“The winner of this match, Poison Snake!!”
Spotlights shone on the center of the Beast Fighting Arena, where the referee grabbed his hand and raised it high.
The crowd surged around him, the atmosphere boiling with excitement. Their faces were shrouded in shadows, their expressions indistinct, but they must have been twisted and frenzied—people who lost themselves over the fight between two little crickets, unable to contain themselves, like a feast of madmen.
Up in the second-floor VIP box above the spotlights sat some masked, troublesome devils.
They ought to have hideous faces, three heads and six arms, ferocious features that could scare children into silence—otherwise, how could they get everyone below to join in this insane revelry?
Little Dog wanted to become one of those devils too.
One day, he would grow tall enough to lift his hand and easily sweep aside the curtain to the second floor, grabbing those people two at a time and tossing them all into the Beast Fighting Arena for a massive cricket escape—
He would be the only referee, the only spectator.
The final winner would receive a reward…
He paused suddenly. What reward? A hearty meal of rice with two chicken legs? Or a warm coat that made one drowsy?
He pondered this for a long time.
Huang Kun rushed onto the stage in excitement, seemingly wanting to hug his cricket and roar in celebration like the other handlers, but he stopped short under that gaze. In the end, he just kept waving his fists at the audience and bellowed, “We won!”
He paid no attention to the cheers around him. He tilted his head, peering past the referee’s body at the opponent’s cricket lying motionless on the ground.
That fragile body trembled incessantly, its eyes reflecting an emotion he couldn’t comprehend.
He knew it was called “fear.” Sometimes, Huang Shouzi showed a similar look—fierce on the outside but cowardly within, at first trying to hide it with sticks and bamboo strips, but later not even daring to touch him, only cursing from afar.
He wouldn’t feel fear. Perhaps because he was Little Dog, or a cricket, or a venomous snake—never quite human on the outside.
He keenly sensed the gaze cast down from the high platform. It seemed the next match had to be a loss.
Though he wanted to unmask those devils, the crickets taken away before never returned. He didn’t yet have the power to counter a giant cricket, so he needed to endure, to lie low.
It wouldn’t be much longer.
In those endlessly boring days, Huang Kun was his only toy.
He had seen plenty of discarded toys by the trash bins, so he understood that toys were destined to break.
Huang Kun was the same.
Today, he could make Huang Kun roll in money, with enough to indulge in wine and women. Tomorrow, he could bankrupt him, fill him with debts, turn him into a street rat hiding at home, lost in a drunken stupor.
At the start, Huang Kun had won millions, thinking he’d reached the base of the pyramid. But he didn’t realize his life had already veered toward ruin, with abysses before and behind.
Huang Kun wanted more, so he wouldn’t stop. But the next match would leave him wiped out.
Again and again, in cycles.
Each win or loss defied the odds, like a rollercoaster—thrilling in three to five minutes. But if one’s heart and brain endured such stimulation daily, either the structure would shatter completely, or it would explode from overload.
Huang Kun won later too, many times with chances to turn it around and break free… But people like them, who lived by “cricket fighting,” could no longer live normal lives—especially after catching the gambling bug.
Gamblers naively thought winnings were theirs, and losses left them seething with unwillingness. Small wins never satisfied; they always chased the heights of before, desperate to reclaim everything “lost.”
How could Little Dog let his toy have its way? Later wins only let Huang Kun glimpse his former wealth from afar.
At his wit’s end, Huang Kun would kneel by the arena, praying to the heavens over and over: Just one more win! Just this once, and I’ll quit for good, never touch it again!
Little Dog thought, you should pray to me.
Victory belonged only to Little Dog.
When he wanted to win, it was victory. When he wanted to lose, it was still victory.
After repeated earth-shattering wins and losses, Huang Kun went mad, his mind and body ravaged beyond imagination.
One drunken night, he “fell” from a window, crashing into the courtyard below.
Little Dog stood by the top-floor window, looking down at that sickly, emaciated, inhuman figure. Blood gushed out, blackened and foul in the dim, murky surroundings.
The toy was completely ruined. Time to toss it in the trash.
He descended the dark, filthy stairs, knife in hand, heading toward the toy’s remains. Just before reaching it, he suddenly glanced back at the rusty railing outside.
There should have been someone there.
That person would become his new toy for a long time to come.
The new toy was as radiant as the moon in the sky, too precious to break.
So he changed his game. He wanted that person’s embrace, their touch, to be their one and only… and for them to remain forever perfect, a sun all could see but none could touch—while he was the sole shadow drawing infinitely near.
Little Dog wanted to be a “handler” too, fully controlling his new toy’s life.
He would tame them to belong to him alone.
When he hurt, they would hurt too.
When he drew near, no one else would exist in their eyes.
…
He vaguely felt he had already succeeded.
Suddenly, he squatted on the ground, his head throbbing endlessly. Outside this dim world, it was as if gods whispered, their voices infinitely amplified yet muffled, clinging to his ears—
“Why did Little Dog bite?” Someone chuckled lightly. “Don’t make trouble. If you’re sleepy, just sleep.”
“Bro… You said you’d give me anything I want. Does that still count?”
“It’s my birthday today. Make a wish to me?” The person laughed, amused. “Alright, let’s hear it.”
“I want to be your little dog forever.”
A hazy scene appeared against the pitch-black sky. The person couldn’t help but smile. “Still think you’re ten? You’re so big now—you’re no little dog.”
“Big dog’s fine too.” He realized this voice was his own. “I want to be your dog forever, want no one else by your side…”
“Bro, I want you.”
“…” The person fell silent for a moment. “Lai Li, do you know what you’re saying?”
The two voices grew fuzzier. The harder he tried to recall, the more they slipped like sand through his fingers, scattering away. Even with his head splitting, he couldn’t hear clearly.
“Don’t regret it… Little Dog.”
There was another phrase after, seemingly three words.
Even if his legs were broken, his liver shattered, blood pooling around him, he would crawl to that person’s side and force them to say it again.
He had to hear it once more.
*
Lai Li’s consciousness rose and fell, sometimes floating on the sea’s surface, sometimes plunging with those garish memories, engulfed by heavy waters.
The seabed was utterly silent, all clamor sunk into the abyss. But now and then, an invisible hand would caress his face, a damp feather-light touch brushing his lips—not annoying, but reassuring.
Bro…
Lai Li wanted to see his brother’s face, feel his heartbeat. He strained to open his eyes, to lift a fingertip.
A hazy voice sounded by his ear: “He seems to be waking up…”
A soft touch landed on his forehead, gentle as handling fragile treasure: “Bro’s here. It’s okay, sleep…”
The coolness jolted Lai Li awake.
His eyes weren’t fully open, but he instinctively grew irritable. No clothes on? Why so cold?
No one watching—had he skipped meals again? Why treat himself like steel, nothing but work and meddling, never sleeping properly?
His brother noticed something wrong too, touching lightly before pulling away.
Lai Li was extremely displeased, wishing he could grab 520 glue and stick those lips to his forehead forever.
But all thoughts were powerless.
Lai Li’s eyelids cracked open a slit before his head sank back into sleep. This time, he slept extraordinarily long, as if making up for all the lost sleep from two years apart from Dai Linxuan.
He woke again to a fine morning, sunlight streaming through the window, brilliant yet somewhat pale.
Lai Li tried to raise a hand to shield his eyes, but he had no strength. His body felt possessed, utterly uncontrollable.
This wasn’t a hospital.
He stared at the unfamiliar ceiling. After what felt like a century, he dredged fragmented memories from the sea, piecing together twelve scattered years.
Lai Li bolted upright in sudden alarm—but only his soul did; his body barely twitched before someone pressed his shoulder.
“Sir, your body hasn’t fully recovered. Please don’t move…” The person, likely prepped in advance, soothed him swiftly before he could erupt. “Mr. Dai is busy right now. I’ll connect a video call for you.”
Lai Li’s blurry vision cleared, fixing intently on the other.
Though the caregiver spoke a language he understood, it was clear they were a foreigner.
Unfamiliar room, unfamiliar decor—even the temperature, weather, and plants outside the window were alien.
…He wasn’t in Danshi. He was abroad.
Lai Li’s thoughts and memories shattered instantly, thrown into chaos.
He could barely distinguish if the surroundings and caregiver were real or illusion. Perhaps he’d been comatose since twelve years ago, only awakening now—all else a delusion.
A dream of yellow millet must end.
In that instant, panic flooded Lai Li like a tide. The gray memories of his first ten years coalesced into a bloody maw, swallowing the twelve years after.
His body trembled uncontrollably, a low, furious, anguished wail escaping his throat.
Someone called, “Little Chestnut—”
Dai Linxuan said sharply, “Lai Li! Look at me!”
The call pierced the fog, granting Lai Li a sliver of clarity. Like finding a path in mist, he struggled to focus on the laptop screen in the caregiver’s hands—
Dai Linxuan, on the other end, suppressed his anxiety to reassure him: “It’s okay, Little Chestnut. I’m right here.”
Lai Li, adrift in time’s chaos, latched onto the anchor. His churning heart calmed briefly under soothing waters.
He blinked slowly.
Dai Linxuan knew what he wanted to ask: “Do you remember? We had a car accident. You were hurt the worst—took ages in the hospital, then days in ICU after surgery. You wouldn’t wake.”
Lai Li’s lips moved, but no sound came.
“The doctors said you might not wake…” Dai Linxuan opened his mouth, the rest hoarse and fading. He steadied his trembling voice, forcing calm: “I transferred you abroad. I was going too. Before the crash, you said you were sick. After thinking it over, I booked a top foreign medical team. Even without the accident, we’d have flown out that night…”
Lai Li heard nothing, straining his lips to mouth: Where are you?
Dai Linxuan explained: “It’s been seventeen days since the crash. I’m back in the country—returned yesterday. I booked a flight to you for tomorrow afternoon. I…”
His pupils contracted sharply, voice cutting off.
Lai Li had somehow raised a hand, trembling but firm, gripping the breathing tube, staring silently.
The caregiver panicked: “Oh no, what are you doing…”
“—I’m heading out now.” Dai Linxuan spoke rapidly, as if a second’s delay meant disaster. “Private flights need half a day’s notice. I’ll see if I can snag the next commercial one—if not, hitch on someone else’s. At latest, midnight tonight—you’ll see me for sure.”
