Qin Fen took Little Bean into the car, ready to head home, while Shorty beside him let out a fierce cry, expressing exactly how he felt at that moment.
Big Chef started the engine, his eyes on the road ahead. "It's fine. No one will believe a criminal's words, and he won't say anything himself. There won't be any trouble! I just wonder how Lan Yibing is doing. I imagine Little Fatty and he are getting along wonderfully."
Little Bean shook their head speechlessly. Of course they were. That kid could probably drive the guy insane.
"Then let's go home!" Qin Fen was all smiles. He had never taken today's events to heart at all; instead, he was thinking about Wenchang Dijun. He had never dealt with literary scholars in his life. The highest-ranking one he had encountered was probably that distinguished teacher back in middle school. That fellow had been frighteningly rigid, and Qin Fen had suffered plenty at his hands. Having his parents called in had been a routine occurrence. Every time he remembered it, an urge to lash out stirred inside him.
Qin Fen had not been much of a student, but that did not mean he disliked reading. He simply felt some resistance toward what schools taught. To Big Chef, learning that could be applied and learning that clarified one's heart both counted as scholarship, without distinctions between orthodox and miscellaneous studies, categories, or high and low status.
Whether it was entertainment or serious study, reading was reading as far as Qin Fen was concerned. As long as it increased how much you read, let you learn something good, take the essence and discard the dross, broaden your horizons, serve your country, and become a useful person, it counted.
But not everyone thought that way. As