Chapter 30: The God of the Road

Ten o’clock in the morning, Yu Tu’s parents and Yu Tu himself rang the doorbell at Jingjing’s house. The Qiao family—Mom, Dad, and Jingjing—came rushing out together.

Funny how, despite having met each other several times over the years—high school parent-teacher conferences alone had piled up to twenty or so—this felt like a first encounter.

Yu Tu’s mom was a longtime PTA committee member, always handling the tedious little tasks that kept everyone running smoothly. She’d earned the trust of every parent in the district. As Yu Tu’s dad put it: “Honestly, it’s mostly because of our son.”

Jingjing’s mom slipped her arm around Yu Tu’s mom as they stepped inside, while the two dads exchanged stiff but polite handshakes. Yu Tu and Jingjing trailed behind, keeping a few steps back, whispering under their breath:
“Yu Tu… do you feel kinda awkward?”
“Like we’re on a blind date or something.”
“I don’t think so. Maybe just my parents are nervous. After all…”
“…they’re about to split half someone else’s daughter.”
“What did your dad say yesterday?”
“Mostly just stories about you when you were little.”
“You once almost got lost at kindergarten. Then every single day after school, you were off to the youth center for singing and dancing lessons.”
“And in middle school, you aced everything.”
“Then he talked about how tough you’ve been these past few years…”

Thanks to the foundation of familiarity and mutual trust built over time, the meeting went surprisingly well—warm, relaxed, even a little joyful.

Yu Tu’s dad brought a small purple clay tea tray—just the right size for one person, its surface deeply stained by years of tea seepage. “This was made by Yu Tu’s grandfather when he was still an apprentice,” he said. “He dug the raw material himself—Tianqing clay. Back then, his craftsmanship wasn’t quite there yet, so he only made small things like this.”
“There were originally two. But Yu Tu said you’re a tea drinker, so I thought this could be your lucky charm.”

Jingjing’s dad took it gently, turning it over in his hands. His voice softened. “This is real treasure. Even just the quality of the Tianqing clay? Unavailable now. And the workmanship—it’s simple, natural, masterful in its simplicity.”

On the opposite end of the sofa, Jingjing’s mom and Yu Tu’s mom sat shoulder-to-shoulder, chattering away like old friends. Hearing Jingjing’s dad’s quiet awe, they both turned toward him at the same time.

Yu Tu’s mom smiled—a light, playful curve of her lips. “We don’t really know much about this stuff. We just wanted to show our appreciation.”

Jingjing’s mom pulled her close. “Our feelings? They’re the same. All we want is for you two to be happy.”

Yu Tu and Jingjing glanced at each other, fingers laced together, leaning into one another without shame—letting the adults watch, let them see.

Yu Tu had a meeting later that afternoon. They’d have to leave no later than midnight. Both moms had packed snacks for the road.

According to Jingjing’s estimate, they’d have enough food to last until she left for the film set on Tuesday afternoon.

Of course, their parents were used to them vanishing in a flash. But this time was different. Their little ones weren’t kids anymore. They’d grown up—grown strong enough to build a life of their own.

On the drive, Jingjing wasn’t herself. Her mood was low—probably because, when she looked back, she saw both mothers wiping tears from their eyes.

Yu Tu brushed her hair with his hand. “Nothing’s really changed, you know. My mom said it herself—she’ll follow whatever you decide.”
“Follow me? Then I want to go back to Shimo.”
“Too late. I have to be at work by 4:30.”
“Then I’ll go home myself when you get there.”
“Jingjing, stop teasing.”

When Yu Tu wasn’t around, Jingjing tidied up the apartment—mostly by directing the robot vacuum in slow, looping circles. Not too much effort.

But when he came home, there was hot food waiting.

“Mom said just microwave it. Super easy. No need to touch the stove.”
“Complaining about sleepless nights? That’s not a valid claim.”

Jingjing felt she had to fight back.
“My girlfriend’s within three kilometers, but we’re not together. Isn’t that a reasonable complaint?”
“Well… maybe you should complain to Mr. and Mrs. Qiao instead.”
“Miss Qiao… can we settle this privately?”
“Yu Tu… I take it back. Private settlement’s way too expensive.”

It *was* too expensive.

That morning, when Yu Tu left, Jingjing struggled to open her eyes. Later, when she finally stood up, she nearly collapsed—so angry she grabbed a pen from the nightstand and slashed a big “正” character across the calendar.

The wall calendar had come from Yu Tu’s office. Since they couldn’t showcase their actual work, it became a gallery of colleagues’ photography—stunning shots of stars, galaxies, nebulae. High caliber, naturally. These guys had seen more celestial wonders than half the people in China combined.

Underneath the vast sky, a bold, glowing pink line stretched across the page. According to their agreement, Yu Tu had to return the favor—using a blue-black pen, one stroke at a time, marking each moment of good behavior.

These days, Jingjing had gained a little weight thanks to her mom’s constant feeding. When she reported to Lingjie, she explained: “Zhaojun started out at 19. Sure, she carried sorrow—but she still had that fresh, girl-next-door glow. The journey should make her look worn down, drained.”

In short: I’m fat, I’m beautiful, and I’m justified.

Around noon, Xiao Zhu dropped by with a suitcase full of gear. She hauled the old one back to Lujiazui to sort through. The desert wastelands of northern China and the fully equipped studio complex in Hengdian? Totally different worlds.

Staring at the half-filled suitcase—top-tier skincare products, stacks of face masks—Jingjing sighed to Lingjie: “Man, the paycheck doesn’t last long.”

That evening, Yu Tu came home earlier than expected. He apologized sincerely for being tired the night before—“I wore out Miss Qiao.” Today’s gift? A peace offering.

From a certain perspective, it was a disaster.

It looked exactly like those summer car sun shields—three rolls of uneven-sized plastic sheets, neatly tied together.

“It’s super cold in northern Shaanxi during winter,” Yu Tu explained. “The filming crew’s base has always been in a wind corridor. Temperatures drop seriously at night.”
“When it gets really freezing, you can stick these pads on window cracks—or even sew them into your coat.”
“These are the best-performing graphene insulation materials from our low-temperature tests. I collected all the used ones, cleaned them, sorted them, and brought them along.”
“We ran multiple rounds of experiments. Some spots tore. Not much leftover. Took several cycles to gather this much.”
“And this isn’t even the latest prototype. No confidentiality issues.”
“Oh, and I can’t tell Xiao Zhu anything else.”

In the airport VIP lounge, Xiao Zhu tried to keep up with Jingjing’s enthusiastic lecture:
“Wait—is this like the thermal lining in astronauts’ space suits?”
“Close enough. You wouldn’t understand the rest anyway.”

Looking at the massive rolls of plastic wrap strapped to the luggage, Xiao Zhu suddenly felt like a migrant worker ready to crash on the floor anytime.

She rubbed her ears—already sore from hearing “Yu Tu said…” over and over.
She decided: Jingjing could easily become the Grand Protector of the “Yu Tu Doctrine.”

But Miss Qiao wasn’t impressed.
“He was called ‘God of Yu’ at Tsinghua already.”
“And besides… isn’t ‘Grand Protector’ kind of a low rank?”