Chapter 726 Side Story: Feng Mu's Storyline - The Beginning of Fate 2

Am I worried that my fiancée will call off the engagement?

This thought, like an undercurrent beneath the surface of water, quietly slipped across the surface of my scalp, carrying a hint of barely perceptible coldness.

The worry existed, leaving a vague trace, but it wasn't very real, like a piece of ice about to melt in my stomach.

Perhaps there is.

I gave myself an uncertain answer.

After all, it would be highly illogical for a man about to get married to be completely unconcerned about his fiancée's possible departure.

Although... I can't quite remember why we got engaged.

Memories are like being soaked in thick ink, leaving only some blurry silhouettes.

By the way, what does my fiancée look like again?

I forced my mind to focus on this, like adjusting a lens that had gone out of focus.

The image of a woman should emerge without specific facial features, voice, or breath.

I remember she had long, jet-black hair, yes, like the deepest night sky, so smooth it could shimmer under any light.

And a pair of... what kind of eyes?

I tried hard to recall, like digging out a precious piece of porcelain from the mud.

However, instead of a clear image, I was met with a sharp, stabbing headache that started in my temples and quickly spread throughout my skull, as if tiny ice picks were churning inside.

What followed was a deep weariness, originating from the depths of the soul, as if one had been trekking for countless days and nights without ever seeing the end.

This feeling of exhaustion is so familiar that it has almost become the background noise of my life.

Seeing me standing there silently for so long, my sister blinked her clear, bottomless eyes, as if she could see through the unspeakable doubts deep in my heart.

Her eyes were always like that, like two pools of pure mountain spring water, yet they could also reflect dark corners that even I myself had never noticed.

My sister is understanding, or rather, she always seems to be.

She didn't press me further, as if my silence itself was a complete answer.

Her lips curved into an exceptionally sweet arc, so precise it was as if drawn with a compass. Then she turned gracefully to face the "coffin" lined with dark red velvet.

That was not a coffin that truly held the deceased; it lacked the aura of death and the somber atmosphere of mourning.

That was my sister's unique bed, her workshop where she created toys.

There was no deathly slumber within, only the heart-warming vitality of a young girl.

All sorts of rag dolls, doll body parts, clumps of fine cotton, strands of hair that are indistinguishable from real ones yet exceptionally smooth, boxes of shimmering glass eyes, and countless rolls of colorful threads and fabrics.

All of these things, though seemingly chaotic, are piled up with a certain order, forming a miniature, doll-like ecosystem.

My younger sister carefully and patiently picked through the materials, her slender, fair fingers moving among them like a pianist searching for inspiration on the piano keys.

The smoothness of silk, the delicacy of lace, and the simplicity of cotton danced between her fingertips.

Finally, she picked up the most exquisitely dressed doll, which looked as if it had been taken from the shop window of a nobleman from some distant era.

The doll had porcelain-white cheeks, smooth and cold, without a trace of human rosy blush.

Her deep blue glass eyes reflected the light in the room hollowly, like two frozen oceans, while her golden curly hair resembled waves of ripe wheat.

It is beautiful, conforming to all conventional definitions of "beauty," like a meticulously crafted work of art.

But it wasn't enough to stir my heart.

I have a very high threshold for beauty, perhaps due to family influence or perhaps it's something I was born with.

This standardized, soulless "beauty" only makes me feel a little bored.

Seeing that I remained unmoved, my sister frowned slightly, then grabbed the doll's head with both hands, her face still bearing an innocent smile.

With a gentle twist, as if breaking off a crisp cookie at breakfast, she cleanly and neatly ripped off the doll's head.

Without even glancing at it, she casually tossed the still-smiling head back into the depths of the coffin, stirring up a small clump of cotton amidst the pile of severed limbs.

Then, she turned around and placed the rag doll's body, dressed in a gorgeous dress but without a head, into my arms.

The sensation was peculiar; the silk of the outer garment was cool and smooth, the cotton filling inside was soft yet had a hollow elasticity, and deeper still, there seemed to be some kind of hard support pressing against my arm.

She said with a grin, the pigtails on either side of her head bobbing up and down with her movements:

"Brother, don't worry. As long as I can get my sister-in-law's head back, I can make up for the rest of her body, whatever you like, whether it's tall, short, plump, slender... or even some special 'functions'!"

"I guarantee it will be exactly the same as the real thing, no, it will be even more to my brother's liking than the real thing!"

My sister's words were clear and cheerful, full of love and support for me.

Hearing these heartwarming words, the turmoil in my heart about the abnormality of the world strangely began to dissipate and subside.

Yes, what's there to worry about?

I have such a capable and caring family, a mother who always prepares delicious meals with a smile, a sister who always sweetly supports me, and so on...

(The image of my father flashed through my mind, a blurry shadow, and I subconsciously stopped looking into it.)

Why should I let my imagination run wild and try to perceive those "abnormalities" that may not even exist?

I suddenly realized, as if a heavy burden had been lifted, and a light and reassuring feeling welled up in my heart.

Perhaps I'm just overthinking things, or maybe there's something wrong with me, and I'm perceiving things I shouldn't be perceiving.

The world operates according to these laws: the sun hangs high in the center, God looks down, the family is harmonious, the mother is a good cook, the younger sister is good at handicrafts, the father... well, let's not mention him.

Isn't all of this just so "normal"?

It's as normal as breathing.

Now that even the potential "imperfections" of my fiancée have such a perfect and flexible solution, what else do I have to worry about?

I happily ruffled my sister's hair.

I laughed from the bottom of my heart, reached out and affectionately ruffled my sister's soft hair, feeling the warm touch of her hair passing through my fingers.

"Thank you, sister."

My voice returned to calm.

My sister's hair is soft, yet it has the same smoothness as a doll wig.

I steadily took the headless rag doll and held it in my arms.

Having lost its head, its gorgeous dress only accentuated its beauty. The scent of cotton and old fabric mixed with the slightly sweet smell of glue unique to my sister's room filled my nostrils, giving me an unprecedented sense of peace.

Holding the headless doll, I turned and left my sister's room, walking along the dark carpeted corridor towards the courtyard outside the mansion.

The carpet absorbed the sound of my footsteps, and portraits hung on the walls along the corridor. The eyes of the figures in the paintings followed my back, but I was already used to it.

As I stepped into the courtyard, the crimson sunlight instantly enveloped me like a viscous liquid.

The sky always looks the same, with the sphere of light known as the "sun" firmly fixed overhead, as if by an invisible nail, eternally hanging there, unmoving.

It emitted an ominous, blood-red glow, immersing the entire world in an eerie crimson hue.

There is no gentle dawn, no dazzling dusk, no alternation of day and night, only the eternal noon, the eternal blood-red gaze.

The wind blew silently, causing the neatly shaped and unusually vibrant flowers and plants in the courtyard to sway gently, exuding a scent that was a mixture of rust and sweetness.

It was as if the land itself was breathing silently and slowly.

Holding the doll, I felt a sense of "peace" within myself and prepared to return to my room to continue this "normal" day.

Perhaps you could read those beautifully bound novels, but whose contents you can never remember.

Suddenly, I felt the doll in my arms move slightly.

No, it's not moving.

The break at its neck had widened further.

Perhaps it was because my sister used too much force, or perhaps it was due to the slight bumps I was experiencing while walking, that the uneven edges of the torn fabric curled up.

The snow-white cotton filling inside was falling out of the gap with a soft rustling sound, sprinkling onto my clothes and arms.

I instinctively stopped and tried to stuff the overflowing cotton back in with my fingers, attempting to maintain the integrity of the "rag doll," as if this would preserve the peace I had just gained and put that discordant note back on the score.

However, the moment my fingers touched the soft filling, I noticed something of a different texture mixed in with the gushing white cotton.

It was a piece of wood as thin as a cicada's wing, dark in color, with badly worn edges, as if it had been through many years or been rubbed and played with countless times.

It was quietly embedded in the cotton, like an alien object that shouldn't exist, a carefully hidden secret, a message in a bottle from outside of time.

My heart skipped a beat for no apparent reason, as if it had been gently squeezed by an invisible hand.

I held my breath, extended my slightly trembling fingers, and carefully probed into the clump of cotton, like an archaeologist excavating a fragile artifact, and picked out the foreign object.

A piece of wood!

The wood chips are very light, almost weightless, and have a rough, vein-like wood grain.

Within this small space, a few lines of text are engraved.

The engravings are extremely deep, as if they were poured with all the strength and will of the sculptor, but the edges of the characters are unusually rough, as if they were scratched out little by little with fingernails in endless pain, with a kind of stubbornness on the verge of madness.

Embedded in the crevices of the engravings were some dark red, dried and hardened dregs, and a few... a few tiny particles that looked like skin flakes.

What's this?

What kind of miscellaneous items were accidentally mixed in when my sister was making the doll?

Fragments of a failed work?

A... prank?

I suppressed the uncontrollable throbbing in my heart, brought it close to my eyes, and carefully examined the twisted and convulsing handwriting in the eternally unchanging blood-red sunlight, as if deciphering a code from another world.

In an instant!

An indescribable chill suddenly surged up from the soles of my feet, traveling with lightning speed up my spine to the top of my head, almost ripping my skull open.

My blood seemed to freeze instantly, my limbs and bones felt ice-cold, my breathing stopped, and my lungs felt like they had been emptied into a vacuum.

—Never forget to look up at the sun!

Handwriting!

This is my handwriting!

Every stroke, every line, every pause and distortion caused by excessive force... all bear the writing habits and penmanship characteristics that I am extremely familiar with.

It's as certain as looking in a mirror.

So, the dark red, hardened residue between the lines is my blood?

Did I carve this piece of wood?

when?

Why do I have no memory of this?

It's as if a piece of life has been dug out out of thin air, leaving only this insignificant, almost forgotten hole in the wall of time.

How did it end up inside my sister's doll?

Did your sister put it there?

Or someone else?

Or... is it myself, in some forgotten moment?

"The sun? Look up at the sun?"

Silently and mechanically, I chewed on these words in my mind. Each word was like a red-hot hammer, striking my fragile nerves hard.

Every syllable carries a blasphemous heat.

A tremendous sense of panic, as if it would crush me, instantly gripped me, like countless cold, slippery tentacles reaching out from the ground, wrapping around my heart and my throat, slowly tightening, and robbing me of my right to breathe.

My throat felt like it was blocked by a hot piece of coal, and every attempt to inhale brought a tearing pain.

The sun? Look up at the sun?

This is utter madness! It is the greatest blasphemy! It is self-destruction! It is a taboo that would defile the soul even to think about!

In this world, this is a first prohibition that even children know, etched deep within their souls!

As we all know, the sun is the embodiment of God. It hangs eternally high, perpendicular to our heads at a 90-degree angle, constantly overlooking and shining upon everything on earth.

We, created by the Lord, are not allowed, either physiologically or instinctively, to look up.

Our necks can rotate flexibly left and right to observe our surroundings; we can bow our heads freely to show humility and obedience.

The only thing it won't do is tilt its head back!

Looking up at the sun is a great blasphemy against the Lord, an attempt to pry into God's secrets, and will bring the most terrible and unimaginable punishment.

This is an ironclad rule, part of the foundation of our world, and an innate understanding of all life.

How could I... how could I have carved such rebellious and insane words?!

And "don't forget"?

Why "Don't forget"?

What exactly have I "forgotten"?!

P.S.

Sorry, I'm having writer's block. I'll write a side story to clear my head.

The first chapter of the extra episode will be released on October 1st and requires monthly passes to unlock.

I wonder if those of you who have read the extra chapters can spot any clues about this world's setting.

(End of this chapter)