When Meng Jianjun stepped over the threshold, even the mud on his soles carried an air of arrogance.
The light inside the room was dim, flames from the stove licking the bottom of a pot where wild rabbit meat bubbled and simmered. The rich aroma of meat mixed with the scent of grease was so thick it could almost knock a person over.
Meng Jianjun’s Adam’s apple bobbed violently. He didn’t even glance at Meng Yaya sitting on the kang bed; his beady eyes were glued to that iron pot as if trying to bore a hole through it.
“Sister-in-law, living quite well, aren’t you?”
Meng Jianjun offered a thin, insincere smile, his feet not stopping as he moved straight toward the stove. “My second brother’s arm is broken and needs nourishment. Since this meat is already cooked, shouldn’t it be offered to the family elders and the injured?”
As he spoke, his hand, yellowed from years of smoking, reached directly for the wooden ladle beside the pot.
This wasn’t a negotiation—it was outright robbery.
Lin Wanrou, who had been stirring the broth with chopsticks, was startled. Instinctively, she shielded the pot with her body.
“This is Ya Ya’s!” Lin Wanrou’s voice tightened as she stubbornly blocked Meng Jianjun. “Jianjun, you locked up all the family’s grain. This is something Ya Ya got herself—you can’t take it!”
“Go to hell!”
Meng Jianjun was a scoundrel through and through, with no patience to argue with a woman. With a sweep of his arm, brute force slammed into Lin Wanrou’s shoulder.
Already frail and malnourished from long-term hardship, Lin Wanrou staggered backward several steps from the push, her lower back crashing hard against the earthen wall. A pained groan escaped her lips.
“Ungrateful wretch.” Meng Jianjun spat, reaching into the pot to grab chunks of meat. “Not only am I eating this meat today, I’m taking the whole damn pot!”
That filthy hand was about to touch the scalding broth.
A faint, sharp whistling sound suddenly cut through the air.
“Whoosh!”
“Ah!”
A pig-slaughtering shriek exploded in the cramped room.
Meng Jianjun jerked his hand back, clutching his right wrist and hopping on the spot. Right in the center of his hand was a distinct, purplish-black bruise; his finger bones seemed cracked.
A smooth, round pebble landed on the stove, rolled twice, and finally settled beside the pot.
“Who? Who hit me?!”
Meng Jianjun’s face contorted in pain, the searing agony shooting from his fingertips straight to the crown of his head. He whipped around, glaring viciously around the room.
Besides Lin Wanrou, the only other person inside was Meng Yaya, sitting on the edge of the kang.
The little girl held a few small pebbles of unknown origin, tossing them up one by one like peanuts and catching them again.
“Is that meat in the pot something you can touch?”
Meng Yaya’s voice was childish, but her tone was flat as stagnant water.
Meng Jianjun froze for a moment before fury erupted.
“You little bastard?”
He refused to believe it. A three-year-old milk baby—how could she possibly defy heaven? He must have accidentally bumped into something earlier.
“How dare you! Hitting your uncle?” Rage surged through Meng Jianjun. Ignoring the pain in his hand, he grabbed a piece of firewood by the door and lunged at Meng Yaya with a ferocious expression. “Today, I’ll teach you a lesson on behalf of your father, you disrespectful, worthless girl!”
Lin Wanrou was terrified out of her wits. Forgetting the pain in her back, she rushed over to block him. “Jianjun, don’t touch the child! You can have the meat! Take it all!”
“Too late!” Meng Jianjun kicked Lin Wanrou aside and raised the firewood high.
Meng Yaya sat on the edge of the kang, unmoving.
Just as the firewood was about to strike, her small wrist flicked with astonishing agility.
The movement was too fast, far too fast for Meng Jianjun to follow.
"Thud!"
A solid, muffled impact.
The second pebble struck Meng Jianjun’s nose bridge with pinpoint accuracy.
The force of this blow was several times greater than the one that had hit the back of his hand.
Meng Jianjun’s vision went dark, his head buzzing as if struck by a heavy hammer. Immediately, two streams of warm liquid gushed from his nostrils.
Sourness, numbness, swelling, pain.
The four sensations mixed together, bringing tears to his eyes in an instant.
"Argh—!"
The firewood flew from Meng Jianjun’s grasp. He clutched his nose with both hands, the pain so intense that he dropped to his knees.
Blood seeped through his fingers, dripping steadily onto the ground.
"Too noisy."
Meng Yaya jumped down from the kang.
She was so small that when she walked up to the kneeling Meng Jianjun, her eyes were level with his.
Blinded by pain, Meng Jianjun vaguely saw a pair of small feet in worn cloth shoes stop before him.
Fear.
A primal, instinctive fear of the unknown suddenly surged from the depths of his heart.
This was no child—this was clearly a mountain spirit!
"Still want the meat?" Meng Yaya still held the last pebble, gesturing toward Meng Jianjun’s bald head. "If this one hits your temple, you won’t need to eat anymore. You can treat the whole village to a feast instead."
Treating the whole village to a feast meant holding a funeral.
Meng Jianjun shuddered violently.
He sensed that chilling intent—it was genuine killing intent. This wretched girl really dared to do it!
"N-no… I don’t want it…"
Meng Jianjun squeezed out a distorted voice from his throat. Ignoring the excruciating pain of his broken nose, he scrambled backward on hands and feet.
"Get lost."
Meng Yaya spat out a single word.
That word was like a pardon. Meng Jianjun scrambled frantically toward the door, not even stopping to pick up the cloth shoe he’d dropped on the ground.
In his panic, one foot caught on the threshold, sending him tumbling into the courtyard like a rolling ball, where he fell flat on his face.
But he didn’t dare utter a single groan. He scrambled to his feet and fled toward the main house, as if a vengeful ghost were chasing him.
The courtyard fell silent.
Meng Yaya turned, walked to the corner, picked up the piece of firewood, and tossed it into the stove.
"Mom, add more fire. The meat won’t taste good if it gets cold."
Lin Wanrou leaned against the wall, still reeling from the shocking turn of events. She watched her daughter skillfully add firewood to the stove, then glanced at the glaring pool of blood on the ground.
"Ya Ya…" Lin Wanrou’s voice trembled. "Did you… hurt your uncle?"
"He’ll be fine," Meng Yaya said, dusting off her hands. "The wicked live long. He won’t die."
She walked over to Lin Wanrou, lifted the hem of her mother’s clothes, and examined her lower back.
It was already red and bruised.
A cold glint flashed in Meng Yaya’s eyes. Those two hits earlier had been too light.
"Mom, let’s eat."
Meng Yaya retrieved a small bottle of safflower oil from her Spatial dimension (pretending to take it from her pocket) and pressed it into Lin Wanrou’s hand. "Apply this after eating. We still have to travel tomorrow."
Lin Wanrou clutched the bottle of still-warm medicinal oil, tears plopping into the dust.
She wasn’t foolish. Her daughter had changed too much.
But what did it matter?
This was her daughter—the daughter who was fighting desperately to protect her.
The meal was eaten in an unusually heavy silence between mother and daughter, yet it was also exceptionally delicious. An entire plump rabbit, broth and meat included, was completely devoured.
With some oil and fat now in her system, Lin Wanrou's originally sallow complexion gained a touch of rosiness.
Night deepened.
Meng Yaya lay on the hard earthen kang, listening to the howling wind outside the window.
There had been no movement from the main house of the Meng family. Presumably, Meng Jianjun was too frightened to make a fuss, or perhaps he was brewing some new scheme.
This family was like rats in a sewer—drive one away, and a whole swarm would appear.
Early the next morning, just as dawn was breaking.
Meng Yaya was awakened by the clamor in the courtyard.
That distinctive, sharp, and piercing voice of a rural woman could penetrate two earthen walls and stab right into one's ears.
"Oh, heavens! Everyone, come and judge this! This life is unbearable!"
"There's a jinx in this family! She's going to bring death upon the whole household!"
"Poor my little brother-in-law, not even dead for a few years, and his wife is already sneaking around with other men and raising a bastard child!"
Lin Wanrou was folding the quilt when she heard this. Her body stiffened abruptly, and her face instantly turned as pale as paper.
That was Zhang Cuihua's voice. No, not just Zhang Cuihua—there was another, even shriller and more malicious voice.
It was the eldest aunt-in-law, Liu Zhaodi, who had rushed back from the neighboring village.
This woman loved nothing more than to stir up trouble; her tongue could talk a living person to death.
Meng Yaya opened her eyes, her gaze clear and alert, without a trace of sleepiness.
A battle of public opinion?
Trying to use reputation to drive Lin Wanrou to her death?
Meng Yaya rolled over and sat up, leisurely putting on her small, patched-up jacket.
"Mom, open the door."
Meng Yaya straightened her collar, a cold smile tugging at the corner of her lips—one that didn't match her age at all.
"Let's go listen to what new stories they've cooked up."
Since they refused to save face, she would tear that face right off and trample it into the ground!