Chapter 47.3: The Toast

If he could control it—truly control it—could he then preserve a flame of genuine emotion that never died out?

But this wasn’t the time for such thoughts. The matter at hand needed to be finished first.

In his line of sight, the girl was still sprawled on the ground, sobbing in agony.

Li Zhuiyuan withdrew his hand. The girl in front of him hadn’t died of illness—this was murder.

His gaze shifted once again to Zhou Yong. Was it you?

Zhou Yong had motive. He had learned the method—his daughter's early death would make it easier to carry out his plan.

But that wasn’t the only possibility.

Unfortunately, the girl’s perspective offered too little information. He needed more.

Li Zhuiyuan moved behind the stove and crouched again, locking eyes with the woman burning inside the flames.

He knew—only after her death had “that person” made first contact with Zhou Yong.

So from the woman’s point of view, “that person” would not appear.

But he just wanted to see whether the woman had really died of natural causes.

They made eye contact. He began tuning frequencies.

Like the girl, the woman made no attempt to resist. In fact, she seemed to cooperate, making the process significantly easier.

Li Zhuiyuan’s vision shifted again. It was much the same, only the bed was larger now, the mosquito net a deeper blue.

Irrelevant images flitted past; Li Zhuiyuan actively skipped through them. But even as he did, a doubt began to stir.

From what he could sense, the woman still had some time before death.

Had her condition suddenly worsened?

Or—had she also not died of natural causes?

If something unnatural had occurred, it couldn't be tied to Zhou Yong. At that point in time, he had still been trying everything he could to save his wife and daughter.

Then, Li Zhuiyuan heard a peculiar footstep.

He immediately stopped fast-forwarding and tuned his perception.

This wasn’t the sound of cloth shoes—it was the faint scrape of plastic soles. The steps were light and short. Small shoes… a child?

The woman’s eyes opened. She tried to turn her head to look, but her body wouldn’t obey.

She had the same genetic illness as her daughter.

Just like him and Li Lan.

A small, pale hand holding a white towel entered the woman’s view. It was soft and small—clearly a child’s.

The towel covered the woman’s nose and mouth. The sensation of suffocation intensified.

Then a face leaned into view.

Li Zhuiyuan froze.

Because that face—was his own.

“Li Zhuiyuan” stared coldly at the woman. And because he was seeing from her point of view, it meant he was now face to face… with himself.

In that instant, Li Zhuiyuan recalled the voice he’d heard earlier in the girl’s perspective, coming from outside the window—why it had sounded so eerily familiar.

Because most people sound different in recordings than they do in real life.

He had overlooked the most obvious match—himself.

But it was unmistakably his own tone, his own way of speaking.

Now, the “Li Zhuiyuan” in front of him spoke:

“You’re dying too slowly. It’s throwing off my practice schedule.”

The words were a trigger. As soon as they were spoken, a powerful distortion struck—his sense of self unraveled, plunging him into a vortex of identity loss.

But this sensation was familiar. He experienced this loss of self whenever his condition flared. His heart would go cold.

In the past, that chill had come from within. This time, it came from outside. And it was far weaker.

Long familiarity had made him resilient. He didn’t need to chant name after name. He just repeated one.

Ah Li.

He thought of her face, her voice.

And just in case, he also murmured “Great-Grandpa” twice.

The sensation faded.

His vision turned to darkness. The woman was dead.

Li Zhuiyuan disengaged. He remained crouched before the stove, where the woman continued to burn.

The firelight flickered across his face, casting shadows that deepened his scowl.

Because he felt deeply, unmistakably violated.

He hadn’t killed the girl or the woman. He hadn’t taught Zhou Yong the method.

There was no doubt. No self-doubt. No confusion.

That was not him.

It was a trap.

The feng shui layout on the stone bridge, the illusion atop the small dam—nicely crafted, but to Li Zhuiyuan, amateurish.

Yet within this crude setup, someone had dug a pit.

It was like walking through a thorny thicket—troublesome, yes, but manageable with a stick. Then, just as you near the end, you step on a landmine.

Unless “that person” was simply that twisted—which seemed unlikely—then someone else had added their own touch after helping Zhou Yong set the stage.

Someone of considerable skill.

A trap meant for a fellow practitioner.

That man who looked like him—it wasn’t Li Zhuiyuan. But the words he spoke were true. He mentioned “practice schedule.”

Coincidentally, Li Zhuiyuan himself was still in training.

A novice dabbling in feng shui layouts, shadowed by a senior. To prevent leaks, they had tied off this practice session with a deadly bow.

Zhou Yong, selfish and blind to his family’s pain, might still be grateful to the one who taught him. Oblivious that he, his wife, and child were just material for a training exercise.

Li Zhuiyuan slowly raised his head and muttered:

“So, this is how you want to play it?”

But then, his expression changed sharply.

That person couldn’t possibly know what was written in Wei Zhengdao’s black book. They couldn’t know he was reading memories.

Which meant—the identity-destabilizing distortion wasn’t aimed at him.

It was meant for the woman?

No. She and her daughter were merely thralls. Their state of existence depended entirely on Zhou Yong.

Then the trap was set… for Zhou Yong.

This is bad.

Runsheng and Tan Wenbin are in danger!

Li Zhuiyuan raised his hand and slapped himself hard across the right cheek.

Smack!

He woke.

And saw Runsheng and Tan Wenbin still dreaming.

But Zhou Yong was already on his feet, face inches from Tan Wenbin’s, inhaling deeply.

White mist streamed from Tan Wenbin’s nose and mouth—into Zhou Yong.

Tan Wenbin’s face had turned blue.

Li Zhuiyuan’s sudden awakening startled Zhou Yong, who turned his head very slowly to look.

His eyes, once full of white mucus, now glowed blood-red.

This was the seed that had been planted!

The earlier Zhou Yong had indeed been the real Zhou Yong. Selfish, yes—but not a murderer. His obsession was confined to his wife and daughter, not random slaughter.

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