Chapter 890: Destiny: The Beginning of Feng Mu’s Story 2

Am I worried about my fiancée calling off the engagement?

This thought, like an undertow beneath the water’s surface, quietly skims across my cerebral cortex, carrying a barely perceptible chill.

The anxiety existed, leaving a blurry trace, but it’s not quite tangible, like holding a piece of melting ice in my stomach.

Perhaps there is some of it.

I gave myself an uncertain answer.

After all, a man about to hold a wedding, if he feels no qualms about the possible departure of his fiancée, would be too illogical.

Though... I seem to hardly remember why we got engaged.

Memory feels soaked in thick ink, leaving only some indistinct silhouettes.

Oh right, what does my fiancée look like?

I forced my thoughts to focus on this, like adjusting an out-of-focus telescope.

An image of a woman should emerge, without specific features, voice, or scent.

I recall she has long jet-black hair, yes, like the deepest night sky, smooth enough to gleam under any light.

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

I strive to recall, like digging for precious porcelain in the mud.

Yet, what responds is not a clear image but a severe, stabbing headache, starting at the temples, rapidly spreading through the entire skull, as if tiny ice spikes were stirring inside.

Following it is a profound fatigue originating from the depths of my soul, like trekking for countless days and nights without seeing the end.

This familiar fatigue has almost become the background sound of my life.

My sister saw me standing still for a long time without speaking, her bottomless clear eyes blinked, seemingly discerning the unspeakable doubts deep within my heart.

Her eyes always appear this way, like two pristine mountain springs, yet they can reflect even the darkest corners I had not realized.

My sister is empathetic, or rather, she always appears to be.

She didn’t ask, as if my silence itself was a complete answer.

Her lips curled into an unusually sweet arc, a curve precise as if drawn with a compass, and she turned lightly towards the "coffin" lined with dark red velvet.

That was not a coffin bearing the dead, it held no breath of death or mournful solemnity.

It was my sister’s unique boudoir bed, her workshop for crafting toys.

Inside was not the slumber of death, but the invigorating vitality of a girl’s household.

Various types of rag dolls, doll parts, bundles of soft cotton, strands of indistinguishable yet exceptionally smooth hair, boxes of glossy glass eyeballs, and countless rolls of colorful threads and fabrics.

All these piled up disorderly yet in some implicit order, creating a miniature, doll’s ecosystem.

My sister picked among them seriously and patiently, her fair slender fingers weaving through the materials like a pianist searching for inspiring notes on the keys.

The silk’s smoothness, lace’s delicacy, and cotton’s simplicity fluttered at her fingertips.

Eventually, she picked up a rag doll dressed in the most intricate outfit, seemingly taken from a distant era’s aristocratic showcase.

The rag doll had porcelain-white cheeks, slippery cold, devoid of any living blush.

The azure glass eyes blankly reflecting the room’s light, like two frozen oceans, and golden curls waving like ripened wheat.

It was beautiful, meeting all definitions of "beautiful" in worldly terms, like a meticulously crafted piece of art.

But it was not enough to captivate my mind.

I have a high threshold for beauty, perhaps due to family influence, or perhaps born with.

This standardized, soulless "beauty" could only make me feel slightly weary.

Upon seeing my unchanged expression, my sister slightly furrowed her brows, then grasped the doll’s head, her face still displaying a pure innocent smile.

With a gentle twist, like breaking a crispy breakfast biscuit, she neatly tore off the doll’s head.

Without a glance, she casually tossed the still smiling head back into the coffin’s depth, stirring a small pile of fluff among the severed limbs.

Then, she turned around, stuffing the doll’s lavishly dressed yet headless body into my arms.

The touch was peculiar, the silk gown’s exterior icy and slippery, the internal stuffing soft with a kind of empty elasticity, with perhaps some hard support deeper inside, pressing against my arm.

She cheerfully said, the braids on either side bouncing with her movement:

"Brother, you don’t worry, as long as the fiancée’s head can be brought back, the remaining body, no matter what style you like, tall, short, plump, slender... even some more special ’functions’, I can perfectly create for you!

Guaranteed to be identical to real, no, it will better fit brother’s wishes!"

My sister’s voice was crisp, joyful, filled with love and support for me.

Listening to this heartwarming speech, the turbulent doubts about a bizarre world within me began to strangely dissipate and calm.

Indeed, what is there to worry about?

I have such "capable" and "considerate" family, a mother who is always smiling and prepared delicious meals, an always sweet supportive sister, and...