Chapter Sixty-Eight: No, Absolutely Not

A battered, nearly ruined double bed stood in the corner, covered by two thin quilts. It was hard to imagine Zhang Qiqi living here, especially now that she was in her prime at twenty-three. With Su Qin's beauty, Zhang Qiqi surely inherited much, and even as a child she had been bright and lovely—she had grown into a true beauty.

Whenever Su Qin thought of her daughter, guilt filled her heart. The sudden, tragic accident that had befallen her husband was like a natural disaster, dragging what had once been a well-off family into dire poverty within a few short years. Zhang Qiqi, who should have been in her first year of high school, had dropped out and gone to work: waitress, cleaner, odd jobs—she took on every kind of dirty, exhausting labor.

Time flew by, eight years passing in the blink of an eye. The little girl had long since grown into a graceful young woman. Despite the hardships of life, her beauty could not be concealed.

Money was tight. Her father was bedridden, gravely ill. As the saying goes, children of the poor grow up fast. At twenty-three, Qiqi had a spirit as mature as any thirty-year-old.

“Because she has no diploma, Qiqi works as a salesgirl at a supermarket in Nanxiang District.” Su Qin could not hold back her tears when she spoke of her daughter; her choked voice made it all the more heart-wrenching.

She felt she had let her daughter down terribly. Her husband's illness dragged on, hovering between life and death. Su Qin had no choice but to quit her hard-won job as a cleaner to care for him at home. The family’s only source of income fell on Zhang Qiqi's shoulders. How could a mother not ache when a not-yet-grown girl must bear such a burden?

“Why not ask the Lin family for help?” Lin Yang could not help but broach the subject again, though he tried to suppress it.

Curiosity kills the cat, as the saying goes—it could not be more true.

It was a sensitive subject. At first mention, Su Qin's face went pale, but she quickly masked it and repeated what she had said before: “Feng said he didn’t want to trouble the old master... so…”

Before she could finish, Lin Yang interrupted, displeased. “Stop, Aunt Qin. I’m not a three-year-old; please don’t insult my intelligence with such empty lies.”

This time, Lin Yang was truly angry. No matter the past, Zhang Zifeng was the old master's adopted son, his father Lin Cheng's sworn brother, the beloved Uncle Feng. The old master had never publicly disowned him or severed ties, which meant he still acknowledged Zhang Zifeng as a son. But what reason could make him endure such a wretched life rather than seek help from the Lin family? The more Lin Yang thought about it, the more confused and pained he felt.

A groan suddenly broke the tense atmosphere. It seemed the man lying on the bed, Zhang Zifeng, had been roused by their raised voices. His withered right hand stirred slightly.

“Ah Qin, you’re back! Who are you talking to?” Zhang Zifeng’s eyes remained shut as he mumbled. Clearly, the poison ravaging his body had severely damaged his nervous system.

Seeing her husband awake, Su Qin rushed to the bed, grasped his emaciated hand tightly, and smiled, her voice trembling with emotion. “Feng, do you know who I brought with me today?”

“Who? Who did you bring? Aside from Qiqi, who comes by every day to check on this dead weight, it’s been ages since anyone else came.” Zhang Zifeng strained to open his eyes, pain distorting his gaunt face. After a struggle, he managed to part his eyelids a fraction, his dim gaze full of weakness and sorrow.

Standing nearby, Lin Yang saw Zhang Zifeng’s deathly pallor and heard his words, feeling a pang of sadness. Quietly, he reached out and placed his hand on Zhang Zifeng’s left hand, sending a gentle current of vital energy into the frail man before him—the uncle who had once cared for him with such devotion.

“It’s Xiaoyang, it’s Xiaoyang!” Su Qin’s voice quivered with excitement as she clutched her husband’s hand even tighter, as if afraid he might slip away forever if she let go.

“Xiaoyang?” The name seemed almost forgotten. Zhang Zifeng’s lips moved faintly as he repeated it, his voice barely audible from weakness.

Lin Yang only smiled, neither happy nor sad, but inside his heart was in turmoil. He increased the flow of vital energy.

Zhang Zifeng had suffered from the poison for too long, bedridden and immobile for months. Most of his muscles had atrophied, some cells had died, and his nervous system was collapsing. Blood vessels were blocked in many places, making it hard for Lin Yang’s energy to flow smoothly. Each blockage required great effort to break through, and soon sweat poured from his brow, his breath coming fast.

Su Qin was too focused on her husband to notice Lin Yang’s actions. She just held tightly to her half-dead husband’s hand.

“Xiaoyang? The little rascal who used to follow me around wanting to play with guns?” After a long while, perhaps thanks to Lin Yang’s energy, Zhang Zifeng finally recalled scenes from over a decade ago.

That little boy, back straight and eyes earnest, had once declared that he would shoulder a rifle and defend the nation like his grandfather, bravely fighting enemies and guarding the gates.

The child who always called him Uncle Feng.

The stubborn kid who insisted he would defeat him one day.

Years had passed in a flash. That little boy had grown up, while he himself was now a burden on a wooden bed, dragging his family down. If he said he had never thought of ending it all, it would be a lie. If not for Su Qin’s daily presence, he would have met the King of Hell long ago.

Bathed in Lin Yang’s energy, a faint brightness returned to Zhang Zifeng’s eyes. When he recovered, he looked at Su Qin, who had suffered and toiled for him, and even a man as strong as iron could not hold back tears of regret.

Seeing that Zhang Zifeng seemed slightly better, Lin Yang, exhausted and depleted, withdrew his right hand from Zhang Zifeng’s. The effort had taken a heavy toll, and as soon as he pulled his hand away, a wave of dizziness struck. He quickly steadied himself on the bedframe to avoid being noticed.

Taking advantage of their distraction, he wiped the sweat from his brow and forced a smile.

“Ah Qin, you’ve suffered so much all these years.” With a new spark in his eyes, Zhang Zifeng apologized to his wife, his left hand slowly, laboriously reaching up to caress her face, full of tenderness.

“You’re my husband, how could you say such things?” Su Qin replied, a little annoyed. “Enough, Xiaoyang is here. I’ll get him a cup of hot water; it’s gotten colder again.”

She tucked the quilt around her husband and went to the door, where a battered red thermos stood atop a shabby cupboard.

When she left, Zhang Zifeng turned his gaze to Lin Yang, whose face had changed with age.

He studied him for a long time before speaking, his old teasing habit surfacing even through the strain. “Xiaoyang? You’ve shot up, gotten sturdier, and you’re even more handsome than before. Seems your Uncle Feng can’t compete with you now.”

If Lin Yang’s teasing habit had any origin, it was from Zhang Zifeng. But back then, Lin Yang was far more naïve. He loved a good joke, but could hardly bring himself to say anything too adult.

“That’s right, it’s been a long time, Uncle Feng. I never thought we’d meet again like this; eight years have gone by. And what’s this about being more handsome? Wasn’t I always good-looking as a kid?” Lin Yang joked, trying to lighten the mood.

He wasn’t wrong. Back then, he was the handsomest boy in the neighborhood; girls would crowd around him, and a few bold ones even planted kisses on his cheek, declaring, “Lin Yang, my first kiss is yours. From now on, you’re mine.”

For such words to come from a girl not even ten years old was adorable. Thinking back, Lin Yang couldn’t help but laugh. She had been the one to take the initiative—could that really be called a first kiss? And wasn’t that little girl none other than Uncle Feng’s daughter, Zhang Qiqi?

Yes, it was her.

Su Qin, catching the playful mood, managed a rare smile as she handed Lin Yang a cup of hot water. “Here, Xiaoyang, have some hot water.”

No longer the pampered youth of a great family, after half a year in the real world, Lin Yang had changed. He didn’t hesitate to drink from the stained plastic cup.

“Aunt Qin, this place is too shabby—it’s bad for Uncle Feng’s health, and it’s not convenient for getting around. Why not come live with me? It would make his treatment easier, instead of all this running back and forth.”

“No, Xiaoyang, you’ve already done so much. Moving in with you would be too much trouble. Besides, isn’t it fine here?” Su Qin quickly refused.

As Zhang Zifeng’s wife, she knew his character best. If he had refused help from the Lin family for so many years, he would never agree to move in with Lin Yang. Besides, Su Qin had only sought out Lin Yang out of utter desperation; her husband’s life now hung by a thread, and she was grasping at any chance. Despite the rumors in the papers, even with the vague resemblance to the boy she once knew, she could not be sure that the mysterious surgeon was really the young master she’d once squirted with milk.

“No. Absolutely not.” Zhang Zifeng’s face, moments before gentle, now hardened abruptly as if stung. His sudden agitation triggered a fit of convulsions.