Chapter 4: The Man Who Became a Leader at the Age of 28

Cen Bowen’s reaction was a little beyond Song Yiyi’s expectations.

She had originally thought he would just smooth things over.
At best, he might swear oaths and make promises.

Sure enough, times were different—there was a gap between eras after all.

Cen Bowen leaned toward her.
Song Yiyi squeezed her eyes shut, ready to open her mouth and shout “Pervert!” or “Scoundrel!”

But just as she got the first syllable out, a cold, detached voice cut in:

“What are you doing?”

Clang!

Song Yiyi opened her eyes to see Cen Bowen sitting on the floor, face flushed crimson.
He looked up with a slightly aggrieved expression toward the doorway.

“Little Uncle, what are you doing here?”

Song Yiyi turned her head to look as well.

The doorway to the inner room of the infirmary was narrow.
The sunlight slanting in from outside was completely blocked by the newcomer.
Backlit, she had to squint, unable to make out his features—but her eyes were still drawn to those long legs, broad shoulders, and narrow waist.

Cen Bowen was wearing a training uniform.
This man was in a service uniform.

Song Yiyi’s eyes were like a measuring stick—by her rough estimate, Cen Bowen was about 1.85 meters tall.
The newcomer was actually a bit taller.

Wasn’t it said that people in this era didn’t eat much and couldn’t grow tall?
Why was this whole unit full of giants?

While she was sizing him up, the man spoke again:

“You don’t know what kind of trouble you’ve caused?”

The voice was icy, sharp, the flat tone carrying no fluctuation.

At the sound, Cen Bowen immediately scrambled up from the floor, standing at full attention with a fawning smile.

“Little Uncle, it’s not what you think. You know, Yiyi and I—”

“Follow me.”

The man clearly had no interest in hearing him out. With those two cool, clipped words, he turned and strode away.

This time, Song Yiyi caught a glimpse of his profile—cold, handsome, and aloof.
His bone structure was sharply defined; thin lips, high nose.

“Yiyi, can you get back on your own?”

Cen Bowen brushed the dust from his clothes, turned to ask her, and then glanced anxiously toward the outer room.

Song Yiyi waved him off.

“I can.”

She gestured for him to go quickly.
The show was over, and she didn’t want to look at his roguish face for even one more second.

“Both of you, come.”

That low, magnetic voice came again from the outer room.

Song Yiyi blinked, pointing at herself with a questioning look toward Cen Bowen.

Cen Bowen forced a smile and muttered under his breath:

“Yiyi, my Little Uncle is the political commissar. He must’ve just found out you and Kang Ying had an argument in the infirmary.”

Of course—there had been so many people in the infirmary earlier, it was bound to get spread around by gossipmongers.

Song Yiyi craned her neck for a quick peek outside, then got up, walked past Cen Bowen, and headed straight for the outer room.
Cen Bowen hurried after her.

“The political commissar is your actual uncle?”

Following not too far behind the man’s tall, straight-backed figure, she couldn’t help asking.

In this era, someone who could hold that position had to be at least forty or fifty years old.
Yet from the look of him, that was clearly impossible.

She couldn’t be blamed for wondering—almost everyone who saw Cen Yue had the same thought.

Cen Bowen leaned toward her slightly, lowering his voice:

“Yeah, my real uncle. He’s two years younger than your big brother. They’re partners—the youngest in the entire Southern Theater Command. But their military merit is no less than anyone else’s!”

Song Yiyi nodded, looking thoughtful.

The original host’s elder brother was named Gu Chengze, thirty years old this year.

Why didn’t they share the same surname?
Because they were children from a blended family.

The original host’s mother had died in childbirth.
When she was five, her father married Gu Chengze’s mother, and they moved together to Songjia Village—
including fifteen-year-old Gu Chengze.

There was no “evil stepmother” drama here—Gu’s mother was gentle and quiet, well-matched in temperament to Song’s father, who was a teacher.

Gu Chengze was ten years older than the original host, essentially watching her grow up.
Even after becoming a soldier, he retained the gentle, jade-like quality of his youth.

Song Yiyi suddenly recalled something—
the original host’s reason for coming to the compound had a lot to do with her big brother.

“Yiyi, come on, we’re going in.”

Cen Bowen’s voice snapped her from her thoughts.

Looking up, she saw they had already entered a building and were standing outside an office door.

At some point, the man leading them had already taken a seat behind the desk.

Cen Bowen led her in, closing the door behind them.
The two stood properly in front of the desk.

“Little Uncle, I can explain this.”

Cen Bowen stood straight, but his tone was slick and glib.

Song Yiyi kept her head slightly bowed—she didn’t want to break the good-girl persona of the original host.
If she looked up, someone might see the fearlessness in her eyes.

This man in front of her had become a commanding officer at twenty-eight—his capability was beyond question.

The long, well-defined fingers resting on the desk tapped twice.

Cen Yue’s cool, indifferent voice came:

“Go ahead.”

Cen Bowen visibly relaxed, smiling as he recounted the events of that noon in full detail.
Painfully full detail—he even described exactly how Song Yiyi had bumped her head.

Song Yiyi hated people like that.
And to make matters worse, the original host had cooked braised pork and delivered it to Cen Bowen first—
so this body hadn’t even had lunch yet.

She didn’t want to keep standing.

Cen Bowen was talking on and on, when he suddenly realized his little uncle’s gaze had been fixed on the spot beside him.
He turned his head—no one there.

“Where’s Yiyi?”

Then he looked down—oh!
When had she crouched down?

Cen Bowen hurried to pull her up. “Little uncle, Yiyi isn’t in good health, she even fainted just now…”

Squatting on the floor without moving, Song Yiyi tilted her head up to glance toward the desk.
The man was looking at her too.

His black pupils were so deep they seemed bottomless, and his whole being radiated an elegant, cold sharpness.

This was the first time Song Yiyi got a good look at his face—perfectly proportioned features, deep-set contours.
His strong brows were slightly furrowed, his expression indifferent, unreadable, and his presence was chillingly aloof.

Was this really someone who did political and ideological work?

“Bowen, there’s a chair over there,” Cen Yue withdrew his gaze and stood up from his own chair.

Hearing this, Cen Bowen immediately went to fetch it, reminding Song Yiyi along the way, “Don’t move yet, I’ll bring the chair over.”
He was afraid she’d faint again the moment she stood.

In the small room came the sound of footsteps and water being poured.

Song Yiyi ignored him. By the time Cen Bowen brought the chair over, she had already stood up effortlessly and plopped down into it.

The moment she sat, a cup appeared in front of her.
The hands holding it were long-fingered and well-defined, except for a clearly visible bite mark at the web between thumb and forefinger—an old scar from some past injury.

Something flashed in Song Yiyi’s mind. For some reason, that scar looked very familiar… as if she had seen it somewhere before.