Chapter 262: I Hate

Inside the courtyard, a bleak sorrow prevailed; the children's helpless cries floated in the air, tearing at every adult's heart. Within Child Fate Bay, it was no longer the former paradise; the harsh reality dealt a heavy blow to this already tottering orphanage.

My head was sweating, my heart pounding with dread. It seemed to confirm my guess; just a few minutes later, another piece of bad news arrived.

Two corpses were carried into Child Fate Bay, discovered by police in a nearby alley. The two lively, lovable children lay uneasily on stretchers, their clothes tattered; one child still clutched something tightly in his dirty hands.

It was a Pearl River beer can; the child clung to it until death, never loosening his grip even at the moment he lost his life.

It's easy to imagine: in a dark, gloomy alley, the killer approached the child step by step. The child was helpless, weeping, panicked, with no one able to help him.

Perhaps the child thought, 'This person wants to steal my can, my belongings.' So he clung desperately to what outsiders saw as a worthless discarded object.

Even after his soul was drawn away and his marrow drained, he never released the hand gripping the can. He was frightened and helpless, curling himself in a corner, but that hand never let go.

Perhaps, before he died, his thought was simple: a can was five cents, ten cans fifty cents, a hundred cans would let him hand the money to Lan Ma, so his younger siblings could have a packet of candy.

Children's thoughts are often innocent and single-minded; they lack adult desires and ambitions. Sometimes something adults can easily obtain is a child's luxury wish for a whole month, or even a year.

Unfortunately, the child still died. His death state was identical to Xin Xin's and Chen Xiao's son's. What I cannot forget is how he clung to the can, both hands gripping it against his chest.

When I picked up the already dented beer can, I wept; Han Duo wept; all the older children in the orphanage wept.

"Beast, a beast that exterminates its whole line, bastard, a bastard struck by heaven's thunder!" Han Duo wailed wildly, spewing filthy and vicious words I had heard and never heard; at that moment she had no trace of reason, only pain and cruelty remained, leaving only sorrow.

Her voice gave out from crying, the tears at her eyes turning red. Finally I had no choice but to knock her unconscious; I could not let her keep crying like this, for I had heard elders say that those who are too grief‑stricken can cry themselves mute.

The dented can was taken by police as evidence; after the bodies were identified, staff carried them away. Lan Ma steeled herself and gathered all the children inside. But when I opened the door in the middle of the night, I found not a single child asleep.

What met my eyes were rows of bewildered, helpless little faces; the young ones did not know what death meant, yet they felt fear and panic. Even the older ones, though they covered themselves with blankets, I could still hear sobs coming from beneath the worn quilts.

They… are the nation's flowers, deserving familial warmth. Yet these youngsters have learned how to earn money; their thoughts are simple and uncomplicated—perhaps they only wish to hand the money to Lan Ma for a word of praise. But for such a trifling sum, they repeatedly brush shoulders with death and are repeatedly bullied, battered head to toe.

That night I wept, wept without restraint; I have seen many dead, but never have I felt such sorrow as today.

Inside the courtyard, Lan Ma sat on a chair, head bowed, sighing long and deep; nearing sixty, she now looked even more frail. After his death, where will these children go? Who will manage this large orphanage?

"Lan Ma, you're not asleep yet?" I walked over, sat beside her, and softly called, "Lan Ma, the dead cannot return to life; you must grieve and move on." I had held it in for a long time, and this was all I could muster as comfort.

Ah… a sigh, Lan Ma turned, her face grim: "Don't worry about me, old woman that I am, I can still hold on; I'll be fine, I'll be fine."

She repeated that she would be all right, looking lost and helpless, but I knew she wasn't truly afraid of death; she feared that after she died, no one would look after these children.

"Lan Ma, could you let me see these children's records?" I thought, there must be some commonality among them that led to their brutal ends.

But Lan Ma's reply disappointed me. She said, these children are orphans—what records or horoscopes could they have? Some of their names are ones she gave them. When they were picked up, if they had anything bearing a name to prove identity, that was already good enough.

I could obtain no information from these children; I ran out of the orphanage into a side alley and crouched in a dark corner, yet at that moment my mind kept replaying the scene of these children's tragic deaths.

"Jia Jia, did you see all that?" I softly called, summoning Murong Jia Jia from the jade pendant.

Murong Jia Jia's figure appeared beside me, holding a tattered oil-paper umbrella, still so ethereal, untouched by mortal fire.

"Jia Jia, are you really my sister?" I suddenly asked.

She said doubtfully, "What's wrong?"

"I want to cry, I want to bawl loudly, I want a shoulder—can you give me one? Are you my sister?"

"Cry," Murong Jia Jia said, leaning her body toward me, but her form remained illusory; I could never touch her.

"Hai Sheng"

"Mm…"

"Your sister has already reincarnated; I… am not your sister, merely a lingering wisp of a soul left in the world."

"I know, but I'm exhausted and just want to sleep." Actually I should have let go, yet I cannot get past this hurdle. In fact I should have realized long ago that my master's words were a lie—once the Daoist robe is taken off, my sister has entered reincarnation; how could she appear before me again?

But people always like to deceive themselves, giving themselves a reason to live, a hope to go on.

"Jia Jia, can you help me find that killer? I want to kill him." Now I have set aside all kindness; even if I fall into the demonic path, I would go berserk.

"Let me think; in my memory there is a method that could help you." Murong Jia Jia's words rekindled my hope, and I pressed her eagerly: "What method?"

She furrowed her brows and said, "Water Realm Soul Search, but you must help me obtain something—the can that little boy was clutching. Because his dying obsession resides in that can; even if his soul cannot be found, through the can I can still see something."

I hesitated not at all and immediately set out. The can had been taken by police as evidence; they were likely from the nearby precinct. If I go now, I might be able to get it back.

I ran to the nearby precinct and recognized the officer on duty as the very person who had taken the can from my hand.

"Big brother, may I have a word?" I approached, leaned close to his ear, and called out to him.

"Big brother, do you still remember me? I'm from the orphanage; I have a favor to ask." As I spoke, I took out a stick of Yuxi from my pocket and handed it to him.

Next I stated my request. At first, this big‑headed, oily‑eared officer shook his head repeatedly: "No, no, this is evidence; it must be turned in. If discovered, you'd go to jail. Besides, it's just a broken can—useless to you."

"It's useful, useful—just give it to me!" I then hastily pulled out a prepared stack of bills and shoved them into his pocket.

Although his tone remained unchanged, his eyes had shifted, and he did not turn against me. I knew my guess was right—his character matched his appearance: greedy for money and lustful. So I went to the bank, got another stack, and gave it to him.

"It's just a beer can, scrap metal—what's the big deal, worth all this fuss?" He pulled the can out, shoved it into my hand, and muttered, "I can't understand why that kid, dead as he is, still clung to this worthless junk—and you, a grown adult, also want this junk. In this world, both rich and poor are sick."

"Big brother, do you know?" I gave him a look of contempt, but my expression didn't change: "Last year, during the shipwreck salvage, I was there too, and someone told me this was just a pile of scrap metal—so I came to hate him."

"What does the salvage have to do with you? What are you hating?"

"Hate iron for not becoming steel."