His mind flashed, remembering something. He took the date of the competition, written on the video, and searched through his cloud archive for a particular chat record.

The voices of the judges and moderator filled his ears as they announced the winner. But at this point in time, Yue Zhishi was already too busy to care; he knew Song Yu had won.

His eyes fell onto a particular chat record, two years having already passed.

[Gege: Let me ask you something.]

[Le Le: What?]

[Gege: Do you think science is more important, or humanities]

Yue Zhishi thought about how he’d first felt when he received that message. He hadn’t thought it was something serious, and he’d even said some irrelevant things to Song Yu — because for a question like that, he’d felt like his own opinion wouldn’t be important to Song Yu.

He later realised Song Yu was asking him a serious question, and he only then gave him a serious response.

[Le Le: I think it’s really hard to determine which one’s more important. But I just thought of something — if we returned back to the primeval times, science might be what allows humankind to make an axe. This is really important, because we can use it to hunt and feed ourselves. But humanistic thinking would then appear at this point, and it would tell us: don’t use that axe to kill our fellow human beings.]

Yue Zhishi was still in disbelief as he read through the chat record. He couldn’t believe Song Yu had actually cared about what he’d said.

As a result, he once again rewinded the video to where Song Yu was making his concluding remarks. Every single one of his concluding statements was tight and secure in logic without a single inconsistency, but at the end, where he should’ve elevated his team’s final argument, he took and used the opinion Yue Zhishi had believed to be insignificant.

In the video, with only the final ten or so seconds remaining, Song Yu placed down his tightly controlled weapons of words and looked towards the audience. The face that had been unperturbed to the point of being almost apathetic — it finally held a tiny shred of gentleness.

“When I first saw the debate topic, I sent it over to someone whose opinions are always the opposite of mine and yet who is very important to me. He said something very simple when he saw it, and I want to quote those words as my final statement in my concluding argument.”

The chat record also held the last sentence of that day.

[Le Le: If science is what allows humanity to make tools, then humanistic thinking is to prevent us from becoming the tools of science.]

He watched as the Song Yu in his screen repeated this point of view and then deeply bowed. There was a complicated mixture of emotions in his heart. He was slightly annoyed that Song Yu quoted his own immature words as a conclusion in such an important competition, and yet he was surprised, his face burning, at the words ‘someone very important to me’. He understood why Nan Jia said this video caused a wave of rumours.

But the wave of emotions finally flooded over, leaving behind only a grieving and emotional heart.

All those experiences he’d thought he never participated in — he hadn’t missed them at all. 

Yue Zhishi’s pure sincerity was reflected in every single glittering fragment of Song Yu’s life.

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