17. Pudding Egg Tart

Mr. Sunday truly was an outstanding student.

As Rachel stepped out of the Morning Dew Mansion, a wave of emotion stirred within her. He grasped knowledge with remarkable speed and absorbed it well. It was clear he possessed that hallmark of young, successful men—the ability to remember everything at a glance.

Rachel thought to herself: Sometimes, she simply couldn’t understand why there existed a group of people whose very existence seemed like a dimensional disadvantage to those around them.

But even if she was at a disadvantage, so what? Mr. Sunday paid generously and without hesitation!

The wages for work-study students were paid twice a month: a sort of deposit at the beginning of the month, roughly a third of the total monthly income, and the remainder at month’s end, making up the other two-thirds. For these students just entering the fold, this payment system was quite considerate.

Mr. Sunday was remarkably thoughtful, Rachel mused. He was as wonderful as his name suggested. Although Sunday was followed by Monday, and Saturday came before Sunday, personally, she preferred Saturday.

However, she had heard that in Pinoconi, the Oak family and the Dream Builders all observed a single rest day, so in that context, Sunday truly was the most delightful day.

As she exited the main hall, she glanced back and saw the gentleman—who held himself to exacting standards—carefully adjusting the miniature soldiers on the city model.

Focused and gentle in his movements, considering that he was a handsome man, Rachel was inclined to describe the scene as “adorable.”

Pushing the door open, she met a member of the Oak family coming the other way. The man was dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, his hair perfectly groomed. In his hands, he carried a tray bearing small golden pastries that emanated a sweet fragrance.

His steps were steady and brisk. Rachel barely had time to steal a glance at the golden pastries as they passed by. She noticed dark speckles speckled over a tender yellow surface and deduced it must be an egg tart.

Yet its filling was slightly raised, suggesting it was no ordinary egg tart.

The aroma of baking lingered persistently at her nose—the mingling of flour, butter, and sugar, the most basic elements of a dessert. The scent transformed in the oven’s heat into a crispy, flaky texture. Rachel could even feel, on the tip of her tongue, the delicate crumbling of the tart’s edges into tiny fragments.

She sensed something stirring beneath her tongue—undoubtedly, her craving.

Well... her wages had arrived, hadn’t they?

Rachel told herself it was perfectly fine to indulge a little. After all, even if the sky fell, she couldn’t neglect her mouth, could she?

On the way back, she’d look for a shop selling egg tarts. If none existed... well, the school bakery seemed to offer caramel pudding cupcakes.

In any case, buying one to reward herself was always a good idea.

*

At the next tutoring session, since Mr. Sunday’s progress was indeed swift and it wasn’t yet time for the scheduled lesson, he noticed Rachel’s troubled expression—as if she hadn’t prepared the next lesson in time—and kindly offered to chat about something unrelated to her studies.

“Anything at all,” he said, sitting upright in a soft, armless chair embroidered with exquisite patterns. The chair looked very comfortable, yet he maintained perfect posture.

“I was once a bell-ringer for a long time. People who came to me would tell me everything. Now, looking back on that period...” His gentle voice gradually trailed off.

Rachel pondered for a moment and asked, “Last time, when I left, I met a waiter at the door who brought you a dessert. I caught the scent, and even after buying a caramel pudding cupcake afterward, I couldn’t quite satisfy my craving.”

A faint smile deepened on Mr. Sunday’s face, and Rachel even heard the tune of “YMCA” playing—a version slightly faster and higher-pitched than usual.

“It was a pudding tart. You got half right. Indeed, a very delicious dessert. Would you like me to pack two for you to take away when you leave?”

Rachel hesitated briefly, feeling they weren’t quite familiar enough for her to order and take desserts on a whim, so she shook her head.

“Not this time, thank you.”

Though her expression remained composed, her mind was already planning to accept such an offer next time, perhaps a month from now.

By then, she would agree without hesitation.

Rachel had no particular topic she wanted to discuss. She felt she still didn’t know enough about Pinoconi or the Fold to express herself fully, and her questions might even seem foolish.

So she was silent for a moment. After a brief pause, Mr. Sunday said, “If I were to ask about your past, would that be too presumptuous?”

“No,” Rachel replied.

She paused, then added, “Though you might find my past rather dull.”

“I believe that any experience that shapes a person is never dull.”

Rachel covered her face with her hands, then lowered them and sighed.

“What if all I did was study, take practice exams, and research school admission policies?”

Mr. Sunday leaned forward slightly, though the movement was subtle.

“That makes me even more curious.”

“Alright... alright.”

Rachel leaned back in her chair, tracing figures in the air with her fingers.

“My family is among the poorest five percent on the entire planet...”

“I attended an elementary school in a rough neighborhood where the graduation rate was low. Many kids started working after elementary school, but I didn’t want to work. Most workers there developed health problems by their thirties—back issues, neck problems—and could never afford a home of their own.”

Mr. Sunday’s words slowed as he spoke.

“You wanted a home to call your own.”

Rachel nodded.

“I’m the kind of person who’s slow and steady—I want a house, a place to truly belong.”

“My luck was a bit better, and I was smart enough to realize early on how important education was. The only way for me to leave that neighborhood without becoming a laborer was to get top scores in exams and secure government scholarships.”

She sipped her tea, feeling the bitterness of the cooled liquid. It prickled from the back of her tongue outward.

“After that, it was a cycle of studying and exams, along with researching university admission policies... and so on.”

“If I had to say something interesting... I was the only day student at my school because I couldn’t afford boarding fees. My family rented our home. During high school, my mother’s illness worsened. She did odd jobs at best, and I had to cover a lot of medical expenses. So I couldn’t use my scholarships for boarding. But it didn’t matter—I brought breakfast and snacks to the boarding students and earned some extra money.”

Mr. Sunday lowered his eyelids. When Rachel mentioned not affording boarding, his gaze dropped to the edge of the table.

He looked empathetic, even more pained than Rachel herself had felt during those numb times.

Rachel paused.

“Mr. Sunday?”

“Hmm... yes.”

His ear feathers twitched—short feathers that seemed springy.

“This world is hard to be satisfied with, isn’t it?”

Rachel was surprised by the question.

“Of course. But my hometown is changing. It’s joined the interstellar peace company’s trade network, developing some primitive yet beautiful areas into tourist destinations... At least I had ten years of scholarships from there.”

Mr. Sunday asked softly, “Do you feel satisfied because of that?”

It felt almost like a psychological test. Rachel thought wryly, “Of course not. There’s a long way to go, and the development of tourist sites hasn’t been perfectly executed... In short, it’s still far from ideal. I won’t be satisfied. Even if it became great, I wouldn’t be satisfied because dissatisfaction drives progress.”

“Then will you return to your hometown?”

“Join the development there?” Rachel laughed. “Maybe, but only after a long time. I don’t know if you’ve heard the saying: ‘When poor, keep oneself pure; when accomplished, help the world.’ In my current state, I can’t contribute much to development back home. It’s better to earn money here in Pinoconi, save up, and then return. But if I make a lot of money, maybe I’ll bring my mother here to settle down. The environment here is good for her illness.”

“So you really like Pinoconi.”

Rachel’s eyes widened. “Who wouldn’t? It’s wonderful here—just expensive, but that’s my problem.”

Her words sounded no different from anyone happily lost in a dreamlike paradise, enjoying a life they’d longed for.

Mr. Sunday wondered why...

The clock on the wall was nearing the end of the lesson. The next suitable moment for casual conversation might be quite a while away.

So he asked, “One last question: What does your ideal, beautiful world look like?”

Without hesitation, Rachel answered, “Achieving universal harmony—world peace. But that kind of world requires extremely advanced productivity, with material abundance and spiritual civilization progressing together. That would probably be the best.”

“But honestly, even that world wouldn’t satisfy me, because I’m quite greedy.”

Rachel interlaced her fingers.

“I always want more. But I think that’s good, because wanting more means I’m always climbing upward.”

“I see,”

she heard Mr. Sunday say.

“So you’re someone who constantly realizes and elevates your self-worth.”