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A few days ago, Xie Lian went to the school library and looked through old issues of the Daily Prophet and Quidditch Today. Naturally, a player like Hua Cheng was often mentioned. The Daily Prophet  was full of gossip, while Quidditch Today praised his skills endlessly. They wrote a lot about E’ming too. Aside from technical details about speed and air resistance, the main point was always the same: the Ghost King’s broom was just as terrifying as he was. One rumor even said Hua Cheng had used dark magic and blood sacrifices to make it. “You’ve heard of it, gēge?” Hua Cheng asked with the same smile. Xie Lian didn’t want to go into details, so he said vaguely: “I’ve read a thing or two.” “Nothing good, I guess,” Hua Cheng laughed shortly. “Something about bloody rituals and forbidden magic, right?” “San Lang is as sharp as ever.” “Oh, I’ve just read those trashy articles too. Believe me, gēge, none of that is true.”

In fact, many professional Quidditch players didn’t buy ready-made brooms — unless they had a sponsorship contract. They usually custom ordered them from craftsmen or big broom makers. Some players enchanted their own, but that was a rare case. Making a broom wasn’t just a couple of spells — it required a lot of knowledge. Xie Lian suspected Hua Cheng was one of those few, which only increased his admiration. “May I?” He reached out to the broom but didn’t touch it without permission. When Hua Cheng nodded, Xie Lian carefully brushed the smooth shaft with his fingertips. The broom trembled clearly under his touch, so it hadn’t been his imagination before. The painted eye suddenly came alive and squinted, as if pleased, making Xie Lian gasp softly in surprise. “San Lang, does it always do that?” “Don’t mind it, gēge, it has no manners,” Hua Cheng said, waving the broom off like it was a bothersome puppy. But could a broom have manners? Maybe. When Xie Lian used to fly, sometimes it felt like his own broom, Ruoye, had a will of its own. Even now, he couldn’t just leave it to gather dust in some storage room — instead it stood in his small apartment bedroom. Sometimes he went to the park in the evenings to fly, but he had to stay close to the ground, and even elderly witches could easily outfly him if they wanted to. “I think it’s a wonderful broom,” he said.

For a while, he kept stroking the broom, completely absorbed, and didn’t notice the silence at first. Hua Cheng stood beside him, watching with a strange look, as if he wanted to say something but hesitated. When Xie Lian finally glanced at him questioningly, he smiled and suddenly asked: “Gēge, wanna fly?”

Xie Lian’s eyes went wide. The question caught him off guard, even though it wasn’t bad or offensive. Still… “B-but, S-San Lang,” he stammered, “I… I…” Hua Cheng suddenly stepped closer and lightly touched his hand. “Gēge, it’s okay. If you don’t want to, we don’t have to.” “N-no, that’s not it…” He really wanted to fly, but he didn’t want to ruin the evening by falling off the broom midair. And Hua Cheng probably wouldn’t want to crawl along the ground at snail speed. So he said awkwardly: “I don’t even have my broom with me.”