The Poor School Heartthrob Was Secretly a Financial Titan - Chapter 2

Water droplets rolled down his neck and into his collar. He wiped his face, looked up, and stared at his young, even somewhat immature face in the mirror. Yet, his eyes held a coldness and vicissitude that belied his age.

In 1996, Dad, Mom…

Thinking of my parents, the urgency in my chest almost burst out.

It’s time to go home.

Just then, a flurry of footsteps and suppressed excited chatter came from outside the restroom door, growing louder as they approached.

“This is it…”

“Hurry, don’t let him get away!”

“What about the door…?”

“Bang!”

The already shaky wooden door to the toilet was suddenly pushed open from the outside, and a group of people rushed in, filling the small space to the brim.

Leading the charge were two or three boys, their faces showing tension, excitement, and a kind of urgency as if they were “carrying out a mission.”

They spotted Han Xuetao standing by the sink washing his face immediately.

The expected scene of disheveled appearance did not occur.

The air seemed to freeze for a moment.

The tall boy at the front paused for a moment, then blurted out instinctively, “Han Xuetao? You…where’s Zhang Lu?”

Han Xuetao turned his head away.

My gaze swept over the seven or eight faces crowded at the doorway. Their expressions were layered—the leaders had shifty eyes, the middle ones were purely excited, and the last few craned their necks to look around, still muttering to each other, “What’s going on?”

He fixed his gaze on the faces of the leaders. He couldn’t remember their names, but he was all too familiar with that tense and malicious expression unique to those in the know.

“Zhang Lu? You got her drunk.” Han Xuetao shook the water droplets off his hands and smirked. “I see you’ve had quite a bit to drink too. Let me help you sober up.”

Before he could finish speaking, he bent down and grabbed the red plastic bucket used for rinsing mops from the wall. Dirty water sloshed around in the bucket, emitting a foul odor. He swung his arm and splashed it!

Whoosh—!

Exclamations erupted.

Dirty water poured over the front row, splashing onto those behind and triggering a second round of screams.

The narrow passageway instantly descended into chaos, with some people jumping up and down and wiping their faces, while others jostled and pushed their way back.

Han Xuetao didn’t stop. He picked up the wet mop, held it upside down by the wooden handle, and the cloth left a winding trail of water on the ground as he walked towards the crowd.

The group blocking the doorway retreated in panic, managing to make way for a crack.

The singing was still going on in the lobby, with Andy Lau singing “Let the rain and wind blow.” Several tables near the restrooms had quieted down, and people were peering over their shoulders. Someone asked, “What’s going on over there?” “A fight?”

Han Xuetao stepped into the light of the hall.

Dozens of eyes shot over. The boy holding the microphone on stage saw the mop in his hand and the group of disheveled, soaking wet classmates behind him, his mouth agape, speechless.

Han Xuetao threw the mop on the ground, grabbed a bottle of beer from the nearest table, and glanced at the young men and women in the hall who were preparing to run towards freedom.

“Sing if you’re going to sing, drink if you’re going to drink. Whoever blocks my way out,” he raised his bottle, “I’ll toast them with this bottle.”

He strode toward the gate.

No one got up from the tables along the way.

Several people standing there instinctively stepped aside as he passed. He pushed aside the shoulder of a boy blocking his way with his left hand, and the boy staggered half a step without saying a word.

And so, under the watchful eyes of dozens of people, he walked through the noise and confusion, step by step, to the front door, then stopped and slammed the beer bottle down on the windowsill with a “thud”.

“A bunch of brats.”

Pulling open the heavy glass door covered with cheap posters, the blinding afternoon sunlight poured in, making one squint. The stale air in the karaoke bar was swept away by the sweltering air from outside, creating a wave of heat.

He stepped into the blazing light, without looking back…

…

Standing in front of the dusty old tenement building, Han Xuetao stopped in his tracks.

Old bicycles were piled up at the entrance of the building, and the peeling paint on the walls revealed a dark yellow base. The air was filled with the smell of cooking oil—this smell, this scene, instantly pulled him back to the past that he had dreamt of countless times in the dead of night but could never touch.

In his previous life, he returned here three years later.

By then, their parents had passed away, and behind the door, only empty, dusty old furniture remained; the two figures leaning against the door, craning their necks, were no longer there.

The inside of the door is still warm at this moment.

He went upstairs and stopped in front of the familiar tin door. The upside-down “福” (good fortune) character pasted on the door had faded and the edges were curled up.

He took a deep breath and raised his hand to knock on the door.

“Knock knock”.

Footsteps came from inside, the door lock turned, and it opened a crack. Mother Zhao Xiurong peeked out.

“Tao Tao?” She was taken aback and looked him up and down. “Isn’t it a class reunion? Aren’t you coming home for dinner tonight? Why are you here so early?”

Han Xuetao’s throat tightened, he opened his mouth but couldn’t make a sound, he just stared straight at the blue blouse on his mother’s body—the one he had dreamed of countless nights but could never touch again.

“What are you doing standing at the door?” came the voice of the father, Han Defu, from inside the house.

He lifted the curtain and came out, a half-smoked “Red Plum” cigarette between his fingers, surrounded by swirling smoke.

“Why are you back so early? Have you eaten?”

Han Defu was thinner than I remembered, with slightly sunken cheeks, and wearing faded gray-blue overalls. When he saw his son, he instinctively wanted to smile, but his lips were stiff with the weariness of years of work.

dad!

Han Xuetao’s eyes instantly reddened, and blood vessels spread across them.

He gritted his teeth to keep the sobs, accumulated over twenty years and mixed with blood and tears, from bursting out.

Zhao Xiurong and Han Defu exchanged a glance, both realizing that something was wrong with their son.

Zhao Xiurong reached out to touch his forehead: “What’s wrong? Did you have a fight with your classmate? Your face is so pale…”

Han Xuetao moved first. He stretched out his slightly trembling arm, gently put his arm around his mother’s thin shoulder, and led her inside. When they reached his father, he reached for the half-smoked cigarette, turned around and stubbed it out in the old enamel ashtray on the low cabinet by the door.

“Dad,” he said in a hoarse voice, “smoke less, it’s bad for your health.”

Han Defu was taken aback for a moment, then shook his head and chuckled after two seconds: “This kid, he hasn’t even gone to college yet, and he’s already trying to control me.”

When the word “university” was mentioned, a hint of undisguised pride flashed across his face, and he straightened his back a little. But the radiance was fleeting, and he raised his hand to rub the back of his neck, his tone becoming serious: “It’s good that you came back early… Your eldest uncle is here, he’s in the inner room, he has something to discuss with you.”

Zhao Xiurong tugged at her son’s arm and whispered, “Tao Tao, listen to what your uncle says. If you have any thoughts… don’t argue with him directly. Your uncle is an elder and he’s doing this for our family’s good. But…” Her voice lowered, “In the end, you decide what to do. Your parents… will listen to you.”

Uncle?

Han Xuetao’s mind raced.

Zhao Guangrong—his mother’s eldest brother, the most “successful” among their relatives. In his early years, he used connections to get a job at the city’s state-owned agricultural machinery factory. Quick-witted and adept at networking, he climbed the ranks to become deputy factory director. A few years ago, when the factory’s profits declined and it underwent restructuring, he was the first to contract a workshop, switching to manufacturing agricultural machinery parts. Leveraging his old connections and his audacity, he truly succeeded, and it’s said he’s now a millionaire.

In a small town in 1996, this was already considered a “tycoon” that people looked up to.

And what about my own family? My mother was laid off two years ago and occasionally takes on odd jobs like sewing; my father works at the even less profitable No. 2 Fertilizer Plant. Although he’s a skilled worker, the plant hasn’t paid him his full salary for over six months, and he only receives a basic living allowance. The family relies entirely on their meager savings and my mother’s odd jobs to make ends meet, barely scraping by.

Now that he has been admitted to university, the tuition and living expenses are like a mountain weighing on his family’s hearts.

The reason I invited my uncle here was to borrow money to solve my immediate financial crisis.

But seeing his parents’ hesitant and troubled expressions, it seemed that his uncle had said more than just borrowing money in the inner room.

Han Xuetao suppressed his emotions and nodded to his parents.

Zhao Xiurong lifted the curtain. In the slightly cramped living room, on an old faux leather sofa, a middle-aged man wearing a crisp polo shirt, with slicked-back hair and a cigarette between his fingers looked up, his gaze fixed on Han Xuetao at the door, his face bearing his usual condescending smile.

“Xuetao’s back?” He flicked his cigarette ash. “Perfect timing, there’s something I need to tell you.”