"Xiaoting, go get your Second Brother a bowl of rice," he said in an even tone.
The little girl opened her mouth, then stopped short of speaking. She glanced at Zhou Cheng and, seeing no objection from him, obediently went to get the rice.
Zhou Cheng could naturally see that Zhuang Chaoying wanted to use this to ease the tension between father and son. He had no intention of continuing his cold war with "Filial Zhuang," either, because it was meaningless.
Zhuang Chaoying had no idea that a new batch of rice had already been cooked, much less how much Zhou Cheng had eaten.
The little girl returned with the bowl and watched her Second Brother take it without hesitation and launch into another round of hearty eating. She could not help repeatedly glancing at his belly, her eyes full of worry, as though afraid he might accidentally burst his stomach.
With a wisp of true qi secretly helping his stomach and intestines digest the food, Zhou Cheng naturally had no fear of eating himself to death.
What his current body lacked was nourishment. Eating a little too much in one sitting would, at most, mean a few extra trips to the toilet.
That afternoon, Zhou Cheng finished all his homework in a single half-hour stretch, then went out alone and wandered aimlessly.
Different eras had different scenery. Whether it was beautiful was hard to judge; for him, being different was enough.
At a quarter past four that afternoon, Huang Ling, his mother in this life, came home from work.
Before she even entered the residential compound, a friendly neighbor she knew came over and, in a few words, recounted everything she had heard about that morning's farce.
Huang Ling's expression changed at once. Tightening her grip on the strap