Chapter 81: Eruption, Part Two (Dedicated to Yiyi’s Diamond Support)

He kissed away her tears, murmuring words of tenderness in her ear.

He spoke to her at length—about the first time they met at the interview, the first time he rescued her in Night City, the first shirt she picked out for him, the first time he heard her play the guzheng, the first time he kissed her, held her, danced with her. So many firsts wove an indelible tapestry of memories between them, as if it were fate.

Yet he never imagined that the union he had dreamed of day and night would turn so fierce and brutal, like two wild beasts locked in combat, leaving only devastation in their wake.

Mo Zhicheng kissed her tear-stained lashes. The woman in his arms could only sob helplessly, and he whispered softly, “Don’t cry. It wasn’t meant to be like this. I only wanted to cherish you, to love you, but I lost control... and hurt you...”

He pressed her down again, pinning her slender wrists against the pristine pillowcase, reigniting the fire between them. His powerful muscles pressed against every inch of her softness. Through hazy tears, her body convulsed in pain, and she gazed at him almost in supplication—this man who possessed her so mercilessly—feeling as if all her strength had been sucked away.

“Linglan... Linglan... don’t push me away, don’t resist me, or I don’t know what I might do to you...” he murmured, unable to restrain himself, thrusting into her with relentless force, pouring all his strength into her warmth, gasping heavily, savoring her to the fullest.

Cold sweat broke out on her forehead as he drove into her ruthlessly, almost fusing her to his own body. Yet it still wasn’t enough; he pulled her up, crushing her against his chest, kissing her parted lips with wild abandon. She had no strength left to argue or resist; she simply let him hold her, let him shower her with scattered kisses, let him possess her body again and again, and listened as he repeated that same phrase, again and again—a cold incantation echoing through her dark and uncertain dreams.

——————

When she woke, the sky outside was still dark. She turned her head to gaze quietly out the floor-to-ceiling windows. It seemed a heavy snowfall had fallen, the horizon shrouded in a dim, pale gloom. Only dried tear tracks remained at the corners of her eyes, her eyes so dry it seemed she could never cry again. Her throat was parched and bitter, unable to utter a sound. Linglan turned, looking at the man who slept with his arms around her. After a night of passion, he finally slept, fully satiated, serene and peaceful—a stark contrast to the storm of the previous night.

She rose, pulling on his shirt where it lay, and left without a backward glance. She left behind not a single word, not knowing how to face him or the tangled web between them.

Before dawn, the world was an endless expanse of pale, snow-laden earth. She wrapped herself tightly, snowflakes still drifting down from the sky, dancing like joyful sprites, settling in her dark hair. Yet the cold wind felt like a thousand claws raking her skin, stinging her as if she hovered between life and death, half in heaven and half in hell, scattering all her sorrow.

She wandered aimlessly, with no idea where home might be. Treading the thin layer of snow, her frail figure seemed about to collapse beneath the swirling sky. A sharp pain clenched her chest, and she pressed her hand to her heart, overwhelmed by suffocation. In her mind, she seemed to see Mo Zhicheng’s eyes burning in the darkness—so resolute and cold. In that moment, his hand was at her throat, his lips close to her ear, even his breath chilling.

A wave of dizziness and pain overwhelmed her, and she fell into the snow. Staring at her trembling hand clutching her phone, she summoned all her strength to dial, “Yuchen, save me—”

A voice full of anxiety came from the other end, “Ye Linglan, what’s wrong?”

“Save—me—”

“Linglan, are you—”

Before he could finish, Linglan interrupted frantically, “Don’t—tell—Ye Shao—don’t, don’t—”

“Where are you? Where exactly are you?”

————

Mo Zhicheng woke from a hangover near noon, rubbing his throbbing temples. He turned, but his arms found only emptiness. The sheets beside him were cold. Where was she? Realizing this, he got up, surveying the chaos in the room. Even his composure could not suppress his shock.

Clothes lay torn and scattered on the floor. Tiffany pearls were strewn everywhere. The king-sized bed was in disarray, the purple sheets twisted like rope. Faint traces of blood could still be seen on the sheets—disturbing to behold. He could not deny the surge of satisfaction in his heart; it meant he was the first man to possess her. But the thought of how her frail body had driven even him, always so calm, to such madness and loss of control made Mo Zhicheng cover his eyes.

The events of the previous night slowly came back to him. He had taken her more than once, insatiably claiming her again and again. What an endless night of desire it had been. He shouldn’t have been like that—what had come over him?

He quickly grabbed his phone from the bedside and dialed her number.

“Sorry, the number you have dialed is powered off.”

—Sorry, the number you have dialed is powered off.

—Powered off.

—Off.

A woman’s cold, mechanical voice echoed from the other end.

Staring at his own reflection in the wardrobe’s glossy surface, he saw his cold, composed face, his soul clenched tight. The phone in his hand grew ever more rigid as he gazed coldly at the man he had become.

————

Bai Yuchen gazed at the woman lying in the hospital bed, her half-closed eyes still trembling faintly. He had found her near Mo Zhicheng’s seaside villa. The scene was unforgettable: she had collapsed in the snow, her white shirt and torn evening dress blending with the bleak snow all around.

He remembered how, in her fevered delirium, she clung to his hand, muttering again and again, begging him not to tell Ye Shao, pleading with him over and over.

He had soothed her—yes, yes, I won’t tell him. But in the end, unable to suppress his worry, he had shouted, “Ye Linglan, you stay with me! Don’t you dare die on me—if you die, I’ll feed your skin to the fish!”

Bai Yuchen sighed deeply, looking at this pitiful woman, her neck covered with purple-red marks. He could guess what had happened last night—she and Mo Zhicheng had been together. And he had promised to keep it from Ye Shao—not just the incident, but also her...

Just then, the woman in the bed stirred. Bai Yuchen hurried over, tucking the blanket around her and speaking softly, “You’re awake?” Remorse filled him as he recalled how harshly he had treated her not long ago.

Ye Linglan blinked slowly, confusion in her eyes until she recognized him. “I’m not dead. How fortunate.” Her lips were cracked and painful, yet she managed a faint smile.

Bai Yuchen’s heart ached. He knew she was suffering terribly, but still forced herself to smile. His throat tightened, and he looked away, scolding her gruffly, “Yes, you’re alive—just barely. Maybe it would be better if you’d died, save us all a lot of worry.”

“Yuchen,” she said, anxiety in her voice, “Did you...”

“No. I didn’t tell Ye Shao. I said nothing.” Bai Yuchen couldn’t help but give in to her. As soon as he finished, he saw her visibly relax, breathing faintly, though he thought he glimpsed something in her eyes.

Tears, perhaps.

“Linglan—” he called softly.

Ye Linglan did not want to speak further, only closed her eyes and withdrew into her own thoughts.

“Are you all right?” Bai Yuchen’s voice softened. “Linglan, don’t try to tough it out—”

Linglan—

Linglan—

His calls echoed in her gray dreamscape. In her dreams, she wept endlessly, murmuring in pain, her heart aching, that place aching so much. But before Bai Yuchen she said not a word, as if words had lost all meaning. She swallowed all the bitter fruit alone, and that was enough.

When she awoke again, Ye Linglan sat up quietly, her back to Bai Yuchen, fastening the buttons at her chest. “Yuchen, could you find me some clean clothes?”

“You should stay here in the hospital and rest for a few days.”

“No,” she said, lowering her head, her voice icy calm. “I want to go home.”

She hated the cold sterility of the hospital, the pungent smell of medicine. She wanted to go home—to that eighty-square-meter, two-bedroom apartment, the only place that felt like hers.

————

Night had deepened, and the snow outside had ceased.

After returning home, Ye Linglan leaned in the window, playing with a string of wind chimes. Their tinkling sound rang softly through her slender fingers, soothing her heart. She smiled, feeling a measure of peace at last. Suddenly, a light shone from below. Lifting the curtain, she saw a Bentley parked outside. A man stepped from the car, tall and lean in a long black coat, leaning against the hood.

It was him.

He inclined his head, gazing silently up at her window, saying nothing. Beneath the dim evening sky, he smoked quietly, as if waiting for something, unwilling to intrude upon the fragile distance between them.

Ye Linglan let the curtain fall, pressed herself against the cold glass, and looked no more.

She had taken three days’ sick leave from “Tiancheng.” Yet every night at the same time, the Bentley appeared downstairs. Sometimes she heard the neighbors gossiping—after all, a Bentley was far too conspicuous in this modest neighborhood.

She peeked through the curtains again. He had come once more.

Today he wore an iron-gray wool coat, standing in the cold wind, his hair tousled, hands in his pockets, collar slightly open, the skin of his neck flushed red from the cold. Linglan frowned slightly, but left him there all the same.

These days, she had done her best to adjust, even visiting the flower market, where she finally learned that the pink blossoms were a species of narcissus. The narcissus itself was harmless, but the trouble lay in the flowers’ antagonism—narcissus naturally withers the lily of the valley. Placing the two together had caused her lilies to wilt.

Who, then, had deliberately sought to destroy everything?