Chapter Eight: A Fiery Reckoning in the Pursuit of a Dream Wife

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In his dream, Meng Shuyue was dead. Song Shijing stood dazedly at the doorway, listening to Zhou Dajun’s frantic explanations that it wasn’t intentional. His gaze fell upon the woman on the bed, her face drenched in blood. His body felt as if frozen, unable to move or even breathe. Deep within, a voice whispered that this was Meng Shuyue.

Yet, as if in disbelief, he numbly helped Su Yanyan drag the woman onto the dormitory bed in the lumberyard where she lived. Under cover of darkness, they set fire to the place, leaving her to perish in the blaze, fabricating a story that she had died from an overturned kerosene lamp after being overwhelmed by rumors.

Afterward, he mechanically went home to clean the bloodstains off the floor and, together with Su Yanyan, coerced Zhou Dajun into obtaining a divorce certificate at the civil affairs bureau. Before long, Su Yanyan plastered the entire dormitory with bright red wedding characters, embracing him in tears of joy, whispering that at last they were together.

Song Shijing, equally moved, embraced her with reddened eyes. Smiling, he said, “Shuyue, I have finally married you!” But as the words left his mouth, both froze in place. His smile gradually cracked, crumbling piece by piece until he released Su Yanyan and collapsed to the floor, covering his face as he wept uncontrollably.

At that moment, he finally understood why he had been so lost and broken. Unwittingly, he had already fallen deeply in love with Meng Shuyue.

He had always thought he liked Su Yanyan. To rid himself of this improper affection, he accepted Meng Shuyue as his fiancée, repeatedly using and hurting her, dragging her along to the countryside as a shield while seeking to satisfy his desires by seeing Su Yanyan.

But at some point, Meng Shuyue had become an indispensable part of his life. Like air, unnoticed in daily life, but painfully missed once gone—his entire chest ached so fiercely it made him wish for death.

He rose in despair, pinned Su Yanyan to the bed, gripping her neck tightly, demanding over and over where she had sent Meng Shuyue. Even though he knew the woman who died on that bed was Meng Shuyue, even as Su Yanyan sobbed, confessing it was he who had handed Meng Shuyue into Zhou Dajun’s hands, causing her death, he refused to believe it.

He had killed the woman he loved most with his own hands! He had never imagined Zhou Dajun would actually lay a hand on her, let alone beat her to death.

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The thought of that day—him flirting with Su Yanyan outside, while Meng Shuyue inside suffered brutal abuse—pierced his heart like thousands of steel needles, making his whole body tremble. He had clearly heard her cries for help, yet had foolishly believed Su Yanyan’s words, mocking Meng Shuyue as overly dramatic, questioning why a mere glance could cause such screams.

In truth, the moment he pushed open the door and saw Meng Shuyue dead, his body and soul died with her. Like a frog slowly boiling in warm water, despair accumulated with each sleepless night after losing her.

That night was supposed to be his wedding night with Su Yanyan. Instead, he returned to the lumberyard and found, among the ashes of Meng Shuyue’s former dormitory, a small box that held her hairpin.

Clutching the hairpin, he carried a bucket of gasoline back to the wedding chamber, lavishly decorated by Su Yanyan. He doused the earthen house with gasoline, then struck a match and threw it outside the door.

Amidst the roaring inferno, he held the struggling Su Yanyan, laughing and crying, ultimately perishing together. The flames seared flesh and skin in agonizing torment, accompanied by overwhelming remorse that tore his body and soul apart, shattering every fiber of his being.

Song Shijing jolted awake from his nightmare, sweat pouring down his forehead, the straw mat beneath him soaked through with his sweat. He gasped for breath, trembling uncontrollably.

The nightmare had felt so real—the searing pain of losing his beloved etched deeply into his soul like a burning brand, leaving him fearful even after waking.

Outside, a rooster crowed. On the window hung a tattered green sheet that Meng Shuyue had once lovingly hung for him, embroidered with two clumsy mandarin ducks. Though the ducks were far from beautiful, they were painstakingly stitched through many long nights.

Now, the morning light filtering through those crooked ducks cast a dim glow in the dark room.

Shivering, Song Shijing got out of bed and licked his dry lips, instinctively reaching to pour water, only to find the kettle still lying on the floor. Looking at the clock on the wall, it was already half past six. Usually, she would have come to boil water for him by now, but she hadn’t appeared yesterday or today.

Opening the door, he stepped into the pale dawn and hurried, almost running, all the way to the lumberyard. Only when he saw the familiar small earthen house did his wildly beating heart finally slow.

He sighed deeply, mocking his own foolishness. To think that a mere dream would drive him to check if she was still alive.

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Standing before the door for a long time, hungry and dizzy from the whole day’s fasting, he finally did not knock and instead turned back to the clinic.

Along the way, Song Shijing’s face darkened as if ink could drip from it. As a proud young master, he had clearly bowed his head to explain to her only yesterday—when he and Su Yanyan had been caught on the bed, it was obviously a setup to frame him. Besides, they hadn’t gone all the way. Why did Meng Shuyue have to make such a fuss, even refusing to cook for him?

He had never pampered her before; on the contrary, whenever he was angry, she would cling to him and soothe him several times.

This time, Song Shijing vowed he would not forgive so easily. She would have to cook him a whole plate of cured meat and feed it to him before he would relent.

Thinking this, his mood lifted a little, and he hummed a spirited highland tune as he returned to the dormitory…

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When Meng Shuyue arrived in the city, clutching her bundle, the sun had already risen high. She was the type who could fall asleep even riding on the back of a bicycle; the bumpy tractor ride had left her dizzy but she had slept all the way.

The night before, she had given the uncle and aunt two yuan to ride their tractor, which was hauling sweet potatoes to the market, and she had successfully reached the city by morning.

After buying the fastest train ticket to the capital at the station, Meng Shuyue happily called home from a nearby supply and marketing cooperative.

Her parents’ voices on the other end were overjoyed to hear she would be home by evening.

“Yueyue, your mother is making your favorite sweet and sour ribs. Be careful on the road, okay?”

“Your father is going to the co-op to buy some White Rabbit candy for you, and if you’re craving soda—something you can’t get in the countryside—he’ll bring some back too…”

Hanging up, warmth filled Meng Shuyue’s heart.

Her parents and brother had once feared she would suffer in the countryside, which was why her brother volunteered to go there himself.

But she had willingly followed Song Shijing, who was required to go to the countryside, to be closer to him—leaving her parents and brother behind, depriving them of her company.

Having wasted a whole year of her youth, she now deeply regretted it.

Yet, it was not too late.

She would inherit her father’s legacy and dedicate herself to advancing traditional Chinese medicine!