Under the old locust tree at the village entrance, a nine-year-old boy lay face down in the dirt like a dead dog.
His stepmother’s shoe soles thudded against his back again and again, kicking up clouds of yellow dust. The boy’s face was buried in the dirt, his nose and mouth filled with the smell of mud. He didn’t make a sound, didn’t cry, just clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms until blood dripped from between his fingers.
“You little bastard! It’d be better if I beat you to death!”
Ding Yuxiang kicked until she was drenched in sweat, growing more addicted with each blow. She had never felt such satisfaction in her life. Married into this family for five years now, she had long wanted to deal with these two burdens.
How dare they bully her daughter.
The boy was named Lin Yulong, nine years old, left behind by that short-lived ghost. There was also a girl, Lin Qianqian, thirteen this year.
Lin Yulong didn’t cry. His sister had told him that crying in front of outsiders meant admitting defeat.
But he didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. The bones in his back felt like they were broken, his internal organs churning, his mouth filled with the taste of iron.
“I’m telling you, if you dare bully my daughter again, I’ll sell that sister of yours to a fool!”
Ding Yuxiang’s words were like a red-hot branding iron, pressed hard against Lin Yulong’s heart.
He suddenly lifted his head.
A nine-year-old child, yet his eyes held murderous intent.
Ding Yuxiang felt her heart skip a beat under that gaze, stunned for two seconds.
But then she thought—what trouble could a nine-year-old brat possibly cause?
“Still daring to glare? I’ll teach you to glare!”
She kicked him a few more times, then crouched down to twist the tender flesh on the inside of Lin Yulong’s arm. That spot was the most tender, the most painful to twist.
One twist, two twists, and after twisting, she pinched hard, her nails digging into the flesh, pulling outward, leaving two bloody marks.
Lin Yulong trembled all over, sweat on his forehead mixing with the dirt, smearing across his face. But he clenched his jaw, not uttering a sound.
He wanted to fight back.
He had imagined countless times beating this woman to death. Imagined it until he was driven mad.
Imagined it until he couldn’t sleep at night, lying alone in the woodshed, staring at the rafters above, picturing himself using his fists, a stick, a stone, to beat this mother and daughter until their heads bled.
But just as his hand clenched tight, it loosened again.
He was afraid.
Not afraid of Ding Yuxiang. He was afraid that if he fought back, Ding Yuxiang would take her anger out on his sister.
His sister was soft-natured. If someone hit her, she wouldn’t fight back, and when she returned, she would smile and say it was nothing.
If she knew her younger brother had been beaten to protect her, she wouldn’t say anything, but at night she would surely hide under the covers and cry.
Lin Yulong’s fists clenched and unclenched, unclenched and clenched again.
His nails dug into the wounds on his palms, beads of blood oozing out one by one.
“Stop hitting him! You’ll beat him to death!”
Ding Xiaohu, watching from the side, couldn’t bear it any longer. This child was from the neighboring Ding family, ten years old this year. He mustered his courage and shouted, his voice trembling.
“Get lost!” Ding Yuxiang didn’t even turn her head, slapping Ding Xiaohu and sending him stumbling back two steps.
Ding Xiaohu staggered but steadied himself, looking down at Lin Yulong curled up on the ground, his lips trembling.
A-Long’s face was covered in dirt, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, half his face swollen like a steamed bun, his arms covered in bruises, not a single spot untouched.
His stepmother was really going to beat A-Long to death.
Ding Xiaohu turned and ran.
A-Long had said that Qianqian-jie had gone up the mountain to dig for wild vegetables. He had to find her. If he ran too slowly, he was afraid A-Long would really be beaten to death.
One shoe had fallen off, but he had no time to pick it up. He charged up the mountain barefoot, the sharp gravel on the mountain path digging painfully into the soles of his feet, and thorns tearing through his pant legs. He paid no attention to any of it.
“Qianqian-jie— Qianqian-jie—!”
He shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice echoing through the mountain hollow, startling a flock of sparrows into flight.
“Ah Long has been beaten to death— You need to go back—!”
Under the old locust tree at the village entrance, Ding Yuxiang finally grew tired from the beating. Panting heavily, she stood up and dusted off her hands. Looking down from above at the small, curled-up figure on the ground, a satisfied smile hung at the corner of her mouth.
“Remember, if you dare lay a finger on Yuanyuan again, I’ll make sure you end up just like your dead mother— dead outside with no one to care.”
The boy on the ground froze abruptly.
Ding Yuxiang had said the words “dead mother” lightly, as if spitting out a mouthful of saliva.
Lin Yulong slowly raised his head.
This time, the look in his eyes had changed.
It wasn’t murderous intent, nor hatred, but something even more dangerous— a stillness that only the dead possess.
“Don’t talk about my mother.”
Four words, each one spoken deliberately.
Ding Yuxiang was taken aback for a moment, then flew into a rage at those four words. How dare this little bastard talk back to her?
“You little brat, you think you’re something, don’t you!”