On How To Defeat Dr. Qing Leng Chapter 7

The elevator reached the underground garage. Pei Yan half-carried, half-supported Wen Yelan, settling him into the passenger seat and buckling the seatbelt. Just as he started the car, Wen Yelan began to squirm uncomfortably, covering his mouth and letting out suppressed whimpers.

Pei Yan quickly stretched out one hand to help cover his mouth while the other fumbled through a bag. “Don’t throw up. Hold on a little longer, be good.”

But Wen Yelan seemed to have a nerve pricked. He suddenly lifted his head, his eyes momentarily sharp, though the look held no menace paired with his pale, weak face. “My business… has nothing to do with you… I don’t need your… false kindness…”

He spoke haltingly, his breath unsteady, yet every word was barbed.

Pei Yan was so annoyed he almost wanted to dump him on the roadside, but seeing his slightly reddened eyes and the expression of suppressed pain, that flash of anger was instantly extinguished, replaced only by a heavy, unfamiliar pang of heartache.

“Address,” Pei Yan asked, keeping his temper in check.

Wen Yelan leaned against the back seat, eyes closed, lips tightly pressed, refusing to communicate.

Pei Yan ground his back teeth, took a deep breath, and called his assistant. A few minutes later, he started the car, following the address that had been sent.

Pei Yan finally parked the car beneath an old, dilapidated residential building. Looking at the surrounding mottled walls and dim streetlights, he found it hard to imagine a researcher like Wen Yelan living in such a place.

As soon as the car door opened, Wen Yelan bolted out, stumbling a few steps before leaning against a nearby trash can, retching violently. He hadn’t eaten much that evening, so mostly wine and sour bile came up, burning his throat and esophagus, bringing on intense spasms and pain.

Pei Yan followed him, watching his thin back tremble violently from the vomiting. He looked so frail and helpless that the last trace of impatience in Pei Yan was replaced by a complex emotion. He walked over, hesitated, then reached out and gently patted his back.

Wen Yelan vomited until he was dizzy, tears streaming from his eyes. When he finally stopped, he leaned against Pei Yan, gasping, looking utterly drained, his face as white as a sheet of paper.

Pei Yan sighed, accepting his fate, and half-supported, half-carried him upstairs. The stairwell was narrow and dim, permeated by a stale odor.

He fumbled in Wen Yelan’s pocket for a long time before pulling out a single, solitary key.

A cool, simple atmosphere greeted them. The apartment was small, a two-bedroom unit, but it was meticulously clean, almost spotless. The furniture was sparse, the style minimalist to the point of coldness, much like the man himself. There were, however, many books, occupying two entire walls, neatly categorized and arranged. Next to them were some geological samples and instrument models.

Pei Yan helped Wen Yelan lie down on the only soft yellow sofa in the living room. As soon as Wen Yelan touched the familiar environment, he seemed to relax slightly, sinking into the cushions, but the stomach pain kept him curled up, fine beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

“Where’s the medicine?” Pei Yan leaned down and asked. “Where are your stomach meds?”

Wen Yelan was disoriented, only instinctively pressing his hand against his stomach, offering no response.

Pei Yan had no choice but to search himself. He first checked the drawers in the living room—nothing. After a moment of hesitation, he pushed open the bedroom door.

The bedroom was equally simple, like a dorm room: a bed, a wardrobe, a desk. The only difference was the large number of plush toys arranged in a circle on the bed.

He pulled open the desk drawers. The first contained various professional documents and stationery. The second held some daily necessities and a first-aid kit.

Pei Yan picked up the kit and opened it. Sure enough, there were stomach medicines inside. Just as he was about to close the drawer, his gaze was caught by a small box next to the medicine kit.

It was a wooden box that looked somewhat old, not exquisitely crafted, with even some wear on the corners. It looked out of place among the uniformly neat contents of the drawer. Driven by an impulse, Pei Yan reached out and opened the box.

The box contained nothing special, only a stack of letters, perhaps a dozen or so, perfectly preserved and neatly arranged in chronological order. The envelopes were mostly pale pink, light blue, or decorated with floral patterns, exuding a youthful, romantic air. The handwriting on the envelopes varied, but all were delicate and clear, addressed to “Wen Yelan, Private.”

Love letters?

Pei Yan’s heart sank abruptly, and an emotion he couldn’t quite name—disappointment or mockery—quickly surged up. He recalled Li Yu’s words: “He acts high and mighty, but it’s just that the price hasn’t been right yet… I’ve seen plenty of people like him.”

So that was it?

The aloof scientist who had coldly rejected him on Mount Everest, who had distanced himself at the banquet, and who seemed untouched by the mundane world, secretly collected so many love letters from different people? So he wasn’t cold or distant; he just wasn’t interested in Pei Yan? Or perhaps, he simply enjoyed the feeling of being admired and pursued by many?

The corner of Pei Yan’s mouth curled into a cold, sharp arc. He felt like an idiot, having genuinely believed he had encountered some unique, solitary snow lotus.

He picked up the stomach medicine and the scattered stack of love letters and walked down the stairs, his expression significantly darker than before.

Wen Yelan was still curled up on the sofa, seemingly in more pain than before. His body trembled slightly, and his lips were completely drained of color.

Pei Yan suppressed the anger of feeling played, first pouring warm water. Following the instructions, he popped out a pill and helped Wen Yelan sit up. “Take the medicine.”

Wen Yelan obediently swallowed the pill with Pei Yan’s help, drank small sips of water, and then weakly collapsed back onto the sofa.

Pei Yan placed the water cup on the coffee table, making a slight clinking sound.

He couldn’t hold back in the end. He looked down at the fragile person on the sofa, shaking the stack of colorful stationery in his hand, his tone carrying an acidity and mockery he didn’t even realize was there. “Heh, I didn’t realize, Dr. Wen. You act so proper, cold as the ice on Mount Everest, but you’re quite popular in private? Collecting so many love letters, enjoying the memories?”

Wen Yelan seemed disturbed by his voice. He groggily opened his eyes, his vision unfocused. He clearly hadn’t understood what Pei Yan was saying, but he instinctively felt uneasy about the hostile tone and shrank further into the sofa.

Seeing him completely incoherent, a surge of nameless anger rose in Pei Yan. He shoved one of the letters almost right in front of Wen Yelan’s face. “What? Which ex-girlfriend wrote this one that you cherish so much, hiding it so well? Hmm? Are you rejecting me because I’m a man, or because I didn’t write you a love letter?”

Wen Yelan’s gaze struggled to focus on the familiar stationery. His confused mind seemed to recognize what it was. His face instantly grew even paler, not just from the stomach pain but from panic and shame. He suddenly reached out, trying to snatch the letters back, his voice hoarse and agitated. “Give them back… you can’t… look…”

“I already looked, so what?” Pei Yan easily dodged his hand, his tone growing colder. “So Dr. Wen isn’t clueless about romance; he just prefers little girls’ love letters.”

“No… it’s not like that…” Wen Yelan struggled to sit up, but due to weakness and dizziness, he fell back down. The pain in his stomach intensified from the emotional distress. He clutched his stomach, cold sweat beading on his forehead, his breathing becoming rapid. The corners of his eyes were red from the physical agony and immense grievance. “Give them back to me… please…”

His last three words carried a faint sob, like a needle that unexpectedly pierced Pei Yan’s heart.

Pei Yan froze.

Just then, Wen Yelan seemed unable to bear the churning nausea and pain in his stomach any longer. He suddenly rolled over to the edge of the sofa and began to dry heave violently onto the floor. He had already emptied his stomach earlier, so now he could only expel sour bile. Each spasm tugged at every nerve in his body, making him tremble in pain, tears uncontrollably spilling out.

Pei Yan completely panicked. He forgot all about the love letters, quickly tossing the stationery aside and rushing to support him, gently patting his back. His voice involuntarily softened, tinged with alarm. “Hey! Wen Yelan! Are you okay? I was just talking nonsense, don’t mind me.”

Wen Yelan was almost exhausted from vomiting, silent tears wetting the sofa. He seemed to have used his last ounce of strength, his consciousness slipping into a semi-comatose state. He only murmured unconsciously and very softly, like a wounded animal whimpering: “…It’s not… I didn’t… They were very kind… but I’m not good enough… I don’t deserve it… No one would truly… like me… I rejected them all, I just wanted to keep them to look at, so I could feel like I was worth being liked…”

The fragmented, blurred words struck Pei Yan’s heart like a heavy hammer.

Pei Yan looked at the tear tracks on his pale, fragile cheeks, listened to the desperate and self-deprecating murmurs, and then looked at the stack of meticulously preserved love letters scattered on the floor. All the pieces connected, and an incredible truth suddenly burst into his mind.

Pei Yan’s heart felt tightly squeezed by a cold hand, contracting and throbbing with sharp pain. He understood now.

He wasn’t collecting trophies, nor was he savoring the vanity of being admired.

He was simply treasuring the small, faint rays of kindness that others had given him.

Because he had never received it himself, any small kindness given by others, even feelings he couldn’t reciprocate, felt incredibly precious to him, something he needed to carefully preserve.

“I don’t deserve it… No one would truly… like me…”

That tearful whisper echoed in his ears again. Pei Yan knelt by the sofa, looking at Wen Yelan’s tightly furrowed brow and restlessly trembling eyelashes, even in his unconscious state. His heart was filled with immense regret and an indescribable tenderness.

Pei Yan reached out and very gently wiped away the tears from the corner of his eye, his movements more careful than they had ever been.

“Idiot,” he muttered softly, his voice severely hoarse.

He no longer hesitated, scooping Wen Yelan up in his arms and carrying him into the bedroom. He gently placed him on the bed, covered him with the blanket, and went to the bathroom to wring out a hot towel. He carefully wiped Wen Yelan’s face and hands. He sat by the bed and watched for a while, confirming that his breathing was gradually steadying and he seemed to be asleep, before finally letting out a small sigh of relief.

Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten. Pei Yan was wide awake. He leaned on the sofa in the living room, which still held Wen Yelan’s body heat, looking at the apartment, which was so cold it barely felt lived in. His heart felt heavy.

Pei Yan kept watch. Wen Yelan’s phone rang once during this time. He glanced at it—the contact was Director Chen—and pressed silent immediately.

That night, he felt as though he had glimpsed the surging magma inside an ice-sealed volcano, scorching and painful.