Chapter 58: Good Evening, My Dear Crane

For a long, long time.

The stench of blood in the room grew heavier. The four walls began to be stained crimson, becoming ever more vivid.

“One piece, two pieces, three pieces, ha ha ha.” The butcher laughed wildly.

Screams rang out again, so distorted now that Lin He’s original voice could no longer be recognized; his consciousness began to blur.

“One piece, two pieces, three pieces, ha ha ha.”

The very same words, but this time they came from the child’s own mouth.

He had begun to lose his mind.

Once, his body was covered in wounds. Now, he had lost them all.

Because he had lost his skin. In the butcher’s eyes, there was nothing before him but bloody, raw flesh.

“So beautiful,” the butcher murmured.

Then, he removed the boy’s other arm.

“Wash the handkerchief, wash the handkerchief, the handkerchief is clean and lovely.”

A hulking figure squatted on the floor, humming softly, carefully rubbing a blood-soaked cloth, washing piece after piece of bloodied fabric.

All across the floor, blood-red handkerchiefs were scattered.

He kept wiping him down.

“Come on, let’s play another game next!” said the butcher cheerfully.

Lin He’s eyes seemed to lose focus. He had lost his hands, his skin, and his soul; he trembled upon the wooden chair.

“You seem to be very cold,” the butcher said gently.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you put on some clothes.”

He took out a fine needle, red thread, and those pieces of bloody flesh.

“Ah! Ahhh! Ahhhh!”

The sound of iron chains clattered again, more violently this time. Eyes that had begun to lose focus suddenly sharpened as searing pain struck.

He struggled desperately, his bloodied little feet stamping the ground again and again in futile resistance. But he was just a child—one forever unable to break free of his bonds.

“Ah, what a wonderful sound.”

Then, the butcher once more covered his face with a blood-soaked cloth. Only this time, he laid down piece after piece after piece.

He could no longer breathe. The suffocating sensation was like several hands choking his throat at once.

The butcher threaded the needle through his flesh, carefully stitching those patches of bloody skin onto his body, as if performing a delicate craft.

But this time, after the intense pain, numbness set in. Gradually, he found he could no longer cry out, could no longer struggle.

He was utterly hopeless.

So, he lied to me too, after all. In the end, I was always abandoned.

With eyes wide open, all he saw was a world drenched in blood. The butcher’s cries of excitement grew fainter, and so did the sound of his own breathing.

What time is it now?

Will I survive?

Am I now, like a monster, hideous to behold?

So hungry, so hungry, so much pain.

What should I do? I haven’t yet fulfilled the promise I made to Mother.

Those damned ones, those who deserve a thousand cuts—I haven’t sent them down yet.

That man, he’s still alive, living well.

And yet, am I about to die?

The world before him began to fade; he was so tired, so weary he could no longer keep his eyes open.

Crack. Like the shattering of a mirror, his world fell into darkness again; he could not hear, could not see, could not feel. There was nothing left here.

In a daze, a point of light seemed to appear ahead in the darkness, piercingly bright. Lin He reached out with his small hand, wanting to grasp something.

In the room, the candle still burned, as if it had never gone out. Beside the candle sat a black book stained with blood, looking utterly ordinary in the lamplight.

The room echoed with the butcher’s laughter, over and over. He delighted in dismantling this toy, destroying and then repairing it, again and again, tireless in his amusement.

Unnoticed by him, the black book had begun to turn its own pages.

First page: blood. Second page: blood. Third page: still blood.

Page after page, it turned slowly.

In his world, in the world of darkness.

“Mhm?”

A soft, lazy hum sounded in the darkness, like the gentle sound a cat makes when stretching.

“Good evening, my dear He.” It was a woman’s voice, so light, so casual.

Snow began to fall in the darkness—snow that had once ceased, now falling again, red as blood.

The flakes drifted down, strange and beautiful.

In the dark, Lin He suddenly jolted. That point of light vanished abruptly, and darkness returned.

“Mother.” He was stunned, incredulous, his face etched with exhausted pain.

Before him, where the light had disappeared, stood a woman: elegant, refined, serenely beautiful.

“Yes,” she answered softly.

“Why are you here? Are you waiting for me?” Lin He lowered his eyelids, head bowed, not daring to meet her gaze.

“No.” She turned her head to glance into the distant darkness, gently shaking her head.

“I’m so weak, aren’t I? I boasted so much before you, and now look at me.” Lin He chuckled bitterly.

“Yes, you are too weak. Otherwise, you would have begun your plan of revenge by now,” the woman replied indifferently.

Lin He still hung his head, silent.

“Tell me, He, what did I look like in your eyes, back then?” she asked suddenly.

For a long time, there was no sense of time in the darkness; it was so quiet here.

“Graceful, beautiful, like a lily. You were my pride,” Lin He whispered faintly.

“Why?”

The woman gently raised her hand, caressing Lin He’s young face.

“No matter how that man trampled you, no matter how unjust the world was, you still lived on, strong as ever.”

“I thought that was what strength meant. It’s laughable, isn’t it? Mother, you were the only reason I kept living. I always believed you loved me. I kept telling myself that.”

“Until—”

Lin He did not continue.

“Until?” the woman asked with a tilted smile.

“That day,” Lin He said softly, with great difficulty.

“Yes, that day. You must have learned everything then,” the woman said nonchalantly.

“I learned the truth from Mr. Mo’s lips. He tore away the veil I had wrapped myself in, exposed my own lies.”

“You trusted him greatly.”

“Yes, he was the first, the very first to tell me he needed me.” Lin He smiled quietly, a true smile.

“He, my child, living is truly a difficult thing. Very difficult. If you’re not careful, you die—not the death of the body, but the loss of yourself.”

“Then… am I already dead?” Lin He looked up, his eyes confused and hollow.

The woman gazed at him, silent.

And then the agony returned.

In the tiny room—

“Ah! Ahhh! Ahhhhhh!” Lin He’s eyes flew open and he screamed, his voice hoarse, his pain so great that death would have been a mercy.

The small room was dimly lit, crawling with all manner of poisonous creatures: scorpions, centipedes, venomous ants—every kind.

“How is it? How is it?! My new game! Is it fun? Is it?!”

The butcher stood opposite him, arms raised in glee, excitement shining in his eyes. Before him, the child’s body was a mass of mangled flesh, skin torn everywhere.

Clearly, needle and thread were never skills this burly man possessed.

A boy of six or seven, body covered in venomous insects, gnawing and writhing, burrowing through his flesh.

Behind the butcher, the black book’s pages turned ever more swiftly.

“Clearly, isn’t it? You’re still alive,” the lazy voice sounded again.

Lin He saw her—his mother—standing just behind the butcher, speaking to him softly.

Amid the swarming, crawling creatures, stood a woman of extraordinary beauty.

“He, my child, why do you keep living?” she asked seriously, sighing.

“Living… Am I even alive? I—” Lin He’s voice was hoarse, wracked with pain.

“I—? What do you want to say? That it would be better to die than go on like this? Is that it?” she finished for him.

“I’m in such pain.”

“You still feel pain. I, on the other hand, can feel nothing,” the woman said, her face expressionless.

“Have I lost myself?”

“Are you stupid? Truly, it’s boring,” she said, watching him deny himself again and again, her face full of disappointment.

“Hmm?” Lin He was so very tired, yet still he wanted to raise his head, to look at her face once more.

“What do you see?” the woman asked.

“What?” Lin He was puzzled.

“A red dress, isn’t it? Am I beautiful?” she turned her head toward the distance.

Everything returned to darkness. The red snow never stopped falling.

Lin He turned to look where his mother gazed. Not far from him, a scene appeared.

A grand bridal sedan, red and ornate. The crackle of firecrackers. A group of strangers blowing suona horns. A grand mansion.

Above it, large characters were written:

The Lin Manor.

“That was my wedding day. The day my nightmare began.”

“He, my child, this is the day you never knew about. Seven years ago—the day I began to die.”

“People are truly fragile, He. So fragile that you never know when you will truly lose yourself.”

In the darkness, the red snow fell heavier and heavier.