Chapter 19: Love Tip #04
After taking the phone and tapping to complete the drawing, Jiang Chi, in a completely irresponsible manner, handed the sloppy depiction of the nine-tailed fox to Player Four.
Jiang Chi remained silent for a long time. Qin Yan couldn’t help but hold his breath, like a thief on the verge of being discovered, his back stiff as he waited for Jiang Chi to say something.
Would Jiang Chi suspect him? Would he question him?
He had never been this nervous before, not even daring to imagine how he should react if Jiang Chi found out the truth.
Should he put on an indifferent, unapproachable front, pose as the victor, and pretend that everything was under control—cold and ruthless, just like the Qin Yan that existed in Jiang Chi’s imagination? Should he mock Jiang Chi for mistaking him at the wedding and walk away coldly?
Or… or… what else?
Should he, like Hong Zixiao, throw himself into Jiang Chi’s arms and then… and then…
God, just thinking about the pleading words Hong Zixiao had said made Qin Yan feel worse than death. He couldn’t say a single one of them.
Jiang Chi really seemed to respond to that kind of thing—but what could Qin Yan even ask of him?
It had been a mistake from the start. Jiang Chi had mistaken him for someone else—was he now supposed to expect Jiang Chi to still treat him like Ji Yu after the truth came out?
It was Jiang Chi who mistook him, Jiang Chi who took him away from the wedding scene. The one Jiang Chi wanted to save had always been Ji Yu—not him.
In Jiang Chi’s heart, Qin Yan was not someone who needed saving.
That realization left a bitter ache in Qin Yan’s chest. He realized that even if he could shamelessly throw a tantrum like Hong Zixiao, it would be utterly pointless.
This life he borrowed from Ji Yu—Qin Yan would have to give it back eventually.
He didn’t know what he could do to salvage this friendship.
This kind of helplessness was unfamiliar to him. He didn’t like the feeling—and so, he instinctively turned his resentment toward Jiang Chi.
Before he met Jiang Chi, he had never had any friends. If that infuriating Jiang Chi hadn’t mistaken him for someone else, Qin Yan wouldn’t have needed any friends to begin with.
It was Jiang Chi who had barged into his life without permission, and now it was he who had to live in fear over this friendship.
Jiang Chi was the worst.
At this dead end, Qin Yan suddenly remembered one of the “relationship tips” Jiang Chi had taught him—skills that Jiang Chi claimed could be used in both friendship and romance.
[Relationship Tip #4: Take control of the conversation. When faced with a question you don’t want to answer, use a counter-question to turn it back on the other person.]
After a long silence, Qin Yan finally broke it.
He flipped the dynamic, using retreat as a form of advance, and asked, “Jiang Chi, do you think my drawing is really that bad?”
Jiang Chi looked up, and just happened to meet Qin Yan’s flickering gaze.
In that instant, everything Jiang Chi had been planning to say vanished. All that remained in his mind were those uneasy, anxious eyes.
‘Is he afraid?’ Jiang Chi wondered. ‘Afraid I’ll think his drawing is bad?’
Jiang Chi casually put his phone away and offered comfort. “I think it’s very realistic—vivid and lifelike.”
Qin Yan: “…Really?”
Jiang Chi hummed in affirmation. “You’re studying oil painting, right? Drawing with your finger is obviously not the same as using a brush. And you’re only a freshman—you still have a few years to learn. When I was a freshman, I couldn’t even draw security system designs.”
Qin Yan let out a soft breath, his long lashes lowering slightly. “Don’t you think it’s weird?”
“It’s not weird at all,” Jiang Chi replied. “It’s fine. You haven’t drawn in a while, so being rusty is normal. I should’ve gotten you art supplies earlier… Remember that time I hadn’t done any design work in a long time? The mosquito-repellent system I designed had bugs, and it kept you up at night. You didn’t blame me for that.”
Qin Yan was just about to respond when Hong Zixiao suddenly shouted from the living room, “Jiang Chi, I swear, what kind of nine-tailed fox looks like this!?”
Qin Yan: “…”
The game was over.
Jiang Chi picked up his phone and leaned in close to Qin Yan. “Let’s watch the playback first.”
Player One had drawn the prompt: [Peacock].
Although no one could quite figure out how a peacock ended up becoming a nine-tailed fox, the answer that made its way to Jiang Chi was clearly wrong.
Jiang Chi patted Qin Yan’s shoulder and comforted him, “This round’s loss has nothing to do with us.”
Seeing that Jiang Chi still didn’t suspect anything, Qin Yan couldn’t help but feel a little guilty.
But deep down, he was happy—so much so that he relaxed completely and, with a rare sense of indulgence, rested his chin lightly on Jiang Chi’s shoulder, settling in to watch the screen together.
As the replay unfolded, the drawing process of Player One was rapidly reconstructed.
The first player drew a round head, then added a pointed beak to show it was a bird. Behind the bird, they drew a fan-like spread of vertical lines, outlined with colorful wavy strokes to represent vibrant feathers.
Player Two, apparently not even needing the system prompt, confidently submitted their answer: “Nine-tailed fox.”
Player Two defended themselves righteously: “I thought it was a fox with a pointy beak, and I even counted the tails—exactly nine!”
The process of Player Three—Qin Yan—drawing the nine-tailed fox didn’t need much elaboration. Though the result was rather ugly, it was at least passable. On the replay, Player Four had even written the character for “Nine” on their screen.
But then the system provided a clue:
[Two characters]
“Nine-tailed fox” (九尾狐) has three characters, which didn’t match. So Player Four had no choice but to erase the character for “Nine.” Hesitating over and over, clearly conflicted, they finally came up with something before the countdown ran out.
Perhaps inspired by the tail shapes that resembled sweet potatoes, Player Four submitted their answer:
“Vegetable dog (Noob).”
They had interpreted the nine tails behind the fox as a sweet potato blossom.
Thus, the prompt given to Player Five was now: “Vegetable dog.”
As an internet culture expert, Player Five had a very unique interpretation of the term “Vegetable dog.” Confident in their rapport with Player Six, they went down an unconventional route and directly submitted a set of numbers:
“0-13-2”
That match record said it all—a perfect illustration of the deeper meaning behind the term “Vegetable dog (noob/loser)”.
But Player Six didn’t see it that way. In his worldview, the only type of person who could achieve a perfect score of 0–13–2 was—
[Support]
A certain support player, who wished to remain anonymous, started cursing in the group chat.
Fang Siyue: “Bai Wenjun, are you out of your mind? Why does 0–13–2 automatically mean Support?”
Bai Wenjun: “I debated between Support and Yasuo, but in the end, I went with Support.”
Fang Siyue: “Why?”
Bai Wenjun: “Because Player Five didn’t draw any wind or direction-based cues, so I figured it wasn’t referring to a specific game character, but rather a type of player.”
His analysis was incredibly logical—but completely wrong.
After listening to the voice messages in the group, Qin Yan tilted his head in mild confusion. “What’s a vegetable dog? And what’s Support?”
Jiang Chi explained, “They’re talking about a video game. Vegetable dog is slang for someone who’s really bad at the game. We say someone’s ‘vegetable’ when they play poorly. Support is a position in the game—they’re responsible for protecting teammates, so they usually have a high death count.”
“In the 0–13–2 stat line: 0 means kills, 13 means deaths, and 2 means assists. It’s a terrible performance. So Player Five, Hong Zixiao, used that to represent a vegetable dog. But since Support players sometimes end up with stats like that, Player Six, Bai Wenjun, guessed the answer was Support.”
Qin Yan remembered Jiang Chi once said he would protect him. So that means Jiang Chi is…
Qin Yan asked, “Are you a Support?”
Jiang Chi paused for a second. “I don’t really play that game. I’m not very good at it.”
Qin Yan nodded: “So you’re a vegetable dog.”
Jiang Chi: “?????”
How did this become a personal attack?
He rapped Qin Yan lightly on the head. “Don’t go picking up bad habits from them.”
Qin Yan: “???”
No matter what game it is, once you get into it, it’s easy to get hooked.
Hong Zixiao said, “Just one more round,” but in reality, they all ended up playing through the night.
Around 2 a.m., they even ordered a late-night meal.
The restaurant delivered a spread of dishes—freshly steamed seafood, noodles as the main course, and three to five small side dishes. The portions weren’t large, but the plating was exquisite.
The creative head chef must have clocked out for the night, as the dishes weren’t particularly innovative, but they stayed true to classic flavors. Sweet things were truly sweet, salty things were properly salty—no strange fusion of ingredients thrown together awkwardly, making it seem like the flavors didn’t even know each other.
Qin Yan had a bowl of golden silk dragon beard noodles, said to be made with broth from Buddha Jumps Over the Wall. The noodles were as fine as thread, the golden soup clinging to each strand, looking mouthwatering.
The broth was fresh and flavorful—with not a hint of fishiness, despite being seafood-based.
Qin Yan ate slowly, taking tiny bites and swallowing carefully. In traditional terms, it was called “not rushing the food.” His movements were refined and elegant—a small bowl of noodles could take him twenty minutes to finish.
Though slow, Qin Yan was very proper. No matter whether he was full or not, the moment Jiang Chi put down his chopsticks, Qin Yan would do the same. Then, he would calmly pick up a napkin and gently dab his lips to signal that he, too, was done.
To make sure this little noble ate a few more bites, Jiang Chi had no choice but to slow down his own eating pace.
Fortunately, Qin Yan didn’t eat on a strict schedule—only when he was hungry. After more than half a month of being roommates, the two had only shared a meal face-to-face a few times. Most of the time, they just ate separately.
Watching Qin Yan eat, Jiang Chi felt like he was watching a cat drink water—careful not to move, afraid of disturbing the noble creature’s refined enjoyment.
“This is what noodles are supposed to taste like.”
Qin Yan rarely found food that suited his palate so well. His stomach was full, but his mouth still craved more. He glanced over at Jiang Chi’s bowl.
Jiang Chi picked up two strands from his own bowl and placed them into Qin Yan’s. “Don’t eat too much though—it’s hard to digest.”
Qin Yan poked at the noodles in his bowl with his chopsticks, saying nothing, his displeasure written all over his face.
Hong Zixiao leaned over, holding his untouched bowl of noodles with a flattering smile. “Bro, I haven’t even touched mine yet—you can have it.”
Jiang Chi immediately snapped, “Don’t you dare give it to him.”
Hong Zixiao had no choice but to pull his bowl back.
Qin Yan threw down his chopsticks. “Then I’m not eating.”
Jiang Chi realized something: Qin Yan was actually pretty simple.
When they first met, he always had a blank expression, making it hard to read his emotions. But once they got familiar, everything was written clearly on his face—whether he was happy or upset, it showed.
He might look cold and unreadable on the surface, but deep down, he was just a kid with a temper.
Irregular eating habits were hard on the stomach, and binge eating was just as bad—especially at 2 a.m. This wasn’t the time to indulge. Qin Yan’s poor eating habits should’ve been corrected a long time ago. Jiang Chi shouldn’t have given him those two extra bites in the first place.
Jiang Chi didn’t indulge him this time. He picked up Qin Yan’s bowl and poured all the noodles—broth and all—back into his own bowl.
Before Qin Yan could even react, Jiang Chi had already finished them off.
Qin Yan: “???”
Hong Zixiao: “……”
If anyone was going to pull that off, it had to be his brother—cool under pressure. Even with the chill Qin Yan was giving off, enough to freeze the air around him, Jiang Chi still managed to eat the noodles with a straight face.
Qin Yan hadn’t expected Jiang Chi to be so defiant—
Then again, Jiang Chi had always been that way. Ever since the first time they met, Jiang Chi had been like a bandit warlord, bold enough to carry him from the second floor of a banquet hall straight to the parking lot.
Still, in everyday life, Jiang Chi usually went along with Qin Yan’s preferences—especially when it came to food.
Qin Yan seemed aware that it was rare for him to eat well, and whenever he managed a few more bites, Jiang Chi would be visibly pleased, even patting him approvingly on the shoulder.
Now, Qin Yan looked at Jiang Chi in disbelief, his pupils first widening, then sharply narrowing, his whole expression saying loud and clear: You insolent wretch! How dare you!
Jiang Chi wasn’t at all intimidated by Qin Yan’s aura. In his eyes, an angry Qin Yan was just like a puffed-up cat—easily pinned down with one hand, nothing to be afraid of.
Qin Yan’s phoenix eyes were lowered slightly, his entire body exuding a chill.
Hong Zixiao hugged his blanket and trembled, convinced that Qin Yan was about to blow the whole ship up.
Terrifying!
…
At 3 a.m., Hong Zixiao was in the living room gnawing on crab legs.
Jiang Chi stayed up gaming, accompanied by the sharp cracking sounds of crab shells. Qin Yan, already sleepy, sat with his eyes half-closed, nodding off.
“If you’re tired, just go to sleep. I’m done playing,” Jiang Chi said as he turned off his phone screen and shouted toward the living room, “Hong Zixiao, stop eating crab and go to bed!”
Hong Zixiao shouted back, “Sleep? It’s almost dawn!”
He tossed aside the crab claw he was holding, grabbed a couple of tissues to wipe his hands, brushed the food crumbs off his clothes, and swaggered to the bedroom door, giving it a polite knock.
Jiang Chi deadpanned, “Why are you knocking? The door’s not even closed.”
Once the sleepiness passed, Hong Zixiao was suddenly over-energized—like he’d just been injected with pure adrenaline. It was as if his soul had ignited for one last night of glory, and now his energy was terrifyingly high.
With genuine excitement, he suggested, “Let’s go watch the sunrise! We’ll sleep all day after, and by evening, the cruise docks.”
Qin Yan, looking pale, spoke in a slightly hoarse voice, “What time is the sunrise?”
Hong Zixiao checked his phone, about to answer—only to look up and catch sight of Qin Yan’s ghostly white face. He jumped in shock. “What’s wrong with your face?! Why do you look so pale?”
Qin Yan’s stomach was aching badly. Not long after eating the bowl of golden-thread noodles, a dull pain had set in and refused to ease.
He’d had a lot of raw seafood at dinner, then a rich broth-based noodle bowl for late-night supper. His digestive system couldn’t handle the overload and had gone into spasms. But unwilling to admit the noodles were the culprit, he stubbornly blamed the green juice, coconut milk, and crayfish.
“A bit of a stomachache,” Qin Yan replied. After answering, he watched Jiang Chi’s expression and added, “I always get a stomachache when I eat fish roe.”
Jiang Chi’s brows furrowed slightly. Though he knew the real reason clearly, he didn’t argue about why Qin Yan’s stomach hurt, nor did he say anything inflammatory like ‘I told you it wasn’t easy to digest’.
Instead, he poured a cup of warm water for Qin Yan.
Qin Yan, drenched in cold sweat, leaned against Jiang Chi’s shoulder, sipping the warm water in small, delicate sips.
Hong Zixiao ambled over casually and said, “Maybe it’s indigestion.”
Qin Yan lifted his phoenix-shaped eyes slightly. The light filtered through his long lashes, reflecting in those icy, deep eyes—making him look both beautiful and fragile.
Hong Zixiao swallowed nervously and, as if possessed, blurted out, “Want me to rub your stomach?”
Jiang Chi pushed Hong Zixiao’s head aside. “Go play somewhere else.”
Hong Zixiao cleared his throat. “I was just trying to take care of the patient. Why don’t you do it then?”
Jiang Chi glanced at Qin Yan. His broad palm came to rest on Qin Yan’s abdomen, rubbing gently in a clockwise motion. “Feeling any better?”
Qin Yan replied, “Much better after the warm water.”
Jiang Chi nodded. “I’ll go ask for a hot water bottle… Hong Zixiao, take care of him.”
Receiving his orders, Hong Zixiao nodded and pulled over a small stool to sit at the bedside.
The stool had no backrest, so he sat up stiffly like a giant Doberman, hands resting on his knees, not even touching his phone—just sitting there upright, silently watching over Qin Yan.
After Jiang Chi left, the room fell silent.
When Jiang Chi was around, Hong Zixiao could joke and banter with Qin Yan. But once Jiang Chi left, it was as if all of Qin Yan’s warmth disappeared with him.
Suddenly, Hong Zixiao found Qin Yan to be a very distant person.
His straight back began to stiffen, and he didn’t dare move or make a sound. It felt like being trapped in a cage with a wild beast. Even though Qin Yan wasn’t looking at him—just resting with his eyes closed against the headboard—Hong Zixiao still couldn’t shake the inexplicable sense of unease.
After keeping watch for over ten minutes, Hong Zixiao gradually relaxed. In the near-total silence, he started to get sleepy—his head drooped forward a little at a time, then jerked up suddenly as he startled awake, blinking around in confusion.
Qin Yan suddenly spoke: “If you’re sleepy, go ahead and get some rest. You don’t have to sit there the whole time.”
Hong Zixiao jumped in surprise, instantly straightening up. He instinctively replied, “I’m not sleepy!”
But moments later, he realized—Qin Yan was showing concern for him.
‘Seems like Ji Yu is actually a pretty decent guy.’
Hong Zixiao thought: He’d always felt this guy was a bit cold, but thinking about it now, there wasn’t really any basis for that. Ji Yu just had a naturally distant aura—maybe he was just socially anxious?
Some people are just slow to warm up. When they enter a new social circle and don’t know how to fit in, they end up looking cold. But all it takes is someone saying a few words to break the ice, and that trust comes quickly—sometimes even more so than with the outwardly friendly types.
Maybe, just like Jiang Chi said, Ji Yu was simply a bit introverted.
With enough mental convincing, Hong Zixiao decided to take the initiative to grow closer to Qin Yan, secretly making up his mind: from now on, he’d treat Ji Yu just like a real brother.
Accepting Qin Yan’s kindness, Hong Zixiao said, “I am a little sleepy, then I won’t stand on ceremony—gonna crash for a bit.”
Qin Yan hummed a soft acknowledgment.
Just as Hong Zixiao was about to lie down, he remembered the task Jiang Chi had left him. Worried he might not hear Qin Yan call from the living room, he hesitated and said, “But Jiang Chi told me to look after you. If he comes back and sees me sleeping outside, he’ll scold me.”
Qin Yan’s stomach ached terribly; cold sweat covered his temples, and the pain sent ringing through his ears. Gritting his teeth, he casually replied, “Then just rest here.”
Hong Zixiao was overjoyed. “Ji Yu! You’re really generous, not fussy at all. You’re definitely my bro from now on… I just need a tiny spot at the foot of the bed!”
He hugged his blanket and wandered around the room before finally placing it on the footstool at the end of the bed and making a little nest for himself there.
Qin Yan had never shared a bed with anyone before, but ever since meeting Jiang Chi, his bottom line had been pushed lower and lower.
By the time Jiang Chi returned to the room with a hot water bottle, Hong Zixiao had already fallen asleep clutching a pillow.
He lay across the foot of the bed, most of his butt hanging off the stool, curled up pathetically in a corner.
Jiang Chi couldn’t be bothered to scold him. He slipped the hot water bottle under the covers and handed Qin Yan some atropine tablets and aluminum-magnesium chewables.
Qin Yan, when taking medicine, was surprisingly obedient—he took whatever was given to him without complaint.
After he’d swallowed the pills, Jiang Chi helped him lie down and then placed a body pillow between him and Hong Zixiao to keep Qin Yan from kicking him in his sleep.
Taking care of Qin Yan and Hong Zixiao, Jiang Chi felt like he was raising two sons—it was exhausting.
After settling the two of them, Jiang Chi still wasn’t at ease. He reached out and touched Qin Yan’s cold, sweaty forehead, then lowered his voice: “Get some sleep.”
Once Qin Yan had dozed off, Jiang Chi went out to the living room and cleaned up the leftover crab shells Hong Zixiao had left behind.
It was hot, and they were out at sea—cooked seafood started to smell fishy within just a couple of hours. Since both Qin Yan and Hong Zixiao were asleep and there was no one to call for cleaning, Jiang Chi had no choice but to handle it himself.
He wiped down the table, gathered up all the trash, and placed it by the door.
By the time everything was tidied up, dawn had broken.
Through the balcony window, Jiang Chi caught sight of the sunrise.
At the edge of the world, a faint glow shimmered and finally tore through the long night.
The sun emerged from the water, rising slowly into the copper-purple sky. It split the chaos of sea and sky, casting a faint blush of morning light that gradually grew brighter, radiating in all directions, painting the sea with dazzling colors.
The rippling waves sparkled—the golden light was blinding.
Jiang Chi snapped a photo to mark the moment, then pulled the curtains shut, returned to the bedroom, and carved out a space next to Qin Yan to lie down and rest.
Fortunately, the hotel bed was big enough, and at the foot of it was a long bench that sat flush with the mattress, half a meter wide.
Hong Zixiao was sprawled across the bench, blanket halfway off, sleeping soundly in a starfish position.
Jiang Chi pulled the blanket back over him, then crawled into the covers next to Qin Yan. The two of them lay head to head, squeezed together.
Before long, Jiang Chi also drifted off to sleep.
Jiang Chi: This family would fall apart without me.
