anovelconsole Chapter 1697 - 40:
Chapter 1697 - 40:
Hang Xin did not stop. She was eager to escape the blazing fire, and instinctively spoke:"Anyway, my mother’s love is definitely love! As for your love, think about it yourself! True love shouldn’t cause too much confusion. You should have the answer in your heart."
She dashed forward, she saw a window that could be her escape!
The flames roared, thick smoke stung her eyes, her mother’s breathing was faint on her back, at risk of being engulfed by the fire at any moment.
She didn’t know how others defined "love".
But for her, love is not a reason for harm, nor a license for inflicting pain.
Love is when her mother is willing to risk her life to jump down and save her, not caring if she would be shattered; love is when, even if she plays countless wrong notes, her mother would point to the right keys and try hard to teach her; love is when, even if rules compel them, her mother would try to ensure she feels no pain; love is when, even if she is destined for a short life, her mother never considers her a shame, but is immensely proud of her growth; love is being willing to cut off her own hand rather than let her endure another blow.
—So if a kind of "love" brings only fear, pain, and self-doubt... if it never tries to understand and only negates. It never guides, only punishes...
That perhaps is not love.
Just harm.
The depth of love implies sternness; strictness aims to cultivate resilience through temporary pain. While children may not understand immediately, they may perceive the significance upon reflection when they grow, and this expectation might be termed as love... However, forcefully linking achievement with harm, becoming harm instead of weathering the storm, is not love.
Love’s diversity should not include abuse.
Any behavior causing continuous harm under the guise of love cannot be called love. It’s merely... a display of power.
The foundation of love is respect and protection.
The boy lowered his head to look at his scar-riddled hands, their bruises and welts making them unrecognizable as a child’s hands. They have endured much more pain than his peers.
In his silent eyes, ripples seemed to tremble.
"...I think," he murmured, "I kind of understand."
"Turns out being good to me can actually be painless."
"Turns out red bean paste can simply be sweet without tasting of blood."
Harsh scolding, cold denigration, burning pain...
Gentle comfort, tolerant guidance, light touches...
Two images coexist.
One helps him understand what harm is.
The other shows him what love is.
Turns out he can indeed acknowledge both. Acknowledge the cruelty of harm and the possibility of love.
Turns out this really isn’t contradictory. The contradiction is someone once erroneously packaged the former as the latter.
"Rustle—!"
The scorching heat wave licked Hang Xin’s back, she finally reached the window, the only escape route.
The searing blast wave surged from her back, forcing her to leap out. Then, she looked down—under the window, there was also a blazing sea of fire.
She laughed tragically, realizing this was indeed a nine-death-one-life situation.
A burst of explosive waves surged in.
"Swish!"
Suddenly, a bloodstained, swollen, deformed hand clawed desperately at the reddened lower window ledge at the last moment. As the skin made contact, a "sizzle" sound of burning flesh was heard. The other hand fiercely gripped Talia’s left arm.
The two of them hung outside the burning window, below them was an abyss of fire.
"Ah—!" Hang Xin let out an excruciatingly painful wail. The right hand grasping the window ledge bore the weight of both of them, the scorching metal burned through the palm’s torn flesh instantly, piercing pain mixed with the smell of scorching flesh rushed straight to her brain. All her wounds were tearing apart.
Talia hung below her, relying solely on her daughter’s trembling hands. Blood loss caused her to lose focus, but she saw her daughter’s grimacing, painful face.
Flames burst from the window’s inner wall, spreading along the wall; the temperature rose sharply, the window ledge turned dark red, white smoke mixed with the stench of burning protein rose.
Fingers involuntarily spasmed, Hang Xin didn’t know how long she could hold on, each second was enough to crush her spirit with torment.
Suddenly, she heard Talia speak softly below:
"I’m so glad I chased after you, otherwise you might have been... unable to reach here alone. You are my best... my most precious. No, you are not mine. I love you."
The maimed mother was already speaking incoherently:
"I love you, not because you are the continuation of my bloodline. I love you simply because... you are my daughter."
All grievances, fear, resentment, and the unfairness of life’s brevity were washed away in that moment.
Hang Xin wept loudly, like a child truly lost but finally found. She truly didn’t care anymore, what does it matter if she’s a short-lived species, or if she is discriminated against, all she wants now is for her mother to live.
Talia’s voice grew weaker, light danced in her pupils:
"So, promise me two things."
Flames almost licked Hang Xin’s hand.
"First, forget the words ’short-lived species’. Your breadth has already outweighed the length of time."
"Second..."
Suddenly, the hand voluntarily loosened.
Falling.
No struggle, no cry.
As if merely turning to leave for a long-promised journey.
Her long hair lifted with the firelight, like dancing willow leaves, the woman’s eyes stained with blood, like a falling dead leaf butterfly, receding in Hang Xin’s view, seemingly falling into the crimson sea.
Like a feather finally shedding all weight, returning to the earth and the stars—
Talia, with a serene smile, covered in blood, leaned back, falling into the surging, brilliant, cruel sea of fire below, seemingly able to purify all pain and obsessions.
The mother’s voice dispersed in the roar of flames:
"...No mother does not love her child, I have always believed..."
...
"Mom, mom!" The boy searched in the snow for a long time before finally finding a small branch with four leaves.
It is said that finding such a sprout on New Year’s Day will bring luck to the family.
He cradled it carefully, running along. The snow covered his calves, he ran panting, but his heart was warm—his mom would definitely smile when she sees this. Maybe she would pat his head, maybe... they could have hot lantern festival rice balls tonight.
He knocked hard on the door.
"Mom, I’m back!"
The voice carried a child’s irrepressible excitement, piercing the cold air.
It was quiet inside.
The boy waited at the door for a long time until his limbs were numb, the clover gradually slipping from his stiff fingers and falling into the snow.
He pressed his ear against the door and listened again.
There was no sound.
Maybe... mom was just asleep. He retrieved the spare key hidden in the flowerpot and unlocked the door.
"Click."
The door opened.
A waft of sweet, bloody, and burnt air hit him, the living room was dim, curtains drawn, only a bit of light came from the direction of the kitchen.
He stepped barefoot on the cold floor, silently moving towards the kitchen. The kitchen light was on, there was a small pot on the stove, inside was a layer of dark red paste-like substance, already cooled, with a wrinkled film on the surface.
Red bean paste.
He walked over, cautiously took a sip.
As always, it tasted good, but there was a strange flavor, like rust.
He put down the pot, ready to check if his mom was really asleep. As he passed his mom’s tightly closed room door, that strange smell seemed more intense.
He stopped walking and tilted his ear to listen.
Silent as death.
Not even the sound of breathing could be heard; the door was locked.
He took a step back, then fiercely hurled his entire strength at the wooden door!
"Bang!!"
The door panel shook, emitting a burdened groan.
"Bang! Bang!!"
The boy, drawing strength from some unknown place, slammed again and again, like a young beast trapped in a desperate situation, wildly pounding with fury. The pain in his shoulder felt like bone was splintering, but he disregarded it.
"Crack—!"
The lock finally gave way, and the door sprang open with force!
A thick scent like a tide engulfed him instantly. The room was dark, with the curtains tightly closed; in the corner, a dark red charcoal brazier lay with a few incompletely burnt pieces. The windows and door were shut tight, the air so dense it was almost unbreathable.
The boy’s mother lay curled up on the bed not far from the charcoal brazier, covered with a blanket, facing the wall, completely still.
The boy calmly walked to the window and drew the curtains.
The woman’s body was warm and somewhat hot. She slowly turned her head. Her face showed no pain, no astonishment, only a bottomless tranquility.
"Swish—"
The locked window opened a crack.
Cold, fresh air rushed in, colliding with the room’s foul, hot air stream. Ash-white smoke from the brazier drifted up, scattering over the blanket, the floor, and onto the boy’s face.
The boy drew the curtains, extinguished the brazier—a process eerily quiet, skilled, and mundane.
As if he hadn’t just uncovered a suicide attempt, as if he merely felt stuffy and casually opened a window.
Because the boy was used to it.
This wasn’t the first time.
She was waiting for him to discover her.
She was waiting "to be stopped."
To test whether he would come, if he could "save" her. She was longing for something—perhaps attention, perhaps retention, perhaps proof that she was still loved, or perhaps just to perish. She was too powerless, powerless enough to resort to such self-destructive means.
The boy didn’t cry or fuss, didn’t rush to hug his mother with tears shouting, "Don’t leave me," like in TV dramas. He was simply accustomed to it, a practiced habit.
He stood there, watching for a long time.
Then, with an unusually calm tone suffused with childishness, he said:
"Mom, next time, open the window a bit wider. Otherwise, the charcoal smell won’t clear."
The woman on the bed nodded.
The boy seemed to have received a promise. He turned and left the room, gently closing the damaged door behind him.
He didn’t repair the lock. He knew there might be a "next time."
Next time, he would still pretend not to know it was "suicide," only remembering to remind his mom to "open the window wider."
Because his mom promised him "not to leave."
This was the promise he held tightly; he needed to live in a tacitly mutual pretense, pretending his mom had simply fallen asleep and forgot to open the window, pretending the charcoal brazier was just for warmth, pretending each silence was merely his mom being tired.
He walked back to the kitchen, looking at the bowl of cooled-down red bean paste, picked it up, and slowly drank it all, mouthful by mouthful.
So sweet.
So delicious...
...
"Parents’ love for their children may be the result of hormonal control, but I know it with utmost clarity."
"Hang Xin, my love for you transcends everything, exceeds the instinct for human survival, surpasses the self-preserving nature of biological entities..."
...
"Boom!"
A figure fell before people’s eyes.
It was Hang Xin, charred all over, with a carbonized right hand, in a state of mental collapse.
She fell heavily into the black water, creating ripples, tightly clutching an object to her chest—a charred remnant of a window frame, vaguely resembling a severed arm.
She lay on the cold water surface, her eyes hollowly open, tears mingled with blood flowing.
Xiao Xiao hurried forward to heal her, despite having reached his limit, only able to overdraw himself.
"Why...me." Hang Xin cried out in delirium, collapsing, "Why...me!!!"
Why was she the survivor!
Clearly, she stormed inside to prove something, why did her mom die!
The mother always skilled in providing a fallback for the child’s courage, if she hadn’t passionately joined this escort team, signed the life-and-death pact, if she hadn’t bravely charged through the door, or if she hadn’t angrily left the clan from the start...
Why, was it her mom.
It should’ve been her, it was supposed to be hers...
Tears streamed uncontrollably, numbing the pain.
She curled up, buried her face deep in her knees, shoulders trembling violently, yet unable to make any sound.
Su Ming watched quietly, eyes flickering.
To think mother’s love could be like this. Not possession, not control, not hurt and imprisonment.
It could be clear and generous, without any mess, filled with courage, transcending instincts and ethical constraints.
Talia exerted every effort to break cruel rules, Hang Xin endured tremendous pain from body fragmentation to identify the keys. In the end, Hang Xin shook within the scorching flames but didn’t release her grip, whereas Talia voluntarily plunged into the fiery waves.
No need for words, life and death together.
Kinship ties were once a luxury for him, later becoming abandoned, eventually turning to desolate wasteland within his heart. He always knew, emotions in his memory weren’t the sole template for parent-child relations, today he truly witnessed, different from Bai Chun’s superficial love, purer, braver, without impurity.
A long-delayed mix of dull pain and enlightenment slowly consumed him.
The sharp, cold, disparaging, and violent voices in his mind had long grown distant.
...become wrong.
If it were Lin Wang’an, she would never give such love.
...
["I love you, not just because you’re my daughter."]
["This love strips away blood’s natural ties, rips away societal ethical frameworks..."]
["You’re not ’my.’ I love you, that’s all."]
...
The boy once holding naive fantasy has grown, he long realized the distortion of that love, no longer hopeful, neither nostalgic, nor believing "reformation and rectification" means forgiveness.
He lifted his head, suddenly feeling dizzy.
Closed his eyes, stood for a while.
"Mom loves you... Come to mom..." a phonogenic hallucination, gender indistinct, echoed again in his ears. This wasn’t the first time, since awakening as Su Wenli, he often heard such hallucinations.
He recalled finding a Radiant Mother God medal in Lin Wang’an’s drawer, was this hallucination Lin Wang’an’s doing? Allied with Radiant Mother God, to brainwash him?
Ridiculous.
He glanced at the door, a new path opening.
...