Chapter Sixty-Three: The Vengeful Spirit

“This matter…” Ning Shuyi smiled softly, “We can talk about it later; after all, the answer isn’t that hard to find. But seeing you like this now, it seems you haven’t had an easy time lately, have you?”

Chang Junchao remained silent for a moment before suddenly asking, “Could you give me a mirror? I want to see what I look like now.”

Huo Yan nodded, stood up, and soon returned with a mirror, placing it before Chang Junchao so he could clearly see his reflection.

The mirror revealed Chang Junchao’s gaunt face, unshaven and more haggard than ever.

He probably hadn’t realized he looked this way. Staring at his reflection for a long while, he suddenly laughed.

“How amusing, why do I look so miserable?” he murmured, unsure if he was speaking to Huo Yan and Ning Shuyi or merely to himself. “These past few days, aside from the poor environment, I’ve been able to eat and sleep well. I’ve never felt this at peace inside.”

“You killed two people, and yet you feel peaceful?” Huo Yan took back the mirror, clearly skeptical of what he’d just heard.

Chang Junchao glanced at him. “If I said yes, would you think I’m utterly heartless? But honestly, I do feel that way. Neither Deng Qingrong nor that thief stirs any guilt in me.”

“No need to mention Deng Qingrong—she destroyed my entire family; she deserved no mercy. As for that thief… he was just unlucky. There was nothing I could do! And even if he had lived, what good could a petty burglar who breaks into homes possibly contribute to society?”

“That’s no excuse to take someone’s life. Burglary is a crime, yes, but it should be dealt with by law; it’s not a capital offense,” Huo Yan said, dismissing Chang Junchao’s earlier assessment of Li Wei.

“You’re right. Like I said, that guy was simply unlucky. If he hadn’t come across me at that moment, I wouldn’t have deliberately harmed him.” Chang Junchao didn’t argue; apart from a fleeting thought of running away initially, he seemed resigned to his fate.

“You haven’t answered my earlier question: where have you been sleeping these days?” Ning Shuyi asked.

“On the side of the stairwell leading to the rooftop,” Chang Junchao replied. “During the day, I hide on the landing inside the stairwell. There’s a big jar there, left behind by some old resident years ago and forgotten. I curl up inside it during the day so that if anyone comes by, they won’t easily spot me. At night, I take out my bedding and sleep by the wall near the stairwell’s exit, a place hidden from the opposite building’s view, yet close enough to hear sounds from inside the stairwell.”

“Why didn’t you run away immediately after killing? You caused the scene of the burglary at your own home, right? And you were still able to buy so many daily necessities today; you must have money on hand,” Ning Shuyi pressed.

Chang Junchao shook his head. “I have money. Deng Qingrong embezzled her husband’s life-saving funds and guarded it like her own life. Over the years, she either had me support her or coerced me into scamming other old men. That 500,000 yuan—she never touched a cent of it, so I took it all. She owes me more than that; even five million wouldn’t cover it.”

“My life has essentially been ruined by Deng Qingrong. After I killed her, I didn’t know where to go—no prospects, no hope—so I simply hid here. At first, I wanted to see how people would react to Deng Qingrong’s murder. But then I realized I didn’t care what others thought. Even if everyone knew she was a terrible person, so what? My real family is gone; my life won’t change.”

“It seems you understand your own background very clearly,” Ning Shuyi said, surprised by Chang Junchao’s calm demeanor.

Yet from his subtle gestures, it was clear that whenever he mentioned Deng Qingrong, pain and anger still lingered within him.

But those feelings were like ice dropped into boiling water—quickly dissolved into a dead calm.

He no longer had any will to survive.

“I’ve always been puzzled since childhood. Other children resemble either their father or mother, but I look like neither,” he began, taking a deep breath as if recounting someone else’s story.

“Other kids have relatives, but my family has none. Later, during a school health check, I found out my blood type didn’t match my parents’. I was too young to understand then, so I didn’t think much of it. It wasn’t until middle school biology class that I realized my blood type could never be produced by my parents. When I asked them at home, Deng Qingrong beat me badly and called me ungrateful, saying she raised me, fed me, clothed me, and sent me to school, only to be repaid with such attitude.”

He closed his eyes. Though resigned, recalling those painful memories still hurt.

“All the kind words and justifications were hers alone. I was tongue-tied; even if I felt she was wrong, I couldn’t argue or dare contradict her. She fed and clothed me, sent me to school—was any of it for my benefit? No. She only wanted me to grow up and earn money to support her. So I wasn’t allowed to be illiterate; otherwise, I couldn’t find a job.”

“My grades were good. Not top-tier, but the homeroom teacher said if I worked hard, I could get into a reputable university. But Deng Qingrong heard somewhere that college graduates are worthless now, that their starting salaries might not even match a factory line worker’s. She immediately did the math and decided sending me to university wasn’t worthwhile. No matter how much I begged, she refused.”

“In the end, she despised me for having only a high school diploma, no skills, no qualifications, and low-paying jobs. Somehow she found out about the child she abandoned before and started harassing them again.”

“Deng Qingrong isn’t a person. She’s a ghost in human skin—a malevolent spirit! A demon who would betray her own husband, her own children, and everyone else!”