Hundred-day metamorphosis

Chapter 2 Lonely Child

Looking at his two best friends beside him, the words "I really can't bear to leave you!" echoed in his heart. Yet, the crushing reality of his terminal diagnosis pressed down on him, and Zhuang Ziang didn't know who he could possibly tell this news to.

His first thought went to his parents, but almost immediately, a deeper wave of powerlessness engulfed him—his family situation was painfully complicated.

Zhuang Wenzhao (Father) and Xu Hui (Mother) had divorced when Zhuang Ziang was just five years old.

Many things in this world require qualifications, but being a parent isn't one of them. Zhuang Wenzhao and Xu Hui had brought Zhuang Ziang into the world on a whim (or perhaps by accident), yet failed to provide him with a stable harbor.

Zhuang Ziang's childhood memories were saturated with endless arguments. The tables and chairs at home were often overturned, and the shards of glass and broken porcelain littering the floor stood as silent, chilling witnesses to their shattered marriage. Finally, on an unremarkable day, they split for good.

During the divorce negotiations, Zhuang Wenzhao had initially refused to take Zhuang Ziang, always feeling the burden would hinder him from starting a new family. It was only after his grandparents intervened, citing the need to "continue the family line," that Zhuang Ziang remained with his father.

A year later, Zhuang Wenzhao brought home a new wife.

Two years after that, they had a son of their own.

While reality wasn't as harsh as a fairy tale, the phrases "constantly gauging others' moods" and "living under their roof by their sufferance" perfectly captured his existence in that legal "home." He felt like a cautious tenant, breathing shallowly in his own house.

His mother, Xu Hui, hadn't remarried. Working as a train attendant, she was always on the move, returning only once every ten days or fortnight. She rented a small apartment near the school. Sometimes, when Zhuang Ziang couldn't bear the chill of his father's home, he would stay there for a few days. Over time, he became a peripheral figure in both households.

Both parents were currently absorbed in their own orbits. Zhuang Ziang couldn't even fathom how to utter the words "I'm dying" over the phone. Instinctively, he shrank back, unwilling to disturb them, and even more unwilling to face the potentially devastating reactions. He retreated to the secluded balcony corner near the bathroom, hesitated for a long moment, and finally dialed the landline number back in the countryside.

The old landline's dial tone beeped persistently in the receiver, each tone striking Zhuang Ziang's taut nerves. Just as he thought no one would answer and was about to hang up, a weary, aged voice came through: "Hello? Who is it?"

Zhuang Ziang's tears burst out instantly, soaking his face: "Grandpa, it's Ziang... I miss you."

On the other end, Zhuang Jianguo's voice immediately brightened with pure joy, loud enough to seemingly vibrate the phone line: "Ziang! It's Ziang! Old lady, hurry up! Our grandson's calling!"

The meager affection he usually received could only be replenished during winter and summer breaks back in the village, within the loving gazes and fussy care of his grandparents. Hearing his grandfather's familiar, unreserved delight now, the accumulated grievances and terror welled up, threatening to choke him.

"Grandpa, Grandma, I'll... I'll come back to see you this weekend," Zhuang Ziang forced his voice to sound normal.

"No, no, you have so much studying now! Don't worry about us old folks. Come back during summer vacation," Zhuang Jianguo replied cheerfully.

"Mm... okay. Grandpa, Grandma, take good care of yourselves. I... I have to get to class!" Zhuang Ziang almost blurted the excuse out, hanging up abruptly before a response could come. He bit his lip hard, stifling the sob rising in his throat. He truly lacked the courage to deliver this devastating blow to the two people who loved him most. If that day really came... the thought of the elderly burying the young was unbearable.

The sharp bell for class rang out just then.

Zhuang Ziang wiped his face, took a deep, shuddering breath, and feigned composure as he returned to his seat. He shook his head vigorously, trying to banish the image of the diagnosis from his mind, and forced himself to stare at the blackboard as if it were a lifeline.

The schedule on the far right of the blackboard announced the next two periods: consecutive math classes.

"Mistress Miejue" Wu Qiufang stepped onto the podium, textbook tucked under her arm.

The hypnotic effect of math class lived up to its reputation. Within mere minutes, most students seemed boneless, succumbing to drowsiness.

Seizing the moment when Wu Qiufang turned to write on the blackboard, Li Huangxuan swiftly pulled the brand-new "Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils" from his desk. He flipped it open randomly and landed on the classic scene—the Eighteen Riders of Yanyun, galloping like tigers amidst wind and dust.

"Son, are you suicidal? Reading novels in Mistress Miejue's class?" Zhuang Ziang hissed under his breath, urgently warning his deskmate.

Li Huangxuan, utterly engrossed, recklessly committed the crime in plain sight. The swordplay and vendettas of the martial world were infinitely more thrilling than the dry formulas before him.

As a former model student, Zhuang Ziang tried to sit straight and focus. But unlike any previous distraction, this time he could only see Teacher Wu's mouth moving, his ears plugged with cotton, unable to absorb a single word. The icy despair surged within him like a tide, as if an invisible hand was slowly leaching the warmth of life from his body.

"Mr. Murong, Boss Zhuang, Old Monster Ding—if all three came at me, what would I have to fear?" (Li Huangxuan, deep in the story)

Li Huangxuan was reading with mounting excitement when a sudden, palpable chill hit him. He snapped his head up, meeting the twin laser beams of Wu Qiufang's eyes from the podium.

"Li Huangxuan! Come up and solve this problem!"

Wu Qiufang, with years of teaching under her belt, possessed hawk-like vision. The podium was her watchtower; no student's misdeed escaped her notice. Renowned for her strictness, she tolerated no sand in her eye.

Li Huangxuan shuffled reluctantly to the podium. Chalk in hand, he faced the complex celestial script of symbols on the blackboard, frozen as if petrified. A problem this difficult? Only an inhuman like Zhuang Ziang could c***k it!

Wu Qiufang's face darkened: "With math scores like yours, you dare read novels in class? Sitting next to Zhuang Ziang, haven't you learned anything? Isn't proximity to the exemplary supposed to rub off?"

Li Huangxuan muttered under his breath, "He bought the novel for me!"

"Confiscated! Stand at the back for the rest of the class!" Wu Qiufang reprimanded mercilessly.

Then, she turned to Zhuang Ziang, her tone instantly softening, carrying a hint of unspoken expectation (and perhaps a reminder of his earlier distraction): "Zhuang Ziang, come up and solve this problem. Set a good example for your classmates."

Zhuang Ziang jolted as if waking from a nightmare, raising his head blankly. The writing on the blackboard blurred and swam before his eyes, morphing into the cold, fatal medical terms of his diagnosis. He walked woodenly to the board, facing a problem that once would have been easy, but now felt like an unscalable wall. The chalk hovered in the air, unable to descend. His mind was filled only with that flimsy piece of paper, that death sentence. The once-familiar numbers and symbols twisted into grotesque, alien faces.

"Zhuang Ziang? What's wrong?" Wu Qiufang's voice was laced with shock and confusion.

"Teacher Wu... I... I can't," Zhuang Ziang's voice cracked, thick with unsuppressed sobs, like sandpaper grinding his throat.

"How is that possible?" Wu Qiufang couldn't believe it. This problem should have been straightforward for Zhuang Ziang. She'd called him up intending to provide a stark contrast to Li Huangxuan and liven up the class, not expecting this.

Zhuang Ziang's shoulders began to tremble uncontrollably. The chalk slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a sharp c***k and snapping in two. The tears dammed up for so long finally broke free, flooding down his face. He stood before the podium, his thin frame swallowed by immense grief, like a child abandoned by the whole world in a blizzard, shivering and utterly alone.

Wu Qiufang's heart clenched. Seeing the collapse of this always excellent, composed boy, a surge of maternal pity washed over her; she almost stepped forward to pull him into an embrace.

The classroom instantly erupted in hushed whispers and speculation:

"Oh my god, even Zhuang Ziang can't do it?"

"Is he still sick? He looks awful..."

"Mushi, do you know what's wrong with him?"

Lin Mushi opened her beautiful phoenix eyes wide, fixed on Zhuang Ziang's trembling back. Her heart felt gripped by an invisible fist, a sudden pang of dread shooting through her. After being friends for so long, she had never seen Zhuang Ziang exhibit such profound sorrow, as if his entire world was collapsing. He must be hiding some immense, unspeakable secret.

"Zhuang Ziang, stop crying. Go back to your seat," Wu Qiufang suppressed her own shock and worry, speaking softly to comfort him.

"Teacher Wu... I... I need to go to the restroom," Zhuang Ziang managed between heaving sobs, his voice shattered.

Wu Qiufang looked at his tear-soaked, frighteningly pale face, sighed deeply with helpless distress, and finally nodded in silent permission.

Rushing out of the classroom, the empty corridor swallowed him whole. Zhuang Ziang slumped against the cold wall, his body sliding down until he crouched on the floor, losing all control. His suppressed crying echoed in the sudden silence. The muffled sound of the lecture drifting from the classroom, the indistinct figure at the far end of the corridor... Every blade of grass, every tree on this campus, every teacher, every classmate, even the mundane routines he once found tedious—all became unbearably precious in this moment, objects of aching longing. Only three months left. Three months later, all these vivid sights before him would be severed from him, lost forever.