Love Impossible, The Mismatched Couple

Zhuge Yichen opened his eyes to the cold bite of straw against his wrists. He was bound to a chair, still dressed in his white shirt and dark trousers. His suit jacket was nowhere to be seen. Four men in black stood before him, faces hidden behind masks. The wind at the top of the hill cut sharp and empty. Blood had dried in a dark streak down the left side of his face; one eye was swollen nearly shut. His head rang, yet his mind felt clearer than it had any right to be. The men argued in low voices until one of them noticed the shift in his breathing. “Oh look,” the man said, almost cheerfully. “Sleeping beauty is finally ready to join the party.” Yichen’s pulse slammed against his ribs. Every muscle ached. He could not move. The ropes held firm. These men spoke as if this were ordinary. “Who are you people,” he demanded, voice rough, “and what do you want?” For the past five minutes he had clawed at his memory and found only fragments. He had arrived at his small office, the same as every other morning. An important acquisition meeting was scheduled for nine o'clock. His secretary, Miss Mei, had handed him the usual cup of coffee. After a few sips, Yichen felt a little lightheaded which he’d dismissed as simple exhaustion and then... blackness. One of the masked men stepped closer. ​"No need to trouble yourself, Young Master Zhuge," he said with a cruel chuckle. "When you reach the underworld, just explain to King Yama that you pissed off the wrong people." Before Yichen could speak again, the chair was shoved hard. Yichen tipped backward into open air, the wind roared past his ears. As he plummeted down the cliff face, he caught the faint tail end of their conversation from above: ​"...We could have just pushed him before he woke up, you know." "Where’s the fun in that? He wouldn't have felt the terror." Weightless, descending to his guaranteed death, Yichen wondered if his bitter uncle had finally mustered the courage to finish him off. He braced for the crunch of shattered bones. He expected the final, crushing impact of earth. Instead the chair slammed into a massive, springy mountain of raw wool in the back of an open-air cargo pick-up truck, the sheer bulk of the fleeces absorbing the dead weight of the iron chair. The impact knocked the last bit of air from his lungs, plunging him into blackness. Up in the driver’s seat, Chu Qingyu slammed her foot on the brakes. ​The ancient truck screeched to a halt, kicking up a cloud of dust on the narrow mountain road. Nineteen-year-old Qingyu was an orphan raised in a local martial arts academy, she was currently doing a favor for her elderly neighbor by delivering his seasonal wool harvest. It had taken her weeks to convince the old man to let her drive his truck, and now a massive weight had just slammed into her cargo. She stepped out of the cab, expecting to find a loose boulder or a fallen tree branch. Instead, half-buried in pristine white wool, was a bloody, unconscious man strapped to an iron chair. Qingyu’s sharp eyes narrowed, not in horror at his injuries, but at the deep red stains spreading across the fleeces. “Mister,” she said flatly, “if you wanted to die, couldn’t you have picked a different day?” The man didn't stir. Before she could climb into the truck bed to untie him, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the dirt path. ​Two of the masked men from the cliff came sprinting around the bend, holding iron pipes. Seeing the truck, the lead assassin pointed a finger at Qingyu. “Little girl,” one of them called, voice low and urgent, “hand over the man in your truck and we will pretend this never happened.” Qingyu’s temper, already strained by the ruined wool and the unexpected corpse-like passenger, flared hot. She hardly get a chance to drive and today she finally was trusted with the truck. Now the wool was stained, her neighbor’s money was at risk, and some stranger had come begging for a beating. ​There was one truth every soul in Qingshui Village understood: when Chu Qingyu set her mind on something, not even the gods could pry her fingers open. ​And right now, Qingyu was utterly furious. Furious that Old Cui would never trust her with his truck again. Furious that expensive white wool was being ruined before her eyes. And most of all, furious that a group of men who knew nothing about her had the audacity to call her 'little girl.' ​Had they spoken with even a shred of respect, she might have stepped aside. She knew nothing of city feuds and had zero interest in tangling herself in the messy affairs of city people. But respect had not been offered. Qingyu leaned one shoulder against the side of the truck, arms loosely crossed, and looked at the two men with lazy, unimpressed eyes. “He fell into my truck,” she said, voice calm and almost bored, “so he belongs to me. If you want to catch your own man, go get a truck and wait here until one falls off the cliff.” The two men burst into laughter, taking her lazily defiant posture as pure, foolish ignorance. The larger of the two sneered and lunged forward, throwing a heavy, brutal fist straight for her face. ​He never even grazed her. ​Qingyu’s head slipped smoothly to the side as the strike whistled past her ear. Moving with the fluid grace of a coiled cobra, she stepped inside his guard and drove her elbow straight into his ribs with a sickening c***k. Before the second man could react, she whirled into a blinding sequence, parrying, sweeping, and striking with effortless, vicious precision. They were never her match. Within moments both men were groaning on the ground, one clutching his ribs, the other struggling to rise. ​Before she could catch her breath, however, the rumble of engines echoed down the pass. A backup convoy of thugs poured out from behind the bend. Qingyu merely rolled up her sleeves, a dark, thrilled grin spreading across her face. ​She spent the better part of the afternoon methodically breaking every last one of them. ​By the time the sun began to dip behind the mountains, a dozen men lay bruised, battered, and unconscious in the dust. Using the spare rope from the truck, Qingyu bound them together into a giant human pile right in the middle of the road, left them as a makeshift roadblock She casually climbed into the back of the truck, unknotted the heavy ropes binding the stranger to the iron chair, and hauled his half-conscious frame over her shoulder. Hauling him into the cab, she deposited him into the shotgun seat next to her, slung the seatbelt around his chest, and climbed into the driver’s seat. ​With a roar of the engine, she drove straight to the village mill to unload the cargo. The workers at the unloading dock stared wide-eyed at the blood-soaked, unconscious stranger slouched in her passenger seat, but nobody dared say a word. Qingshui Village had a long-standing rule about Qingyu: you don't ask, and she won't give you a reason to regret asking. ​The mill master inspected the fleeces, declaring the blood-stained portion damaged goods and deducting the cost from Old Cui’s payout. Qingyu simply nodded, accepting the loss with a quiet sigh, and took the remaining cash. ​On her drive back, she passed the spot by the cliff. The pile of men was gone, either dragged away by their allies or fled in terror after regaining consciousness. Qingyu didn't care. Her eyes flicked sideways to the quiet, aristocratic stranger leaning heavily against the passenger door. ​As the evening light caught the sharp, rugged angles of his jawline, a wave of genuine curiosity washed over her. ​Who were those men? Why were they so desperate to erase him from existence? And most importantly, who was he?