Chapter 1

Chapter 1

On her deathbed, my mother’s only wish was for a bowl of warm chicken soup. But all I had in my pocket was half a steamed bun I’d spent ages begging for.

Her mind was already wandering, and I didn’t know how much longer she could hold on. I wanted to grant her that final wish.

Steeling my nerves, I walked into a greasy little diner, hoping the owner might show some mercy and give me a bowl.

He was a middle-aged man of average height, slightly portly.

With a face that seemed perfectly amiable, he led me into the backyard. He pointed at a chicken and told me that if I took off my clothes, it would be mine.

There was another little girl in the yard, just as thin and small as I was. She watched me with numb eyes, as if she had seen this happen many times before.

My mother was a prostitute. Naturally, I knew exactly what he wanted to do.

I looked back and saw that the yard gate had already been bolted. Judging the difference in our sizes, I knew there was no way I could run.

In that case, I might as well trade it for a bowl of chicken soup.

I nodded, pretending to be ignorant, and watched as his amiable face gradually twisted into something hideous and lecherous.

At one point, the disgust and pain became so unbearable that I grabbed a hard pillow nearby, intending to knock him out and escape. But then I remembered I hadn’t eaten in two days and had no strength. I closed my eyes and accepted my fate.

Afterward, he glanced at the pillow and said with a mix of regret and excitement, “Why didn’t you try to hit me? Then I could have had a reason to strangle you. It’s much more fun when there’s blood involved.”

Cold sweat broke out across my back. The man was an absolute psychopath.

He kept his word and gave me the chicken, but he told me I had to catch and cook it myself. I had never done such a thing, and after a long while, I still couldn’t catch it.

I hadn’t cried during the ordeal, but now my eyes welled up. My mother was still waiting for me, and I didn’t know how much time she had left.

The little girl my age appeared silently behind me. Without a word, she helped me catch the chicken, then expertly slaughtered it and put it in the pot.

While we waited for the soup, she asked, “Why didn’t you just die?”

She pointed toward a tree in the yard. “The children he tricks into coming here either try to hit him in bed and get strangled, or they kill themselves by running into a wall afterward. They’re all buried under there. You’re the first one to stay alive.”

I fed the fire in silence, saying nothing.

If you were the child an entire village gave their lives to protect, you wouldn’t speak of death so lightly. Only those who have never truly seen death talk about it as if it’s easy.

Besides, in these chaotic times, a human life is worth less than a dog’s in a time of peace. Seeing the sorrow and worry on my mother’s face every time she looked at me had long ago prepared me for what I would have to endure in this world.

I asked her back, “What about you? Why aren’t you dead? You’re the real first one.”

She looked startled for a moment. Then, her gaze drifted toward the room where the man was sleeping. Hidden in her eyes was a murderous intent.

When the soup was ready, I hurriedly packed it up to leave. Before I went, I said to her, “Live for what you want. You can only get what you desire if you stay alive.”