"Don't want to be an official anymore?" Fang Yun asked.
"I'm no good at it, and I don't like it. At least, not right now." Zhang Jing'an slowly raised his head, his pitch-black eyes reflecting Fang Yun before him.
Fang Yun did not look at Zhang Jing'an. Instead, he watched the goose-feather snow outside the window, his expression calm.
Outside, the cold wind howled furiously; inside, the fragrance of tea curled through the air.
"I think staying on as precinct chief would be quite nice. You wouldn't have to toil or suffer, or toughen your body. Perhaps you'd even have a chance to gain official status and a rank, and be granted the title of Official Metropolitan Graduate or something," Fang Yun said.
"I... I can't keep doing it." Zhang Jing'an's expression was extraordinarily complicated, far too complicated for the face of an eleven-year-old child.
"Are you certain you want to give up being a civil official?" Fang Yun still gazed out the window.
Looking at Fang Yun, Zhang Jing'an suddenly remembered Old Man Gao and realized how strikingly similar the two men were. They clearly knew everything and had given him clear hints, yet he had still made the wrong choices. Compared with them, he was simply too young. The precinct chief's position was a fat plum to begin with. Once someone wanted to snatch it away, those slippery old hands could get him killed at any moment.
A trace of sorrow flashed through Zhang Jing'an's eyes.
"I'm certain!" Zhang Jing'an nodded firmly, knowing he no longer had any other choice.
"Do you still remember the people who beat you?" Fang Yun asked.
Zhang Jing'an froze, shame and anger rising to his face. "Of course I remember!" He clenched both fists, displaying the ordinary anger of a child.
"Good.