Chapter Sixty-Nine: Tragedy Strikes, Drowned in a Girl’s Tears

Ah! The searing pain from within felt as if knives were twisting through his body, making Zhang Zifeng grit his teeth against the agony, his entire frame convulsing as if caught in a spasm.

“What’s going on?” Lin Yang asked, puzzled by the sight of Zhang Zifeng writhing in such torment. Based on his earlier examination, even if Zhang Zifeng were unwell, it shouldn’t have been this excruciating. Lin Yang kept his hand on Zhang Zifeng’s right wrist, trying to steady the arm and prevent any wild movements.

Drawing on the small reserve of energy he’d managed to recover, Lin Yang’s face grew even grimmer as he checked again. Moments ago, the toxin had been quiet, but now it rampaged inside Zhang Zifeng’s body like ants on a hot griddle.

Withdrawing his hand, Lin Yang noted Su Qin’s calm, almost accustomed expression. His brows knit together; clearly, she had witnessed this scene many times before.

“Aunt Qin, how often does Uncle Feng have these attacks?” Lin Yang asked directly, sensing that this might be a vital clue.

“Lately, once a week—almost always the same, though sometimes it’s a bit earlier. It used to be every two weeks,” Su Qin answered honestly, not daring to hide the smallest detail, afraid that even a sliver of hope for her husband’s recovery might slip through her fingers.

Lin Yang fell silent, lowering his head and pinching his chin in thought. The information Su Qin provided was crucial. It reminded him of a rare, slow-acting poison called “Burning Fire.”

As the name suggested, the afflicted would feel as if their whole body was ablaze, consumed by relentless pain. The persistent fever would cause the body’s fat and muscle to burn away, until not a trace of flesh or blood remained and death finally arrived.

Such a poison was truly abominable. If Lin Yang hadn’t read about it in an ancient tome, he would never have believed anything so monstrous could exist.

At this moment, Zhang Zifeng’s symptoms matched sixty percent of the book’s description: burning hot skin, profuse sweating, reddened complexion, wide eyes, and twitching limbs—a typical sign of cells and nerves being ravaged by toxins.

If Lin Yang had one secret skill, it would be the acupoint technique he’d never used on ordinary people before—an auxiliary healing art attached to the “Thirteen Heavenly Blades.”

Though it looked like random jabs, every press was exquisitely precise, each point struck cleanly and efficiently, without hesitation.

At last, when he pressed the final crucial acupoint, Lin Yang slumped like a deflated balloon, sweat pouring from his brow, his breath coming in rapid gasps like a stray dog after a long chase.

“Xiaoyang, are you alright?” Su Qin asked, seeing her husband, who’d just been in agony, now calm, and Lin Yang so out of breath. Though she knew little about medicine, in her heart, Lin Yang was nothing short of a miracle worker.

Every time her husband suffered, Su Qin’s heart ached anew, no matter how often she witnessed it. She wished she could shoulder a portion of his pain herself.

“I’m fine, just a bit drained. I’ll be alright after a short rest,” Lin Yang replied, panting and smiling as he took the towel Su Qin handed him.

“Oh, that’s good. You gave me quite a scare just now—I thought you were falling ill!” Su Qin patted her ample chest, her face still showing signs of fright mixed with apology.

Zhang Zifeng, after the ordeal, seemed even weaker. He’d barely regained some spirit before lapsing back into sleep.

The earlier surge of emotion had hastened the spread of the poison and triggered the episode. After careful consideration, Lin Yang concluded that the catalyst for this toxin was, incredibly, emotion itself—something intangible, yet all too real.

“Emotion? The trigger?” Su Qin echoed Lin Yang’s muttered words, utterly confused.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a theory,” Lin Yang hastily explained, turning his attention to the table by the bed, which was cluttered with various Western medicines. He walked over, picked up a box, and examined it.

Amoxicillin, roxithromycin, hydrochloride tablets—an assortment of drugs in chaotic abundance. Calling it a medicine grab-bag was no exaggeration. In one corner of the cabinet, he even spotted the telltale clay pot used for brewing traditional remedies.

East and West combined, Lin Yang almost had to laugh. Clearly, they’d tried every remedy under the sun; the sheer volume of medicine in the room rivaled a pharmacy.

“Does Uncle Feng take all these every day?” Lin Yang asked, his brow furrowed. If this was a case of desperate measures, it might be doing more harm than good. Most of these were just anti-inflammatories; if they could cure him, that would be a miracle.

“He used to, but now he takes only herbal decoctions,” Su Qin replied, her head bowed in resignation. Western drugs were too expensive, and with their current means, they simply couldn’t afford them anymore. Even the cheaper herbs were a burden; they’d borrowed from every neighbor and friend they could, and now their debts exceeded a hundred thousand yuan—a crushing sum for a family on the brink of ruin.

“No, with Uncle Feng’s condition, you must move out of here,” Lin Yang said, his tone brooking no argument. He couldn’t understand why they refused to stay with him, but seeing Zhang Zifeng like this left him no choice.

After much persuasion—almost begging—Su Qin finally relented.

Lin Yang couldn’t help but feel exasperated. Here he was, trying to do a good deed, playing the role of a living Lei Feng, and it took endless pleading and coaxing just to get them to agree. What kind of world was this?

Zhang Zifeng, half-unconscious, was spared from witnessing their verbal sparring.

As Lin Yang was gathering things and preparing to carry Zhang Zifeng to the car, urgent footsteps sounded outside, and the battered iron door swung open.

A simply dressed young woman entered. Even in the dim light, her stunning beauty was undiminished.

She appeared to be around twenty, yet her eyes radiated a mature allure. Her plain attire couldn’t mask the unique grace and poise that belonged only to a grown woman.

Her long, jet-black hair was entirely natural, not the garish, haphazard colors seen on the street. That signature, lustrous black found only in China. Her wide eyes widened in surprise at the sight of a stranger in the room.

“Qiqi, you’re back! Come, look who’s here,” Su Qin called, her voice brimming with an irrepressible joy that could only be described as maternal pride. She set down her bundle and hurried to greet the girl.

“Who?” Zhang Qiqi blurted out, feeling a vague sense of familiarity as she looked at the young man before her. Yet after so many years, she couldn’t quite recall the name that hovered between memory and forgetfulness.

Su Qin reached out, pulling her daughter closer, her voice trembling with excitement. “It’s Xiaoyang—your Brother Xiaoyang!”

Lin Yang was only five days older than Zhang Qiqi, but older was older—even if it was just by a second. So it wasn’t unreasonable for her to call him “Brother.” Yet as a child, Zhang Qiqi had always been a wild one, and since girls matured faster, she’d been taller than Lin Yang for years, often bossing him around and making him call her “Sister Qiqi.”

So now, hearing “Brother Xiaoyang” felt strange and unfamiliar, and the memory didn’t immediately surface.

Seeing the beautiful young woman frown in confusion, Lin Yang could only shake his head helplessly. Beating Su Qin to the punch, he teased, “Sister Qiqi, have you forgotten me so quickly?”

“Sister Qiqi”—the words were like a key, instantly unlocking long-sealed memories. A torrent of recollections flooded her mind, overwhelming and unstoppable.

“Lin Yang? Are you really Lin Yang?” After a moment’s stunned recollection, the girl’s eyes widened in disbelief, her mouth agape as if she could swallow a whole egg.

Lin Yang chuckled shamelessly, spreading his arms and pulling the still-stunned girl into a deep embrace. Leaning close to her ear, he whispered mischievously, “That’s right, I’m the very Lin Yang who stole your first kiss and became your man.”

But instead of what he expected—delicate hands pinching his waist, an indignant glare, a shove, or an angry outburst claiming he’d only said that to take advantage—none of these happened.

Instead, trembling hands clung to him tightly, and great tears rolled down her cheeks as she sobbed in his ear.

“Brother Xiaoyang, Brother Xiaoyang, is it really you?” Zhang Qiqi choked out between sobs.

Thanks to their height difference—Lin Yang was nearly six feet tall, while Zhang Qiqi stood at five-foot-five—her head barely reached his shoulder. As she wept, her tears soaked through his shirt.

The girl seemed not to notice, crying uncontrollably, as if years of pent-up grief and longing found release at last in the arms of a boy—no, a man—who had become a stranger over time.

“Cry, let it all out. You’ll feel better,” Lin Yang murmured gently, patting her soft shoulder, inhaling the faint fragrance of her hair and the scent of her shampoo.

Some things, once begun, cannot be stopped. For a full fifteen minutes, she wept with abandon. Lin Yang could hardly believe it—by the end, his shirt was thoroughly drenched, as if he’d just been fished out of a river.

Finally, Zhang Qiqi pulled away, noticing the soaked fabric on his chest, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried so recklessly.

As the two separated, Su Qin noticed the wet patch on Lin Yang’s chest and felt a twinge of awkwardness. She turned to chide her daughter with a laugh, “You silly girl, how could you do that to your Brother Xiaoyang’s shirt?”

Then she turned to Lin Yang, “Xiaoyang, take it off and let me dry it for you. We don’t have an electric iron, but I’ll do what I can. You’ll be laughed at if you go out like this.”

Lin Yang grinned, “Being drenched in tears doesn’t feel so bad, actually.” His roguish smile was enough to steal any girl’s breath away.