Chapter 20: What Are You Afraid Of?

Yang Yi moved through clouds and mist, countless stars in the sky following her, while mountains and rivers on the ground slowly shifted.

She was not flying toward Akar City’s New City—even though she had said so, the mood had been built up to that point, and she felt she had to say it to express her feelings, but it did not mean she truly intended to go there.

Her destination was the seaside town of Haibei City, her secret base.

It was the first time she had flown such a distance—from the northern capital to the southern coast, over two thousand kilometers away; by car without stopping it would take twenty-four hours, by high-speed rail twelve hours, by plane three hours, but she flew it in one hour.

Sometimes she was grateful for her superpower—telekinesis was like an invisible hand, helping her solve countless small and large troubles in daily life.

Landing on that familiar cliff, she stood at its edge, facing the salty, briny sea wind, gazing far out at the ocean.

It was not a calm night—the wind howled, churning countless waves, crashing against the cliff face, occasionally flinging stray droplets into her face.

The purple flowers of the yellow jasmine had faded; the vibrant oleander bloomed brightly; the newly opened osmanthus scent was no longer so overpowering—if it were a peaceful daytime here, it would be a pleasant, secluded spot.

But now, all of them swayed wildly in the howling wind—rustling, hissing, leaves slapping together, branches scraping against each other, like demons with claws and fangs in a movie.

Yang Yi wiped the seawater off the lounge chair with a casual hand, then sat down, letting her entire weight collapse onto it, as if returning to the safest, warmest, most familiar home in the world.

She brushed aside an oleander branch that had been whipped against her face, as if shooing away a mischievous kitten always bothering her.

The wind grew stronger; a flash of lightning lit up the distant sea, revealing waves teeming with hidden dangers, then thunder crashed at her ears, slamming into her eardrums and exploding inside her ear canals.

Accompanying the lightning and thunder came a downpour. Raindrops were enormous—each one struck the ground with enough force to dent it; when thousands upon thousands of these drops assaulted the earth together, it was like ten thousand cavalry charging forward, terrifying in its fury.

The oleander quickly bent under the assault; osmanthus blossoms scattered like stars onto the mud, carried by rainwater into tiny streams that flowed to the cliff’s edge and plunged into the sea.

She leaned comfortably in the lounge chair; every raindrop that neared her body curved midair as if hitting an invisible shield, falling harmlessly to the ground.

She watched the ocean, thoughts rising and fading in her mind like ice and bubbles floating and sinking in summer water—gone in an instant.

She felt a long-absent sense of peace; all the rapid changes and superficiality of recent days drifted away from her, and at last she found her former tranquility.

The drumming rain filled her ears, the wild sea stretched before her, trees danced wildly around her—and yet she gradually grew drowsy.

“Ding—” A text alert sounded. Yang Yi frowned slightly—she did not wish to be disturbed by anyone or anything right now.

She half-lifted her eyelids to glance at her phone—it was Chris. He had sent a photo: his costume on set. Oh, it was morning there now.

Fine, she forgave him—for the man in the photo was undeniably handsome.

She silenced her phone and shoved it into her pant pocket, then rolled over, curling her body into a tight ball—like a baby in its mother’s womb—and fell into deep sleep.

The wind howled, the waves churned, the rain poured, the shrubs clawed wildly—but atop the high cliff, only the lounge chair held a tiny pocket of stillness.

She saw a silhouette slowly walking away; she desperately wanted to stop it, to call out—but her soul felt tightly bound, every movement commanded by her will agonizingly difficult.

She struggled with all her might, screaming with a force that threatened to shatter her soul: “Mother!”

The silhouette turned around. Her face, worn with exhaustion, showed shock. She walked back, knelt beside her, expression complex, touched Yang Yi’s forehead and cheek—then rose and walked away again.

She suddenly realized she was dreaming—and it was the most vivid memory from her childhood.

The moment she realized this, she left the little girl’s body and stood beside it, watching as an outsider.

The little girl was about three or four years old. She stared blankly as her mother walked away, opened her mouth as if to call out, then lowered her head and began playing with her fingers.

It was early morning, the sky still not fully bright; when daylight gradually came and people appeared, someone noticed the small figure.

The rusty iron gate behind her was banged open. “Old Yang’s family! Isn’t that your second son’s granddaughter? Why’s she locked outside?!”

Finally, the gate opened. Out came a thin, withered old woman and a burly old man, followed by a middle-aged man wiping sleep from his eyes.

“Damn it! Why’d you leave this little brat at our door?! Where’d that ill omen run off to…?”

…………

Yang Yi watched as if viewing an old film—the scene unfolding before her eyes with raw realism.

She had long grown tired of this scene, so she turned away without hesitation.

She walked and walked, then encountered a dog and the little girl from before.

Compared to how she looked earlier, the girl was now frail, her hair thin and dry as withered straw fluttering in the wind. Her face was caked with grime, thick as if she hadn’t bathed in years, her original features unrecognizable. A rusted iron chain encircled her thin neck—so heavy it forced her head down.

She and a yellow dog were chained together beside a doghouse made of asbestos tiles and bricks, drafty everywhere, with only a makeshift nest of torn cotton and ragged clothes inside.

The girl’s clothing—what passed for clothing—was worse than a used rag that had been worn for ten years. She crouched on the ground, her small back hunched, her spine bones jutting sharply beneath her skin, each one clear. Her neck pulled taut by the chain, drooping between her knees. Her right hand rummaged in a dog bowl caked with years of filth, scooping up spoiled food scraps and shoving them into her mouth.

She ate with desperate urgency.

The big yellow dog had already eaten its fill. It sat proudly beside her, tail wagging, eyes half-closed, watching the girl as if she were a lower creature than itself.

Yang Yi watched this scene without expression, unmoved.

After countless days passed, a neighbor finally couldn’t bear it anymore—then the neighborhood committee and women’s federation arrived. The thin old woman jumped up and down, wailing and cursing:

“...ill omen...ran off...”

“...little brat...idiot...doesn’t understand...runs off...chained...”

“...whoever’s heartless...take her...I don’t want to raise her...”

She didn’t bother watching further. She walked away again.

This time, she encountered bullying.

Beside a lonely road, a burly boy shoved the frail girl to the ground. He tore her textbook and homework into shreds, scattering them over her like funeral paper money, snarling: “Little brat! Who let you score higher than me?! You made my parents scold me at home! I’m tearing it all up! You think you’re so great? Eating at my house and still have no sense...dare to score higher than me? F***ing dumbass, suddenly got smart? Why don’t you just stay stupid...”

A slightly older girl stood nearby, grinning, egging him on: “Why not just cripple her? Don’t they always do that on TV? Cut her tendons—then she’ll be a cripple, never able to score higher than you again. Our parents won’t scold you anymore. Hehe...”

This time, she glanced once—and left immediately, not pausing for even half a second.

She walked and walked, eager to escape this revolting dream.

Finally, she seemed to hear the howling wind and storm rain—was she waking up? She stepped forward joyfully, entering a sea of green wheat swaying wildly under the gale.

Night blanketed the land. Lightning split the sky far away, thunder exploded in succession, and rain, driven by the wind, bent the endless wheat fields low.

At the edge of the deserted field stood a row of concrete pipes. From one of the drier ones came faint rustling sounds.

She turned to look—a little girl hid inside the pipe. A wound marred her chin; her bony wrists bore several bloody scratches—but she ignored the pain, rubbing a handful of green wheat stalks she’d pulled from the field, ignoring the husks still clinging to them, shoving the raw grains into her mouth and chewing frantically.

Then she grabbed another handful of green wheat stalks.

She seemed thirsty. She reached out, cupped a handful of rainwater, and drank it down.

After eating five or six handfuls of raw wheat, her movements slowed. She continued rubbing the stalks, glancing around.

Everything was pitch black—only when lightning flashed could she glimpse the grotesque shadows around her.

She grew afraid. She curled into a tight ball, pressing her back against the cold pipe. She hugged her knees, burying her head between them, glancing nervously at the left opening of the pipe, then suddenly whipping her head to the right—as if something terrifying lurked there.

Yang Yi watched quietly for a while, then slowly approached the concrete pipe.

Comfort her, she told herself—even if this is only a dream.

Suddenly, she stopped.

Inside the pipe, beside the girl, a dark shadow appeared. It wrapped its arms around the child and whispered softly: “Don’t be afraid, little Yang Yi. Human hearts are far more terrifying than ghosts! Ghosts might scare you—but people despise you, destroy you, and want to eat you alive!”

“You’ve lived too hard. Even when you grow up, you’ll still suffer terribly.”

“What meaning is there in such a life? Better to end it before it even begins. Don’t you think so?”

“How about we make a deal?”

The voice grew even softer, as if speaking to the most precious, fragile treasure in the world:

“I will give you power rivaling the gods. No one will ever harm you again. You’ll never suffer humiliation or insult again. And then,” she whispered gently, tenderly:

“Will you give me your body?”

A flash of lightning illuminated the dark shadow’s face—it was Yang Yi’s face. The face of an adult Yang Yi.

But the face was utterly alien, its smile grotesque.

In the instant of the lightning’s glow, the face lifted its gaze toward Yang Yi standing outside the pipe. It smiled and said:

“You will eventually become me. What are you afraid of?”