Chapter 539: The Stranger Father

The dilapidated rooftop, battered by rain, reflected a dazzling silver light.

Lu Yibei, with only one arm left, stood in a corner of the rooftop, eyes closed.

Silently, she controlled the psychic energy within her, unraveling it strand by strand, dispersing the psychic energy that suppressed the power of the Hundred-Armed Giant, returning its freedom, releasing it.

When the suppression was completely lifted, and she sensed the power of the Hundred-Armed Giant still lingering quietly in her chest, Lu Yibei frowned slightly.

It was like a prisoner who had been confined for too long, suddenly finding the prison gates open, not daring to act rashly for a moment.

Lu Yibei pondered for two seconds, then, with a thought, directed a wisp of psychic energy straight into her chest.

As if provoking it, that wisp of psychic energy collided with the power of the Hundred-Armed Giant and then withdrew.

The next moment, Lu Yibei felt a rumbling in her chest, like thunder.

Violent psychic energy fluctuations, filled with a destructive aura, surged from her chest, spreading to her limbs, flesh, bones, even her cells, the sound of shattering echoing in her ears.

Blinding silver light burst from beneath her skin, coating her entire body in a brilliant silver glow.

Since there was nothing else to do, self-detonating to complete a “restart and reload,” and repairing her arm sounded pretty good.

Better a short pain than a long one. A man should be ruthless with himself! Lu Yibei thought.

So, with a muffled sound of flesh exploding, her vision first turned a blinding white, then quickly plunged into darkness, her consciousness seeming to sink into a slowly flowing dark river, drifting along, as the passage of time slowed…

A long time passed.

Feeling the cold rain on her face and smelling the earth-scented air, Lu Yibei let out a soft “ngh” and opened her eyes.

Climbing up from the damp ground, she steadied herself and looked toward Qing Ji, frowning.

Qing Ji was still asleep, sometimes speaking in his own voice, sometimes in a girl’s, as if in conversation.

Not knowing how long Qing Ji would remain in this state, or when he would wake, Lu Yibei simply sat cross-legged beside him, arms folded across her chest, focusing intently to listen.

Hmph, I want to hear just what kind of nonsense you’re spouting!

“…When I was little, I grew up with my grandma. Grandma lived in Rain City, in a village called Jinhua Village, near Meng Mountain…”

Rain City, Meng Mountain? Is that the Meng Mountain that produces tea? Lu Yibei nodded thoughtfully.

Although she had never been to Meng Mountain and didn’t know much about tea, she knew that the poet Bai Juyi once wrote: “In music, only the sound of Lushui is known; among teas, old friends are from Meng Mountain.”

“Grandma was a very shrewd and capable old lady. My grandfather died early, so she raised my father and me, two generations, by picking and frying tea for others…”

Qing Ji’s voice came intermittently, and Lu Yibei listened quietly at the side.

Thus, the past of a certain young woman slowly unfolded in this unhurried narration, like a yellowed photo album gradually opening before her eyes…

——–

From the time Huá Sāng could remember, she lived at her grandmother’s house. She was about three years old then.

It was a small courtyard facing the mountains, with a two-story house, two single-story rooms, and a large drying yard in front, where tea leaves were laid out to dry year-round.

Her grandmother was an excellent old lady, possessing almost all the traditional virtues of people from Country Z: hardworking, honest, neither servile nor overbearing… So even though Grandma spoke little and never lectured, under her example, Huá Sāng was especially sensible and well-behaved from a young age, never causing trouble at home.

She never even asked her grandmother where her parents had gone.

At that time, in Jinhua Village, such a scene was often seen.

Surrounded by green mountains, an old lady busied herself in the drying yard, turning the freshly fried tea leaves, sweating profusely.

At the edge of the yard, a little girl like a pink dumpling sat obediently on a bamboo chair, swinging her little legs, never crying or fussing, just watching the old lady with big, bright eyes.

Huá Sāng’s grandmother was the best tea picker in the village and a renowned tea master. To buy her granddaughter tasty treats, new clothes, and send her to school, she often had to help out on the tea mountain or at the tea workshop.

But both the tea mountain and the tea workshop were unsuitable for children–one was five li from the village, with rugged mountain paths, the other was filled with smoke and open flames.

Grandma couldn’t bear to leave Huá Sāng behind, so she carried her in a small basket, taking her up the tea mountain and into the tea workshop.

Huá Sāng would lie on her grandmother’s shoulder, sometimes using a handkerchief to wipe her grandmother’s sweat, sometimes holding a water bottle to her grandmother’s lips, or imitating her grandmother by plucking a tender green leaf from the tea tree.

The grandmother and granddaughter depended on each other for survival; though life was a bit poor, it was happy and joyful.

Time in the mountains passed slowly, from sunrise to sunset, tranquil and long, yet also quickly–an instant, and a year and a half had gone by.

One morning, as her grandmother was preparing to take young Huá Sāng out, she suddenly said in a childish voice, “Grandma, you don’t need to take me with you today. I’ll be good and stay at home by myself.”

She knew she had grown a lot, and her grandmother had aged a lot, almost unable to carry her anymore. That little bamboo basket was nearly too small for her.

It was as if some force was urging her forward, making her mature earlier than the children in the village her age, and even those older.

But letting such a small child stay home alone, the elderly would certainly not be at ease. Her grandmother just smiled, patted Huá Sāng’s head, and said, “Sansang is good, Grandma’s not tired,” then continued to carry her out every day.

Yet Huá Sāng didn’t give up; she repeated the same words to her grandmother every day.

A week later, her grandmother finally compromised and took her to the village elementary school.

Jinhua Village’s elementary school was small, with only a row of single-story houses, a small playground, a principal, two teachers, and fewer than fifty students.

At that time, Huá Sāng was just over four years old, far from the age for elementary school. At first, the principal was very reluctant to accept her. It was her grandmother who visited again and again, pleading until the principal reluctantly agreed to take her.

From then on, there was a girl in the first-grade classroom of the village elementary school who was obviously much younger than the others.

She wore floral clothes, her little face was rosy and plump, her slightly yellow hair tied into two braids, and she carried a faint scent of tea.

The classroom chairs were tall; when she sat, her little feet in cloth shoes couldn’t touch the ground, dangling in the air, swinging back and forth.

However, though she was the youngest in the class, she was also the most obedient. She listened attentively in class, excelled in her studies, never played or made trouble, and didn’t fight for lunch like the other children, even if when it was her turn, only a plate of greens and a few steamed buns were left.

After school, when everyone had left, she would sit under the old tree at the school gate, quietly listening to the sounds of Jinhua Village.

The chickens in the coop crowded together, clucking.

There were a few listless barks from dogs at the village entrance.

Water in the well bubbled up.

Some insect fluttered its wings against the window.

A distant person shouted something…

Only when the sky was completely dark, her grandmother, tired from a day’s work, would come to the school to take her home.

Some say that children who cry get candy, but this saying didn’t apply to Huá Sāng.

On the contrary, it was precisely because she didn’t cry and was especially well-behaved and sensible that her grandmother, the principal, the teachers, and even most of the villagers showed her the greatest kindness.

Her grandmother doted on her, needless to say. The teachers would set aside a meal for her at lunchtime, and whenever villagers slaughtered pigs or sheep, they would send a small piece of meat to her home… In return, she would help everyone with whatever she could.

The villagers of Jinhua Village all liked Huá Sāng, and Huá Sāng liked everyone too.

So, in such an environment, she grew up healthy and happy, until she was six years old…

That summer was especially hot. The sky was always tile-blue, without a single cloud. Even the tea trees on the tea mountain couldn’t withstand the scorching sun, curling their leaves into thin strips. The air was humid and stuffy, rain delayed, as if holding back a force to steam people alive.

That day, Huá Sāng had just helped the neighbor, the village chief grandpa, cut pig grass. Carrying the eggs he gave her, she happily returned home, only to see a strange man.

The man looked to be in his early thirties, tall and sturdy, with an honest face. Judging by his clothes, he seemed to be from the city.

Although Huá Sāng had never seen him before, she knew at a glance that he was her father whom she had never met.

That night, three generations sat at the same dinner table, and the dishes were more lavish than during the New Year.

Her grandmother kept stealing glances at the man, not like she was looking at her son, but with a hint of apprehension in her eyes. The man kept smiling, picking food for Huá Sāng, saying he was about to make it big and would take her to the city soon. Huá Sāng just buried her head in her meal, saying nothing.

After dinner, she went back to her room early, locked the door, lay on the bed, absent-mindedly flipping through the novel Teacher Huang lent her, and didn’t know when she drifted off to sleep.

In a hazy state, she felt someone open her door and enter her room.

She desperately tried to wake up, but her body felt as if it had been placed under a spell, lying motionless on the bed.

That person tiptoed over to her side, turned her body over, and slammed a broad palm onto her back, as if trying to shatter her spine.

It was like plunging into a stream of melting snow in early spring–a bone-chilling cold spread through her limbs and bones, and soon she fell back into a deep sleep.

Vaguely, she heard a low voice speaking to her, “Don’t blame me…”

Midnight.

The air, stifling for so long, suddenly turned cool. Dark clouds gathered over Jinhua Village, and a mountain wind swept by, bringing a torrential downpour. Bottles and jars in the yard clanged loudly as the rain pounded down.

“Boom—-!”

With a thunderclap that seemed to shatter one’s very soul, Huá Sāng jolted awake from a nightmare. She opened her eyes and heard the sound of an argument coming from the living room.

Judging by the voices, the two arguing were her grandmother and her father.

She climbed out of bed, tiptoed to the door, pressed her ear against it, and listened closely, catching their conversation.

“I raised the child all by myself. You never cared or asked about her. Now what right do you have to suddenly come back and do such a thing to her?!” Grandmother said harshly.

“Mom, listen to me. I had no other choice when I made this decision. Sansang is my daughter–do you think I don’t care about her?” Father said.

“If you cared about your daughter, you should have quit that useless job at The Midnight Watchers Society long ago. I’ve told you before, you simply don’t have the talent!”

“Mom!” Father sounded as if his pain had been touched, his voice suddenly turning dark and vicious. “I know you’ve always looked down on me, but let me tell you, once I succeed this time, I won’t be the same person I used to be!”

Father grew more agitated as he spoke, finally almost roaring, “Mom, haven’t you always thought that man was talented? When the time comes, I’ll be just like him, maybe even surpass him, and become the number one under the natural disaster!”

“And what if you fail? For this nonsense, you even put that thing on Sansang. If you fail, you’ll doom the entire village!” Grandmother said coldly.

“Mom, I won’t fail. Even if I do, isn’t Sansang still there? She’s my backup! Trust me, this is a secret method I got with great difficulty, it absolutely won’t…”

“Shut up! Don’t call me Mom. I don’t have a son like you. Get out! Out!” Grandmother was shaking with rage, cursing furiously.

“Bang!” The door slammed heavily. It seemed Father had left, out into the torrential rain that night.

Huá Sāng pressed herself against the door, not daring to breathe. She had never seen her grandmother so angry.

She didn’t dare go out, only quietly returned to bed, pulled the covers over herself, and drifted into a groggy sleep.

Then, she began to dream–a terrible nightmare.

She dreamed of the reservoir halfway up the mountain, its waves surging, with huge black shadows swimming in the water.

Suddenly, with a loud crash, that black shadow leaped out from beneath the water, revealing its terrifying form in the pouring rain.

It was a giant beast shaped like an ao turtle (a colossal mythical turtle from Chinese legend), its mountain-sized body nearly filling the entire reservoir.

Dozens of meters tall trees looked like weeds beneath it.

Mountain floods surged past its feet like streams.

Facing the lightning streaking across the sky, it raised its head and howled, letting out a thunderous roar.

And so, heaven and earth trembled.

……

After that day, Huá Sāng never saw her father again.

That man had appeared in her life for less than a day, seemed to have left something on her, and then disappeared once more.

After her father left, Huá Sāng fell seriously ill, running a high fever day after day, lying in bed in a daze.

While unconscious, she often dreamed of that terrifying giant beast. Occasionally, when she woke up a little and opened her eyes, she would see her grandmother’s haggard face by the bed.

This state lasted for almost the entire summer vacation. It wasn’t until several days after the village elementary school had started that her condition began to improve.

When Teacher Huang from the village elementary school learned that Huá Sāng was getting better, he specially brought her the new semester’s textbooks, gently touched her forehead, and urged her to rest well and return to class as soon as possible.

Then, not long after, people in the village began to die.

The first to die was Teacher Huang!

That day, Teacher Huang didn’t go to school at all. After school, the principal went to his house to look for him, and upon opening the door, fainted from fright on the spot.

Just the day before, he had been lively and energetic, but after just one night, he had turned into a corpse swollen and festering all over, as if soaked in water for days…