245: Chapter 245 The First Spark

The rain in Vienna always falls without reason.

After nightfall, the cold wind, carrying strands of rain, squeezed through the cracks in the window frames.

It dropped the temperature in the University of Vienna's male dormitory to single digits.

Zhang Yang, a 1.8-meter-tall man from Lu Province, was currently curled up in his thin blanket on the lower bunk.

In his hands, he held the German edition of "the ferryman" with its deep blue cover.

A small white mountain of tissues had already piled up by the head of his bed.

Originally, he just wanted to find a book by an author from his homeland to pass the time on this cold, rainy night in a foreign land,

and perhaps soothe his stomach and heart, which were riddled with holes from his struggles.

But he hadn't expected to be pulled into that wasteland.

When he saw Dylan turn back without hesitation for Tristan on that wasteland full of demons,

even if it meant her soul would dissipate just to return to that non-existent "home,"

this man from Shandong, who could normally carry two bags of rice up six floors, completely broke down.

That obsession with returning home and protecting someone was like a blunt knife, hacking away at the nerves of a traveler far from home.

“Clang—”

The dormitory door was pushed open.

A gust of cold wind rushed in, accompanied by a heavy smell of beer.

His Austrian roommate, Ivan, tossed his soaked coat over the back of a chair,

loudly complaining about the damn weather while loosening his tie.

Turning around, he saw Zhang Yang huddled in his blanket with bloodshot eyes.

“Hey, buddy.”

Ivan raised an eyebrow and casually tossed his tie onto the bed, his tone carrying a hint of nonchalant teasing:

“Is it another Eastern festival?

Or is there so much rain here that it's soaked through your sentimental heart?”

His gaze fell on the book in Zhang Yang's hand, and his eyebrow twitched.

“This is the book released today. Because of this?”

Ivan walked over, pointing down at the book from his height,

with a self-righteous sense of humor in his voice:

“Come on, buddy. This cheap Eastern 'chicken soup for the soul' is just meant to trick sentimental people.

If you want comfort, it's more practical to go downstairs to the bar for a glass of dark beer.”

Zhang Yang sniffed, not arguing about cultural differences in German as he usually did.

He just silently closed the book, pulled back the blanket, and sat up straight.

“Slap!”

The deep blue book was slammed hard against Ivan's broad chest.

Ivan froze for a moment, instinctively catching the book,

looking with some surprise at this Eastern roommate who was usually always smiling and even a bit submissive.

At this moment, there was a different look in Zhang Yang's swollen eyes.

“You can mock me for crying, and you can mock my German accent.”

Zhang Yang stared into Ivan's eyes, saying each word deliberately:

“But you cannot insult this book. Because an arrogant guy like you has no idea what the weight of a soul means.”

“Huh?” Ivan acted as if he had heard a joke.

“A soul? In these few dozen bucks' worth of paper?”

“Do you dare to make a bet?”

Zhang Yang pointed at the book, his tone stiff:

“Finish reading it tonight. If you can still maintain your so-called noble indifference, I'll cover your breakfast for the next month. You can order whatever you want.”

Speaking to this point, he paused, his gaze sharpening:

“Otherwise, you must publicly apologize to this book on your Facebook and Twitter.

And admit that your arrogance is the cheapest form of trash.”

Ivan raised an eyebrow, weighing the not-so-thick paperback in his hand.

A month of free breakfast?

For a student, that was quite a temptation.

“Deal.”

Ivan shrugged and pulled over a chair to sit down, a look of certain victory and contempt on his face:

“Get your wallet ready, Zhang.

I'll show you that a rational Viennese will never be moved by such fictional sentimentality.”

...The sound of rain made the night feel even thicker.

At first, Ivan sat with his legs crossed, occasionally muttering German words, likely complaining about the absurdity of the setting.

“Wasteland? Mental projection? Isn't this just idealistic sophistry...”

He grumbled every now and then.

But at some point, those long, swinging legs were lowered.

In the narrow dormitory, only the rustling of turning pages remained,

changing from initial nonchalance to an increasing urgency, as if chasing after something about to vanish.

Zhang Yang lay in bed with his back to his roommate, his lips curling into a predicted smile.

He knew that feeling all too well.

That book was like a whirlpool; at first, you think only your ankles are wet,

but by the time you realize it, your entire being has been sucked into that deep sea of redemption.

When the clock struck 4:00 AM,

a strange gasping sound, as if someone were being throttled, abruptly rang out in the darkness.

Zhang Yang instinctively turned around.

By the faint light of the streetlamps filtering through the window, he saw the 1.9-meter-tall Austrian giant,

now curled up in his chair like a helpless child.

The pages were crumpled in his grip, and a murky drop of liquid fell heavily onto the deep blue cover, spreading into a dark stain.

That line, “If I truly exist, it is only because you need me,”

was like a bullet, accurately piercing the softest part of his heart.

That car accident three years ago.

That girl sitting in the passenger seat, smiling and saying, “As long as you're here, I'm not afraid.”

That name he had used all his logic and philosophy to forget, yet could never let go of.

Now, it all came flooding back.

“Ivan?” Zhang Yang called out softly.

The 1.9-meter-tall man jerked his head up, his face covered in tears,

snot and tears smeared across his face, with not a trace of his previous arrogance left.

He looked at Zhang Yang and opened his mouth, his voice hoarse beyond recognition:

“Is she... is she also waiting for me on the wasteland? Did I... fail to ferry her?”

Zhang Yang was silent for two seconds before getting out of bed to hand him a pack of tissues.

“Did you lose?”

Ivan took the tissues and blew his nose hard,

his large frame curled in the chair, his voice muffled in his hands:

“I lost... I lost completely.”

That night, the rain in Vienna soaked through everything.

And the ice called “prejudice,”

also began to crack that night... The next day.

When the first ray of sunlight pierced through the clouds,

a long post titled “Redemption from the East” appeared on the University of Vienna's campus forum and Facebook homepage.

The poster was none other than Ivan.

In the post, he made no excuses, simply recording his emotional journey from the previous night in a tone bordering on repentance.

“I once thought Kant could explain everything, until last night, when a book from the East told me that love doesn't need logic, only courage.”

“This isn't a fortune cookie; it's a hammer that shattered my arrogance.”

The attached photo showed his eyes, swollen like walnuts, and that well-thumbed copy of "the ferryman."

This dramatic scene of a tough guy in tears quickly went viral within the student circles.

In the bookstore corners that were previously ignored,

young people began appearing in small groups, looking for that “deep blue cover.”

The spark had already been lit...