CHAPTER V — The "Trash" Groom & the Aristocratic Mockery
2317 Words
Dawn crept grudgingly over Jiangcheng, its pale fingers failing to pierce the gloom shrouding the Shen estate. The cavernous dining hall, bathed in the sterile glare of a colossal crystal chandelier, lay steeped in funereal silence. Fine bone china gleamed coldly beside morning newspapers, their ink still pungent with fresh scandal.
Shen Yaoyang, swathed in a somber dressing gown, occupied the head of the table. His fingers drummed a hollow, restless rhythm on the polished oak. Opposite him, Zhou Huiyun sat rigid, her face bloodless, shadows like bruises beneath her sleepless eyes. Shen Qingxue’s chair stood conspicuously empty—disdain or strategic retreat. Shen Qingwu’s place, too, was vacant: yesterday’s contractual sacrifice, bundled with a sack of cast-off garments, had been exiled to some nameless urban wasteland—a stain hastily scrubbed from the Shen escutcheon.
Steward Zhou Fu materialized soundlessly, placing an opened newspaper before Shen Yaoyang. The entertainment section’s headline screamed like jagged black fangs:
“EXCLUSIVE! Martial Prodigy Shen Qingxue SLAPS ‘Hillbilly Fiancé’ & SHREDS Betrothal! Blind Sister Shen Qingwu ‘Takes the Trash’ in Whirlwind Wedding! Jiangcheng’s Bizarre Aristocratic Farce!”
A grainy telephoto lens image dominated the page: the stark stone steps of the Civic Affairs Bureau. Qin Hao, in his faded jacket and canvas bag, stood frozen mid-motion, opening a taxi door—an image radiating shabby insignificance. But the focal point, circled in lurid red, was Shen Qingwu.
Captured mid-turn, her vulnerability was excruciating. The monstrous purple-green bruise at her temple glared under the morning light. The oversized, grime-streaked work coat hung like a shroud. Most damning: the unmistakable smear of dried blood at the edge of her mask.
Smaller insets delivered further blows:
Shen Qingxue’s hand mid-swing at the airport, contempt etched in ice.
Qin Hao bent low, scavenging scarlet betrothal scraps amidst mocking onlookers.
A blurred close-up of Qingwu’s childish, scrawled signature beside red-circled clauses: “Pre-Marital Assets,” “Mutual Non-Interference.”
The article dripped venom:
“…Sources reveal Qin Hao, a penniless mountain hermit devoid of martial talent, claimed an archaic betrothal to Shen Qingxue! Humiliated publicly at the airport—slapped, contract torn! Yet the plot thickens!”
“…Last night, Patriarch Shen Yuehan suffered a critical collapse (rumored shock from the scandal!). This ‘miracle doctor’ Qin Hao seized the moment, extorting 5 million and forcing marriage upon Qingwu—the blind, marginalized cousin!”
“…Witnesses detail Qingwu’s registration ordeal: tears, weakness, nosebleeds! Coercion? Frailty? Her signature—childish scribbles! A perfect match for her ‘trash’ groom!”
“…The Shen strategy baffles! Is the dynasty crumbling, trading a crippled daughter for a backwoods quack’s ‘life extension’? Utter disgrace!”
“…MORE SHOCKERS? Follow our exclusive series: ‘The Blind Bride & Her Hillbilly Groom: Jiangcheng’s Aristocratic Scandal!’”
*CRASH!—*
Shen Yaoyang’s palm slammed the paper, rattling the heavy table. China danced. The page tore under the force.
“Filth! VULTURES!” His handsome face contorted, eyes bloodshot with bestial fury. “Find the leaker! CRUSH THEM!”
Zhou Huiyun flinched, then hissed, venom dripping as she stared at Qingwu’s bruised image: “That blind jinx! And that mountain plague! The old man’s lost his mind! Now the whole city laughs! Qingxue’s reputation—ruined! Why didn’t that trash Qin Hao get flattened by a truck?!”
The dining hall crackled with incinerated pride.
Scandal spreads faster than light in sunlight.
At “Cloud Mist Waters,” Jiangcheng’s most exclusive enclave, floor-to-ceiling windows framed manicured greens. Soft strings played; the air hummed with the scent of Cuban cigars, rare perfumes, and distilled power.
A coterie of impeccably dressed heirs lounged, amber liquor in hand. A tablet displayed the Shen scandal’s headline and the damning photo.
“Pfft—!” Zhao Tianqi (Zhao Group heir), sporting a six-figure tourbillon, nearly choked on his drink. He jabbed a manicured finger at Qingwu’s bruised temple and b****y mask edge. “Gods! What cosmic curse hit the Shens this year? Ice Queen Qingxue, too good for even the Zhou heir? Now publicly b***h-slapped by a hillbilly? And saddled with her blind cousin? Look at that lump! Did the Shens beat her before dumping her?”
Li Sisi (Li Realty heiress), in a crimson cocktail dress, tittered behind her hand, eyes gleaming with malice. “More! See the blood? Nosebleed at the registry! Pathetic! Probably terror or fury! The Shens are desperate! Pawn off a blind cripple on garbage! Qingxue’s icy mask must be GREEN! Hilarious!”
“Exactly!” Sun Hong (Sun Conglomerate) nodded eagerly, grinning. “The Shens are Jiangcheng’s biggest joke! Qingxue? Top martial talent? Crown shattered! How will she show her face at the Martial Association now? And Qingwu? Blind marrying trash! Divine pairing! The Shens should open a junkyard!”
Cruel laughter filled the opulent room. The once-untouchable Shen colossus was now their favorite punchline.
Jiangcheng CBD, 88th floor, “Stellar Tower” – Shen Pharmaceuticals HQ.
The panoramic view, once a symbol of Shen dominion, now framed a glacial tomb. The CEO’s office radiated sub-zero pressure.
Shen Qingxue stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, a blade honed in ice. Her tailored navy suit sculpted a figure of lethal grace. The sprawling cityscape reflected in her eyes held no grandeur, only frozen tundra.
Her executive assistant, Lin Yuan (precision-cut suit, gold-rimmed glasses), stood two paces behind, sweating despite the chill. The arctic fury radiating from her was palpable, a contained supernova.
“Shut down all corporate comment sections. Legal—cease and desist orders. Sue every source into oblivion. Suppress the heat. Names of every media outlet that republished—on my desk by 1500.” Her voice was shards of ice clinking on marble.
“Understood, CEO!” Lin Yuan snapped.
“And,” Shen Qingxue turned slowly, her gaze twin ice-picks aimed at his core, “Qingwu… that blind burden… and her mountain refuse. Their location?”
Lin Yuan stiffened, proffering a single sheet. “Secured, CEO. ‘Tianfu Gardens.’ South district. Slum. Pre-90s decay. Qin Hao owns a welfare-flat unit—likely parental legacy. Unit 301, Building 7.”
“Tch.” A sound like frost cracking. A smile, cold as a viper’s, touched her lips. “Tianfu Gardens… Scrap collector… Apt.”
She turned back to the window, her focus laser-like, piercing distance to pin that squalid block, that wretched pair.
“Lin. Draft a press release framework.” Her voice was glacial marbles on jade. “Core narrative: Shen Qingwu, a distant cousin, acts out of gratitude for the Patriarch’s past charity. Frail, visually impaired, unfit for core family duties, she voluntarily assumed an archaic betrothal obligation to the benefactor’s disciple. To honor past ties, she chose a contractual union and voluntarily withdrew from the Shen nucleus. The family respects individual choice and offers discreet, basic support.”
Each word was a scalpel. Each phrase, a nail in Qingwu’s coffin. Voluntary. Withdrawn. Contractual. Discreet. It severed all ties, dumped all shame onto the blind scapegoat, leaving her to rot in obscurity.
Lin Yuan felt ice water flood his veins. Total abandonment.
“Furthermore,” Shen Qingxue’s voice dropped, laced with venomous silk, “inform ‘Ghost-Eye Seven’… that bruise… that blood… it offends the eye. Ensure my ‘sister’ and her trash husband… learn quietude…”
Lin Yuan flinched. Ghost-Eye Seven handled Shen’s dirty laundry. This wasn’t just exile; it was a promise of pain for any perceived defiance.
“Yes, CEO!” He bowed deeply, masking his tremor.
Shen Qingxue gazed out at the skyline, her eyes twin pools of frozen darkness.
Tianfu Gardens. Building 7.
Near noon. The squalor clung like a second skin. Peeling paint mimicked leprous flesh. Rust-streaked pipes wept condensation. Potholed concrete pooled greasy water. Pensioners hunched on stools in scant shade, fans stirring listless air. Ragged children shrieked in the dust.
Qin Hao walked the broken path, a translucent plastic bag holding meager groceries dangling from one hand, a takeout box in the other. His worn jacket, faded jeans, canvas bag—camouflage in decay.
Clusters of elderly women, picking over vegetables, tracked him and Qingwu with beady eyes, their whispers slicing the humid air:
“Him! 301’s new tenant! The one on TV? Slapped by the Shen heiress? A scrap-picker?” Gold-toothed and loud.
“Him! Papers said it! Married the blind one! Shen cast-off! Trash paired with cripple! Fitting!” Wrinkled face puckered in disgust.
“301? That hovel old Qin left his grandson? Dragging that blind girl into filth! Look at her bruise! Monstrous! Did he hit her?” Suspicion thick as the air.
“Likely! Ice Queen Shen? Slum trash daring to claim her? Slapping was mercy! Marrying the blind cousin? Sweeping garbage under the rug! Shen charity!” Scorn amplified, brazen now.
Qin Hao remained a statue, unmoved, the barbs glancing off stone.
Beside him, Shen Qingwu clutched her “exile bag,” trembling. Blindness amplified the malice in every hissed syllable. The words were icy sludge, fouling her shattered spirit. Head bowed low, a battered baseball cap pulled down, hiding bruise and expression. A misstep—her worn cloth shoe splashed into murky water, staining her pale trousers.
Qin Hao’s step hitched imperceptibly, his gaze flicking to her. Her knuckles whitened on the bag’s edge, trembling. He said nothing, looked away, moved on.
Qingwu bit her lip, throat tight. She fought for breath against the rising tide of shame. Then—a whisper of warmth. Faint, residual, like the life-force he’d forced into her core yesterday. It brushed her heart, a ghostly feather, calming the jagged edges of fear. A momentary reprieve.
The chill hadn’t fully lifted—
“OOPSIE!”
A shrill, drunken shriek shattered the moment. Cheap perfume and stale beer fumes assaulted the senses. Liu Guihua (building gossip, corner-shop owner), a garish leopard-print sausage crammed into a tight dress, lurched from the stairwell, beer bottle in hand. Feigning stumble, her meaty shoulder slammed with malicious force into Qingwu, who hugged the wall, blind and vulnerable!
*THUD!*
Qingwu gasped, darkness swallowing her. The heavy exile bag flew from her grasp!
She reeled, balance obliterated! Feet skidded on wet, uneven concrete! Momentum hurled her sideways—forefirst towards the stairwell’s raw, jagged cement wall!
Gasps ripped from onlookers!
*THUMP!*
Rough cloth, smelling of dust and warmth, intercepted her fall.
Qin Hao materialized. A blur. His left arm snapped up, bracing like an iron bar between her plummeting skull and the cruel cement.
Qingwu’s forehead smashed into his forearm bone. A sickening c***k of impact echoed.
Qin Hao didn’t flinch. Qingwu rebounded, staggering towards her fallen bag.
*CRASH!*
The bag hit mud. Clothes spilled, sodden. A small, nondescript black card case, its corners faintly metallic, slid free, vanishing into filthy sludge.
“Oh DEARIE! So sorry! Tripped! Tipsy! You alright, sweetie? Oh, the MUD! Your clothes!” Liu Guihua wailed theatrically, face smug, eyes glinting with vicious triumph as she raked them with contempt.
Qin Hao ignored her. His gaze dropped to his arm.
The jacket sleeve was torn. Beneath, on his weathered skin, bloomed a perfect, livid purple imprint—the mirror image of Qingwu’s bruise. Beneath the skin, deep in the bone, a speck of impossible, ancient gold marrow-light flickered and died.
The brass ring on his left hand pulsed—a deep, molten-earth thrum. The dragon-scale sigil within flared ochre-gold. Pain vanished. The marrow-light sealed. Pure, titanic earth-force flooded his arm.
“Alright?” His voice, low and resonant, cut through Qingwu’s panic.
She trembled, saved from the wall by his arm. Her forehead throbbed dully against unyielding bone. No new wound, just deep ache. She touched the old bruise.
“I… I’m…” Her voice shook. She turned slightly towards his sound. In her chaotic senses, the impact echoed—
*BOOM!—*
A tectonic pulse—the heartbeat of the planet’s core—detonated in her mind! Vast, primordial earth-force resonated with something chained deep within her own deadened meridians! A ripple in cosmic stillness!
Simultaneously—
*c***k!—*
A sound like the sky fracturing!
In Qingwu’s overloaded perception, a horrific vision unfurled:
A continent-sized mountain of elemental earth shuddered violently! At its peak, the immense, ochre-gold dragon embodying the planet’s foundational law writhed, ensnared by chains forged from words—venomous, black-lightning-wreathed chains of pure malice!
The chains anchored to—
Qin Hao!
Worse! Countless more chains—filthier, sharper, dripping curses—materialized from the void! Needles of concentrated hatred, woven from global mockery, online scorn, Liu Guihua’s shove, the pensioners’ whispers—all coalescing into billion-fold psychic barbs! They arrowed through dimensions, targeting the fissures in Qin Hao’s “Five-Year Cripple” seals! Aiming to shatter them utterly! Unleashing the earth-dragon’s cataclysmic fury!
The curse—born of mass derision, focused by malice—was a tsunami of intangible poison! It surged through the cracks Qin Hao’s own power had strained, a billion venomous tongues lashing at his life-core!
Annihilation loomed!
“Gah—!” Qingwu choked, body seizing! The icy premonition of universal hatred drenched her. Her blind eyes strained wide, feeling the lethal tide!
Qin Hao sensed her violent tremor, her strangled breath. His head turned fractionally, eyes scanning her terror-stricken face.
Simultaneously—
*HMMMMMMMM—!!!*
The brass ring blazed crimson-hot! An alarm screamed in his soul! The earth-dragon roared!
As the billionfold curse-spears plunged towards his heart—
Qin Hao’s head snapped up!
His obsidian gaze pierced the decaying apartment blocks—
Locking onto the mud-smeared corner of the black card case!
Its edge gleamed with the cold, infinite darkness of void-forged iron!
- Writer
