In the autumn of Jin Yinuo's seventeenth year, the entire world was telling him no.
He stood beside the trash bin behind the teaching building, his school uniform jacket covered in milk tea that someone had just splashed on him. Dark brown stains wound their way from his shoulder all the way down to his waist, giving off the sticky smell of cheap jasmine essence mixed with syrup. October wind cut through the narrow passage between buildings, carrying the chill of approaching winter as it swept across his soaked clothing. He didn't immediately return to the classroom, because doing so would draw even more stares and snickering.
Yinuo had clearly defined features—prominent brow bones, a straight nose bridge, and smooth jawline. This face should have brought him some kind of social advantage, at least in the world of his peers. However, the past three years of campus life had taught him that appearance never solved core problems. Once a person was defined as weak, all other qualities would be covered by this label.
He wiped at the stains on his jacket with tissue paper, his movements mechanical and slow. The tissue quickly became soft after being soaked with liquid, and the fragments that stuck to the fabric only made things worse. He stopped what he was doing, threw the crumpled tissue into the trash bin, then leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.
The cause of this afternoon's incident was simple. Chen Hao, the class's sports committee member, had deliberately bumped his shoulder in the hallway, scattering his textbooks all over the floor. Yinuo bent down to pick them up while Chen Hao and his two friends stood nearby watching. One of them used his toe to poke at the notebook on the ground, letting out contemptuous laughter. Yinuo silently gathered his things and prepared to leave. Just as he turned around, his back received an icy impact.
"Sorry, my hand slipped." Chen Hao held up the empty milk tea cup, his face wearing an exaggerated expression of apology.
The students gathering around erupted in waves of mocking laughter. Yinuo didn't turn back, didn't speak—he only quickened his pace and walked out of the encircling crowd. He knew any reaction would become new fodder for jokes. Silence was the only option.
The coldness from the wall seeped through his thin uniform into his skin. Yinuo opened his eyes and looked at the windows lighting up in the distant teaching building. It was now four-thirty in the afternoon, and the last self-study period had just begun. He should go back and continue doing practice problems. The math exam was only two days away. His grades were the only thing he could control, and the only capital that allowed his parents to maintain a bit of face in front of the neighbors.
"Just maintain your grades, that's enough." These were his father's words from last month. At the time, Yinuo had tried to tell his father about what was happening at school, but the words reached his lips and he swallowed them back. His father worked as a quality inspector at a factory, working twelve hours every day, and when he got home he only wanted to watch TV quietly. His mother stood at the supermarket checkout counter all day long, her ankles chronically swollen. They had no energy to deal with these seemingly trivial campus matters.
"Boys will be boys—roughhousing is normal." His mother had said this before. She handed him a bottle of medicine for bruises and injuries, her tone carrying tired dismissiveness.
Yinuo pushed off from the wall and straightened his body, preparing to return to the classroom. Just then, he heard a voice coming from the distance.
"Give me some money, I'm begging you."
The voice was hoarse and faint, carrying a certain desperate tremor. Yinuo turned his head and saw an old man crouching on the other side of the trash bin. The old man wore a military green jacket covered in stains, his hair gray and disheveled, his face covered with deep wrinkles. He was looking up at a female student passing by, his outstretched palm as withered as a dead tree branch.
The female student quickened her pace and walked away, disgust written on her face.
The old man's hand lingered in the air for a few seconds, then slowly lowered. His gaze fell to the ground, his lips trembling as he repeated those words: "Give me some money."
Yinuo stood in place, watching this scene. He had thirty yuan in his pocket, money he had prepared this morning to buy dinner. He had planned to buy fried chicken and rice at the convenience store on his way home—his only luxury of the week.
The old man's voice grew softer and softer, almost inaudible. He curled up in the corner, his body trembling slightly from cold or hunger.
Yinuo hesitated for about ten seconds, then walked in the direction of the convenience store. Five minutes later, he returned to the trash bin, carrying a bag of steaming hot fried chicken in his hand.
The old man lifted his head, a flash of wariness in his cloudy eyes, which then transformed into an expression of disbelief.
Yinuo crouched down, placed the bag in front of the old man, then pulled out the remaining five yuan in coins from his pocket and placed them beside the bag.
"Eat." He said, his voice calm.
The old man reached out to take the bag, his fingers trembling so much he nearly dropped the coins on the ground. He looked at Yinuo, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he only nodded.
Yinuo stood up, preparing to leave. His stomach was already protesting—tonight when he got home he could only gnaw on some steamed buns with pickled vegetables.
"Wait." The old man suddenly spoke, his voice much clearer than before.
Yinuo turned around. The old man pulled something wrapped in oiled paper from his chest, and when he unfolded it, it revealed a thin booklet. The cover was yellowed, the edges already damaged, with several characters written on it in brush calligraphy: "Perfect Subconscious Mastery."
"For you." The old man handed over the booklet, his eyes carrying some complex emotion. "This is the only thing I can give you."
Yinuo took the booklet, feeling the rough texture of the paper. He opened the first page and saw densely packed small characters and several crude anatomical diagrams. This looked like some kind of folk health cultivation method, or something the old man had made up himself.
"Can practicing this help me fight?" Yinuo asked. The question came out unbidden, and even he found it laughable.
The old man stared at him for a long time, so long that Yinuo thought the other person didn't understand his question. Finally the old man grinned, revealing sparse teeth, his smile carrying a kind of eerie certainty.
"Yes." The old man said. "Practice to the first stage, and you won't be able to be beaten to death. Practice to the tenth stage, and you can beat someone to death. Practice to the twentieth stage..." He paused, his gaze becoming distant. "You can shatter this world."
Yinuo gripped the booklet, looking at the old man's bloodshot eyes. He didn't know what to say. Thanks? Doubt? Or mockery?
In the end he only nodded again, put the booklet in his backpack, and turned to leave.
Behind him came the sound of the old man tearing open the plastic bag, followed by the sound of chewing food. Yinuo walked out of the alley, autumn wind tousling his hair. The milk tea stain on his uniform was already half-dry, leaving a dark-colored mark.
He didn't know if this booklet was real or fake, didn't know if that old man was a fraud or a madman. He only knew that tonight there would be no dinner, and tomorrow he would still have to face Chen Hao and his group of friends.
The sky gradually darkened, street lamps lighting up one after another. Yinuo walked on the road home with his backpack, his phone screen displaying newly posted messages in the class group chat. Someone had posted a photo of his soaked uniform from behind, with the caption: "Today's joke."
Below it was a string of emojis and mockery.
Yinuo turned off the screen and shoved his phone back in his pocket. The weight of his backpack pressed on his shoulders—inside it now was one additional strange booklet.
He continued walking forward, his footsteps never pausing.
The lights of this city gradually brightened in the night.