The Office Worker Transformed into the Villain's Granddaughter: The Beginning of the End - Chapter 1

I transmigrated into the six-year-old granddaughter of the book’s perverted villain. He slaughtered people like flies and loved to collect human bones.

But this demon, who struck fear into the hearts of the entire martial arts world, instantly became a doting grandfather in front of me.

I pointed at a pool of blood and said I wanted a rainbow pony pool party, and overnight, he drained the blood and filled it with strawberry milkshakes.

I said, “Grandpa, throwing bones around isn’t what good kids do,” and he immediately turned his collection of skulls into chalk to teach me how to write.

One day, I casually complained that the villain had no friends, and the next day, all the martial arts masters were tied up and brought to play house with me.

“Good grandchild, do you still need friends?” he asked gently, wiping his blood-stained knife.

I peed my pants, thinking: The transformation plan, something seems a little off?

I, an office worker who yesterday was still fighting for her life with a PPT on her desk.

Now sat on an absurdly large, carved, four-poster bed, staring blankly at the tiny figure in the bronze mirror – a delicate, porcelain-like child with eyes as round as grapes.

Six years old, transmigrated into a book.

The good news: my identity was noble.

I was the ultimate BOSS of this book, the peerless, perverse demon who terrified the pugilistic world, the Sect Master of the Blood Shadow Pavilion, Mo Yan’s… biological granddaughter.

The bad news: this grandpa was a real s***.

In the original novel, he was a ruthless killer, erratic, and his hobby was collecting all sorts of bizarre human bones as art.

It was said that the brightest lamp in his bedroom had a lampshade made from ninety-nine skulls of his enemies, ground thin.

What a sin!

Me, a law-abiding, upstanding modern office worker who hadn’t even killed a chicken, now had to call this kind of person “Grandpa”?

And had to live by his side?

This was worse than hell!

“Creak—”

The heavy, black ebony door was pushed open silently, and a tall figure, almost touching the doorframe, glided in without a sound.

The strong medicinal scent in the room, along with a subtle, cloyingly sweet, goosebump-inducing smell of blood, instantly intensified.

All the hairs on my body stood “shua,” my heart nearly leaped out of my throat.

He’s here! The big pervert is here!

Mo Yan, dressed in a dark, subtly patterned black brocade robe, was tall and overwhelmingly oppressive.

Broad shoulders, narrow waist, long hair loosely tied, casually draped over his back. A few strands fell across his forehead, obscuring half of his face.

The exposed part was chiseled and deep, like carved by a knife and axe. His thin lips were tightly pursed, bloodless. He exuded a cold, deathly stillness, as if he’d just been pulled from a sea of hellish blood.

Especially his eyes, as deep as bottomless cold pools. When he looked over, there was no emotion, only a pure, bone-chilling indifference.

The air solidified.

I forgot to breathe, sitting stiffly on the bed, my small body trembling uncontrollably.

It’s over, over, over. That gaze! That aura!

Did he discover that the shell had a new occupant? Was he going to grind me into the next lampshade?

Just as I was so scared I thought my soul would escape a second time, the ice in those lifeless, cold pools “crackled” and shattered.

A tiny, extremely stiff glimmer of light awkwardly squeezed through.

On Mo Yan’s perpetually frozen face, the corner of his mouth very, very slowly twitched upward into an extremely, extremely tiny arc.

“A-Li…” His voice was deep and hoarse, with the sluggishness of someone who hadn’t spoken for a long time, like sandpaper rubbing against dead wood.

He reached out to me, his hand bony and distinct, almost transparently pale.

His fingernails were impeccably clean, yet it inexplicably made one feel that this hand could easily crush anything.

He was careful, with an almost reverent clumsiness.

He wanted to touch my head, his movements stiff like a puppet whose joints had rusted.

“Awake? Do you still… have a headache?” His voice was incredibly soft, as if afraid of startling a butterfly.

Me: “…” ???

My brain’s CPU instantly overloaded, spitting out a string of garbled code.

What’s going on? This careful tone?

These stiff yet desperate attempts to express affection?

What about the ruthless killer, the ultimate pervert whose gaze could scare children to death?

Who was this guy trying to force a smile, but looking worse than crying?

Under the immense shock of the contrast, my remaining office worker instincts and survival desire went into overdrive.

Forget it! Just play along!

I sharply sniffled, using all my strength to squeeze out two tears.

Thanks to this six-year-old body, the tear ducts were admirably developed.

Then, my mouth puckered, and with a heavy sob, I extended my chubby little fingers, pointing at the huge pool in the corner that was gurgling with dark red bubbles and emanating a strong, bloody scent:

“Waaahhh… Grandpa… that pool… it’s so scary! It’s all red!

A-Li wants… wants rainbow ponies to swim in there!

And pretty flowers!

And sweet water! Waaahhh… A-Li doesn’t want red! It’s scary!”

While wailing, I secretly peeked through my eyelids, observing Mo Yan’s reaction.

My heart was pounding like a drum in my chest.

Mo Yan’s hand, half-extended, completely froze in mid-air.

His deep, indifferent eyes followed my trembling little finger, landing on the swirling, ominous dark red blood pool.

The trace of raw affection he had just painstakingly forced onto his face instantly solidified.

Then it sank little by little, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly.

The air in the entire sleeping quarters seemed to be sucked dry.

The cloyingly sweet scent of blood and the cold, deathly aura re-permeated, pressing heavily on my small shoulders.

It’s over, over, over!

Did I just offend a powerful person? That blood pool looks like his prized possession!

Maybe it’s filled with his freshly collected “materials”!

Time seemed to freeze for an eternity.

Just as I was crying so hard I was running out of breath, and starting to think about what animal I should reincarnate as in my next life—

Mo Yan moved.

He very slowly retracted his hand that had been frozen in mid-air and put it behind his back.

That pale hand, under the wide black robe, seemed to curl slightly.

He didn’t look at me again, nor at the blood pool.

He just turned around, and with a placid tone that could drop the air temperature by several degrees, he calmly spoke towards the empty doorway:

“Someone.”

His voice wasn’t loud, but it pierced the silence like an ice pick.

Two figures, dressed in black and moving like ghosts, instantly appeared at the doorway, kneeling on one knee, their heads bowed deeply, even holding their breath.

“Drain it.” Mo Yan uttered two words, so concise they held no warmth.

The black-clad figures kneeling on the ground trembled almost imperceptibly.

One of them quickly glanced up at the huge blood pool, his Adam’s apple bobbed, as if he wanted to say something.

Mo Yan’s gaze swept over him lightly, without any emotion, yet more chilling than the sharpest blade.

The black-clad figure instantly lowered his head even further, almost touching the cold ground.

His voice trembled almost imperceptibly: “Yes! Your subordinate will go immediately! May I ask, Sect Master, after the pool water is… drained… how should it be disposed of?”

The fear in his voice almost spilled out.

Mo Yan was silent for a moment.

His gaze finally returned to me.

I was still teary-eyed, sniffing and secretly peeking at him.

Meeting his bottomless eyes, I flinched, quickly held back my tears, and tried to put on the most innocent and eager expression possible.

He looked at me for several seconds.

His gaze was so complex I couldn’t understand it at all—there was scrutiny, confusion, and a hint of… a very strange, bewildered look, as if he had been struck by something?

Then, he turned his gaze back to his subordinates at the door, and with a tone that was matter-of-fact, even implying “do you even need to ask?”, he clearly ordered:

“Fill it with strawberry milkshakes.”

“…” The two black-clad figures sharply looked up, their faces a blank canvas of disbelief and existential doubt.

One of them even forgot his place and blurted out: “Milk… milkshake?”

“Strawberry.” Mo Yan added expressionlessly, as if he were talking about the most normal thing, “Make it sweet. Not too cold, warm.”

He paused, as if remembering something, and added, “And find some… colorful ponies that can swim.”

After speaking, his gaze swept heavily over his two petrified subordinates. “Before sunset.”

“…Yes… Yes, sir!” The black-clad figures snapped back to reality, their voices cracking, and scrambled away from the doorway.

Their backs screamed “the Sect Master has gone crazy” and “what’s wrong with this world.”

Only I and Mo Yan were left in the sleeping quarters again.

Me: “…” My mouth was so wide open, you could fit an egg in it.

Rainbow ponies? Strawberry milkshakes? Warm? Before sunset?

This execution… this twisted understanding… is this villain BOSS’s character breaking down too much?!

Mo Yan seemed completely oblivious to my shock.

He looked back at me, that stiff trace of affection from before trying hard to return to his face, though it still looked incredibly awkward.

He took a step closer to the bed, his tall figure casting a shadow.

“A-Li…” He tried to speak again, his voice softer, as if mimicking a gentle tone he had never encountered before, “Don’t be afraid. It will… be good soon.”

I looked at his bloodless face, so close to me, and his deep eyes that were trying hard to express goodwill but still made my heart flutter.

I couldn’t help it, and let out a loud, crying hiccup.

“Hic!”

Mo Yan: “…”

Me: “…” Oh no, my image is completely ruined.

He stared at me, his brow furrowing slightly again, as if pondering what my reaction meant.

A moment later, he tentatively, very slowly, reached out his hand again. This time, his target was my back, seemingly wanting to pat it to help me breathe.

That pale, large hand landed on my small back, which was twitching from hiccups, with a lightness like a feather brushing by, showing obvious, clumsy care.

“Don’t cry,” he said dryly, as if reciting an unfamiliar spell, “Grandpa… is here.”

Feeling the almost weightless patting on my back, listening to that dry “Grandpa is here.”

And then thinking about the pool of blood that was about to be replaced by strawberry milkshakes… my traumatized office worker heart.

Strangely, and very inopportunely, a tiny, extremely faint flicker of a small flame, named “this pervert seems salvageable?”, emerged.

The transformation plan, it seems… coincidentally, took its first ridiculously silly step?

It turned out that the great demon’s execution ability, especially when it came to his “good grandchild’s” instructions, was terrifying.

Before sunset, when Mo Yan carried me (his posture still as stiff as if he was holding a bomb about to explode) and re-entered the grand hall where the blood pool used to be.

I was almost blinded by the sight before my eyes.

A huge, gleaming, white and clean pool!

Inside, a full pool of… pink, warm liquid, emanating a strong strawberry sweetness!

The pool walls were inlaid with a circle of sparkling, soft, rainbow-colored luminous beads, illuminating the entire pool like a dream.

What was even more incredible was that in the pool, there really were seven or eight… uh, barely recognizable horse-shaped figures, made from some kind of colorful, waterproof silk fabric, floating around like “rainbow ponies”!

The cloyingly sweet smell of blood in the air had vanished without a trace, replaced by an overpowering strawberry saccharine scent that could make you pass out.

Several elite disciples of the Blood Shadow Pavilion, dressed in uniform black but now with completely uncontrolled expressions and glazed eyes like sleepwalkers.

Were carefully placing… petals around the edge of the pool?

Mo Yan held me, scanning the scene expressionlessly.

He seemed to be somewhat dissatisfied with the saturation of the “strawberry milkshake” color (sickly pink) and the abstract artistry of the “rainbow ponies” (they looked like squashed rainbow candies), and his brow habitually furrowed again.

But when he lowered his head to look at me, dumbfounded in his arms, his furrowed brow painstakingly, and very unnaturally, tried to smooth out.

“A-Li, look.” He carried me closer to the edge of the pool, tilting his chin towards the pink ocean. “Do you… like it?”

My mouth hung open as I looked at the strange “horses” bobbing in the water.

Then I looked at the several cold-blooded killers by the pool, who had expressions of utter despair and were forced to act as flower boys. A huge, absurd sense of humor rushed to my head.

“Wow—!!!” I let out the most sincere exclamation since I transmigrated.

My small hands clapped loudly, “Grandpa is amazing! Rainbow ponies!

Sweet water, A-Li likes it. I like Grandpa the most!”

To add credibility, I even tried to twist my body and gave Mo Yan’s cold, expressionless face a loud “smooch”!

Mo Yan’s body instantly froze solid like millennium profound ice.

The arm holding me tightened abruptly, making me almost roll my eyes.

He was like someone struck by an invisible bolt of lightning, from the tips of his hair to his heels, he radiated an unbelievable stiffness.

In his bottomless, cold eyes, for the first time, a clear emotion of… “shock” and “helplessness” was reflected, mixed with a hint of… bewilderment?

I even noticed that a very, very faint, almost invisible… suspicious blush seemed to appear on his pale earlobes?

The surrounding assassins responsible for the decor collectively gasped.

They all lowered their heads, their shoulders shaking suspiciously, as if they were about to burst from holding back laughter.

Time solidified again.

Only the pink “milkshake” was still emitting its sweet scent, and the great demon, who was stiff as a fossil after my kiss, formed a delightful contrast.

After a long time, so long I thought he might have been frozen by my kiss.

Mo Yan then very, very slowly, with movements as stiff as a rusty robot.

Turned his head and looked at me steadily with his deep eyes, which still held lingering shock.

“…” He didn’t speak. But his gaze was as tangled as a ball of yarn.

His stare made my scalp tingle, so I quickly put on an utterly innocent smile.

Trying to bluff my way through: “Grandpa? Can you hold A-Li to play in the water?”

Mo Yan’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He seemed to have finally found his voice.

His voice was even more hoarse and sluggish than usual: “…The water… is cold.”

He paused, seemingly trying to organize his words, “Play… with the cloth horses.”

He pointed at the abstract rainbow silk bundles floating in the pool.

Fine, cloth horses it is.

It’s better than real horses drowning in strawberry milkshakes.

The road to transformation is long, and Grandpa Pervert’s thought process is bizarre, but… the beginning seems to be… ridiculously smooth?

However, I soon discovered that transforming a deeply ingrained pervert with just rainbow ponies was far from enough.

His deeply ingrained, outrageous “hobby” would always surprise you in unexpected places.

Like now.

Mo Yan’s study, it should have been a place filled with a murderous and conspiratorial atmosphere.

The huge desk was made of a solid piece of dark ebony, piled with various scrolls and maps that glowed with an eerie light.

The bookshelves on the surrounding walls reached up to the ceiling, but what was placed on them… was not sacred texts.

Instead, they were skulls of various sizes and shapes!

Some were polished so shiny they looked like glazed porcelain, some still had dried flesh, their hollow eye sockets gazing eerily towards the doorway.

And some were intricately carved with complex patterns, inlaid with jewels, and placed in the most prominent positions.

Where was this a study?

This was clearly a miniature human skull museum!

The chilling ghostly aura mixed with the smell of preservatives could literally scare a timid person to death.

I, a six-year-old who had just had a blast in the strawberry milkshake pool, was carried by Mo Yan (his current holding posture was slightly more skilled, at least he didn’t make me roll my eyes anymore) into this “museum,” and was instantly stunned by the “dazzling array” of “collectibles.”

Mo Yan probably thought his collection was “beautiful” and wanted to bring his “good grandchild” to broaden her horizons?

He carried me directly to the largest bookshelf.

Pointing to a skull on the top shelf, inlaid with pigeon blood rubies and polished as smooth as white jade, he said in a tone that introduced a beloved toy, with a hint of imperceptible boastfulness:

“A-Li, look. This is…”

He seemed to ponder his words, “…the skull of the former Sword Saint. The quality is… superior.”

Me: “…” Sword Saint? Superior quality?? Grandpa, are you choosing a utensil?!

A chill ran from the soles of my feet to the top of my head.

I stiffly turned my little neck, looking at the skulls that seemed ready to come alive and grin at me in the dim light.

Then I thought about their potential identities “before life”… my stomach churned.

No! I must transform him! There’s no time to lose!

I suddenly closed my eyes and buried my small face tightly in Mo Yan’s cold neck.

Using all my strength, I started to wail, my voice so sharp it could pierce the roof: “Waaahhhh—!!! Grandpa is bad! Grandpa is bad!!

So scary! Woo woo woo… bones! Ugly! Dirty! Thrown everywhere!

Woo woo woo… A-Li is scared! Doesn’t want to be here! Doesn’t want to look!”

My dry wailing produced a strange echo effect in the empty, eerie study, shaking the skulls on the bookshelves as if they were trembling slightly.

Mo Yan’s arm holding me stiffened again.

He seemed to have completely unexpected this reaction.

He lowered his head, looking at the little person curled up in his arms, crying hysterically.

Then he looked at his own “collectibles,” which he was so proud of, his brows furrowed tightly, his eyes filled with… immense confusion and incomprehension.

“Ugly?” His deep, hoarse voice carried a strong sense of disbelief, as if he completely couldn’t understand this evaluation.

He even stretched out a pale finger and carefully poked a brightly polished skull closest to him. “…Not ugly.” His tone was remarkably firm.

Me: “…” Help! Is this aesthetic salvageable?!

I cried even harder, my short legs kicking wildly in his arms.

My small hands waved aimlessly, as if to ward off the invisible horrors: “It’s ugly! It’s dirty!

Throwing bones around isn’t what good kids do.

Woo woo woo… A-Li’s teacher said… good kids don’t throw things around.

You have to… turn things into something useful.

Woo woo woo… Grandpa isn’t a good kid! A-Li doesn’t want a bad grandpa! Waaah—”

“Good kid?” “Throwing things around?” “Turn into something useful?”

Mo Yan caught these keywords, and his icy face rarely showed a pensive expression.

He stood there holding the continuously crying me for a full stick of incense time.

His deep gaze alternated between my tear-streaked face and his “treasures.”

Finally, as if making a certain decision, he turned and left the terrifying study with me in his arms, while coldly saying to the empty air: “Someone.”

Again, the two familiar, shadow-like black-clad figures appeared silently, kneeling on one knee.

“Take those…” Mo Yan’s voice paused, as if he was trying to find a suitable word, “…things. Clean them out.”

“Clean… them out?” The black-clad leader’s voice trembled with disbelief, and he sharply looked up at Mo Yan.

Then he quickly glanced at the “collectibles” in the study, which were worth a fortune (in the pervert world), as if he had heard something out of a fairy tale.

“Sect Master! But those are your…”

“Dispose of them.” Mo Yan’s voice was flat, yet it carried an undeniable sense of finality.

He carried the still-sniffling me and strode away.

Leaving the two black-clad figures kneeling on the cold ground, looking at each other, seeing the same world-shattering collapse in each other’s eyes.

I lay on Mo Yan’s shoulder, secretly opening one tearful eye.

Watching the study door slowly close behind me.

My little heart gave a “victory” sign. Plan successful! Perverted collection, cleared!

However, I was clearly celebrating too early.

One afternoon a few days later, the sun was unusually bright.

Mo Yan carried me to his side hall where he handled sect affairs. Finally, there were no skulls here, but the atmosphere was still as oppressive as a morgue.

He placed me on a small chair beside him, covered with thick, soft cushions, and also gave me an… uh, a very ugly, distinctively sewn stuffed animal made from the fur of some unknown black beast.

He himself sat behind a huge desk, a scroll stained with dark brown smudges spread out before him.

His eyes were as sharp as knives, and he exuded a chilling aura that warned people to stay away, clearly indicating he wasn’t in a good mood.

A black-clad figure was kneeling below, whispering something about “Southern Ridge branch,” “traitors,” “captured alive,” “awaiting punishment,” and other murderous terms.

I idly plucked at the ugly stuffed animal’s fur, my eyes darting around.

My gaze fell on the thick stack of pure white Xuan paper in the corner of the desk, and the black inkstone and several brushes next to it.

A bold (and death-defying) idea came to mind.

I slipped off the small chair, pattered my short legs, and ran to the huge desk.

I stood on tiptoes, stretched out my small hand, and reached for the top sheet of Xuan paper.

Then, with effort, I pulled down the smallest wolf-hair brush.

“Grandpa!” I held up the brush and paper, looking up at him with the most innocent and curious eyes, “A-Li wants to write!”

Mo Yan, who was listening to the report and radiating low pressure, was interrupted. His brow furrowed, and his cold gaze swept over, making the black-clad figure kneeling on the ground shiver.

But when his gaze fell on the paper and brush I held high, and my face full of “eager student” expression.

That icy coldness instantly… melted? Just a tiny bit.

He waved his hand, signaling the black-clad figure to be silent and retreat to the side.

Then, he stood up, walked around the desk, and his tall figure cast a shadow.

He squatted down (a movement that was still somewhat stiff for him), looked at me at eye level, and took the paper and brush from my hand.

“What character do you want to write?” he asked, his voice very low, attempting to be gentle.

“Hmm…” I tilted my head, pretending to think, then pointed to myself, “Write ‘A-Li’! Grandpa, teach me!”

Mo Yan’s hand holding the brush paused.

He probably… hadn’t written such an innocent word in many years?

He was silent for a moment, then very seriously, stroke by stroke, he wrote two neat characters with a sinister sword-like aura on the pure white Xuan paper—”A-Li.”

“Wow! Grandpa is amazing!” I buttered him up at the right time, then changed the subject.

My small brow furrowed, and I pointed at the black inkstone, “But… the black ink is ugly!

A-Li likes… white powder!

Like snow! Teachers all use powder to write!”

I tried hard to recall the chalk my kindergarten teacher used.

“Powder?” A familiar, immense confusion flashed in Mo Yan’s eyes again.

“Mmm-hmm!” I nodded vigorously, gesticulating with my small hands, “White! Powder that can write! Lots and lots!”

Mo Yan looked at my small hands, then at the Xuan paper with “A-Li” written on it, then at the black inkstone in the corner, and fell into a long silence.

The sunlight coming through the high window fell on his sharply defined profile, half bright, half deep in shadow.

The murderous aura around him, caused by sect affairs, unconsciously vanished without a trace.

The black-clad figure kneeling in the corner was now not just trembling; he felt like he was suffocating.

White powder? Writing? Sect Master… what was he thinking again?

I don’t know how long passed, so long I thought his soul had left his body, before Mo Yan slowly stood up.

He didn’t look at me, but beckoned to the black-clad figure who had almost shrunk into the ground.

“Go to the treasury.” Mo Yan’s voice was calm, but it instantly made the black-clad figure’s hair stand on end.

“Bring that batch of… useless things that were collected a while ago,” he emphasized the words “useless things,” which made the black-clad figure’s pupils contract in shock, “Bring them. Give them to… Master Li.”

“Master Li?” The black-clad figure’s voice changed pitch.

That was the chief organ master in the Blood Shadow Pavilion, specializing in crafting all sorts of venomous hidden weapons and torture instruments!

Making him… retrieve bones??

“Mm.” Mo Yan responded faintly, as if this arrangement couldn’t be more reasonable.

“Tell him to grind them into powder. Make it fine, make it white.” He paused, then added, “Before sunset. Prepare enough.”

Black-clad figure: “…” He opened his mouth, but in the end didn’t dare to ask a single word, and scrambled out, his back filled with deep doubt about this world.

Only then did Mo Yan lower his head to look at me again. On his perpetually frozen face, he seemed to try hard to force out a “Grandpa solved it” expression, but the effect was still disastrous.

He awkwardly rubbed the top of my head: “Good. Soon… you’ll have powder.”

Me: “…” Looking at his bottomless eyes, which were now filled with “look how capable Grandpa is.”

Then thinking about “Master Li,” “grind into powder,” “fine and white”… a chill mixed with an even more absurd sense of humor, once again swept over me.

My good Grandpa… your old man’s understanding of “turning into something useful” is to grind those collected skulls… into chalk?!!!

At sunset.

When Master Li, who was said to have blood on his hands and eyes that could scare a nightingale into tears.

Presented a huge, heavy jade box to Mo Yan with an almost reverent, yet simultaneously skeptical and disbelieving expression.

My whole body went numb.

Mo Yan opened the jade box expressionlessly.

Inside, neatly arranged, were hundreds of… “chalk” sticks, about three inches long, uniformly thick, and uniformly displaying a strange, mellow ivory white.

Their texture, their luster… were not just similar to the chalk in my kindergarten memories, but… terrifyingly similar!

Mo Yan extended two long, pale fingers and picked up a “chalk” stick, his fingertips pressing down slightly.

With a soft “click,” the “chalk” snapped into two pieces, the break clean and smooth, without a speck of dust.

He nodded in satisfaction, casually tossing the broken half aside (that half of the “chalk” rolled to the ground, making a dull, thudding sound), then handed the remaining half to me.

“A-Li,” his voice was still placid.

But listening closely, it seemed to carry a hint of imperceptible… seeking praise? “Powder. White.”

I looked at the half-stick of “chalk” in front of me, smooth as jade and still carrying the cold touch of his fingertips, then at the full box of… the essence of the skulls of former Sword Saints, Demon Sect Elders, and (possibly) Martial Alliance Leaders in the jade box…

An unspeakable torrent, a mixture of horror, absurdity, and a certain dark humor, instantly overwhelmed my nerves.

“Wah—!!!” This time, my cry wasn’t feigned, nor was it from fright; it was a genuine, terrified, heart-wrenching wail!

“Grandpa! The chalk… the chalk broke! Woo woo woo… A-Li doesn’t want broken chalk!

I want… I want whole ones!

Woo woo woo… Grandpa, pay for it!

Pay A-Li for new ones! Woo woo woo…” I cried so hard I was gasping for air, while pointing my small finger at the “culprit” on the ground, accusing him of his “atrocity.”

Mo Yan: “…”

His hand, holding the half-stick of “chalk,” froze in mid-air.

He looked down at the half-stick on the ground, then at me in his arms, crying hysterically, my face crumpled.

Then he looked at the full box of intact “chalk” in the jade box… For the first time, his perpetually unchanging, icy face displayed a clear expression of “trouble.”

He probably couldn’t understand why, even though he had followed his “good grandchild’s” request and turned the “dirty things” into “useful powder,” she was still crying?

And… it was just one broken piece?

Weren’t there so many more in the box?

Immense confusion and a barely perceptible hint of annoyance intertwined in his deep eyes.

He remained silent, letting my ear-piercing wails echo.

Only my loud crying reverberated in the side hall.

And in the corner, Master Li, holding the jade box, was as pale as paper, trembling like a leaf in the autumn wind, wishing he could just disappear on the spot.

Just as I was crying so hard I was about to choke myself, Mo Yan seemed to have finally made a difficult decision.

He very slowly, with stiff movements, bent down, and with the two fingers that were holding the half-stick of “chalk,” carefully… picked up the other half from the ground.

Then, under the horrified gaze of Master Li and me (through my teary eyes), he expressionlessly… joined the two broken “chalk” pieces together.

Next, his pale, slender fingers, which could easily crush a person’s throat, began to… rub? In a very strange way?

Yes, rub! Like a child playing with clay!

He was focused, clumsy, trying to rub the two broken bones… no, broken “chalk,” back into a whole one!

Silence.

Deathly silence.

Only the extremely faint, bone-grinding, teeth-clenching “creak… creak…” sound of his fingertips rubbing and pressing bones against each other was clearly and eerily audible in the empty side hall.

I forgot to cry, my mouth gaping, staring blankly at this scene that transcended human comprehension.

In the corner, Master Li’s eyes rolled back, and he finally succumbed to the immense spiritual shock, collapsing straight… unconscious.

With a dull thud, the jade box slipped from his grasp and fell, luckily it didn’t break, only a few “chalk” pieces spilled out.

This sound startled Mo Yan.

He stopped his “repair process,” and glanced unhappily at the unconscious Master Li.

Then he lowered his head and looked at the “chalk” in his hand, which he had rubbed until it was noticeably thicker in the middle, twisted in shape, and still had his fingerprints on both ends. He seemed to finally realize this method wasn’t working.

He fell silent again.

The air pressure around him grew lower and lower, and the temperature in the side hall seemed to drop back to freezing.

Just as I thought he was about to explode, or simply crush the half-stick in my hand, he suddenly looked up at me.

In his deep eyes, incredibly complex emotions swirled: lingering confusion, annoyance at being interrupted, helplessness in the face of “trouble.”

But ultimately, it seemed to be suppressed by an even stronger, stubborn resolve named “cannot make good grandchild cry.”

He very stiffly, in a tone that sounded like he was tearing off his own flesh, bellowed softly (though not loud, it was enough to freeze the air) towards the doorway:

“Drag him out. When he wakes, make another box. And…” He paused, adding, “Make them… not easy to break.”

Two black-clad figures immediately flashed in through the door, their movements quick but with a hint of imperceptible trembling.

They dragged the unconscious Master Li away like a sack of potatoes, picking up the spilled “chalk” along the way.

Me: “???”

This story’s direction seems a bit off!

Master Li was dragged away, taking with him the new (and terrifying) mission of “developing unbreakable chalk.”

Only Mo Yan and I, holding half a piece of “chalk” with my hiccups not fully subsided, were left in the side hall.

A silence of survivors hung in the air, along with the faint, lingering… bone dust smell.

Mo Yan lowered his gaze to the broken half of the “chalk” in my hand, then to my red, tear-streaked little face.

On his icy face, confusion and irritation intertwined, finally yielding to a clumsy compromise.

He reached out, seemingly wanting to wipe away my tears, his fingertips cold.

I instinctively flinched.

He paused, withdrew his hand, and stiffly changed the subject: “…Hungry?”

I sniffled, seizing the opportunity to make a request: “A-Li… A-Li wants to play… play house!” My voice was still thick with a nasal twang.

“Play house?” Mo Yan’s brow habitually furrowed again, clearly utterly unfamiliar with the term.

“Mmm-hmm!” I nodded vigorously.

I tried to explain this complex large-scale role-playing game using a six-year-old’s vocabulary.

“It’s… when lots and lots of friends play together! A-Li is the mommy, there’s a daddy, a baby, and a doctor, and a candy seller…”

I counted on my small fingers, trying to create a lively atmosphere that “needs many people.”

“Friends…” Mo Yan caught the keyword, repeating it softly.

The word, coming from his thin lips, carried a strange, cold unfamiliarity, as if he were uttering a spell from a foreign land.

For the first time, a clear… shadow, or perhaps a faint, stinging sense of disdain, flashed in his bottomless eyes.

I keenly caught the change in his expression.

The original novel mentioned that Mo Yan’s childhood was extremely difficult; he was betrayed by his closest relatives and hunted down by the martial arts world.

He crawled out of a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood, becoming extremely reclusive, viewing “friendship” as the most useless thing in the world, even poison.

The word “friend,” to him, was probably more jarring than “skull.”

My heart sank, and I inwardly cursed.

Oh no, I’ve hit a nerve! Is this transformation heading towards a cliff?

Just as I was racking my brain to explain “friends” as “moving stuffed animals”—

Mo Yan slowly lifted his head.

The shadow on his face vanished instantly, replaced by a pure, almost obsessive focus.

He stared at me, asking distinctly, word for word: “A-Li… want friends?”

His tone was calm, yet it carried a chilling, undeniable certainty.

“Uh… um…” His gaze made my scalp tingle, so I could only brace myself and nod, my voice as faint as a mosquito’s hum, “Want… want to play together…”

“Good.” Mo Yan agreed without hesitation, extremely straightforwardly.

He didn’t even look at me again, simply picked me up, and strode out of the side hall.

His footsteps were steady and powerful, carrying an oppressive sense of impending storm.

The hem of his black robe brushed the cold ground, silently, yet seemingly stirring an invisible tempest.

My heartbeat, with his calm “Good,” suddenly accelerated, fast enough to jump out of my throat.

The transformation plan… seems to be out of control?

The next morning, just as the sky was faintly dawning.

I was awakened by an extremely faint rustling sound, like countless leaves rubbing against the ground.

It wasn’t the sound of wind, nor rain, but a… muffled groan filled with suppressed pain and extreme endurance, and the sound of fabric rubbing?

I rubbed my eyes, groggily sitting up on the huge four-poster bed, and pulled back the heavy bed curtains.

The next second, my breath hitched.

The faint morning light, filtering through the high window, cast a hazy glow over the vast hall that was large enough for horses to run in.

And there, on the cold, empty floor, packed tightly and neatly… were people kneeling!

Yes, kneeling!

They wore various clothes, from luxurious brocade robes worn by young masters and ladies, to the sturdy short jackets of江湖 (jianghu) martial artists, and even a few elderly individuals with white hair and beards, dressed in monk’s robes and Taoist vestments!

Roughly, there were no less than forty or fifty people!

Without exception, their hands were tightly bound by a rope that shimmered with an eerie dark luster, neither gold nor iron. Their mouths were stuffed with rags, their hair disheveled, their appearances disheveled.

Some of them still had fresh bloodstains and bruises on their faces, their eyes filled with extreme fear, humiliation, and bewilderment.

They were “placed” silently on the cold stone floor of the grand hall like animals waiting to be slaughtered, unable to move, only emitting suppressed whimpers and heavy gasps.

The entire hall was filled with the strong smell of blood, dust, and despair.

I was completely terrified, my face pale, my hands and feet cold, I even forgot to scream.

Just then, the heavy black ebony door of the grand hall was silently pushed open.

Mo Yan’s figure appeared in the doorway.

He was still wearing his black brocade robe, unstained.

The morning light outlined his tall and straight silhouette, but it couldn’t dispel the bone-deep coldness surrounding him.

He held a pure white silk handkerchief in his hand, slowly wiping a slender, dark, curved blade.

The blade had a smooth curve, emitting a chilling sheen, and on its edge… there was a startling, still fresh, dark red stain!

He wiped it very carefully, very focused, as if he were wiping a rare treasure.

His posture was elegant, yet it carried a spine-chilling cruelty that disregarded life.

As he wiped, the bloodstains on the blade were slowly wiped away, revealing the cold, dark metallic essence beneath.

The air seemed to solidify.

The “human materials” kneeling on the ground, upon seeing Mo Yan and the knife in his hand, their fear instantly reached its peak.

The whimpers stopped abruptly, leaving only heavy, wheezing breaths like a broken bellows and the clattering of chattering teeth.

Mo Yan finally finished wiping the knife.

He casually tossed the blood-stained silk handkerchief onto the ground, like discarding a useless piece of trash.

Then, he raised his deep, indifferent eyes, his gaze accurately crossing the dense “human obstacles” on the ground, and landed on me on the four-poster bed.

In his eyes, the cold cruelty that was present while wiping the weapon instantly receded.

Like melting ice and snow (though the melting was extremely stiff), an awkward hint of… “affection” squeezed through?

He walked towards me, his steps not fast, but each step seemed to land on the hearts of those “human materials,” causing their bodies to tremble violently.

He reached the bedside, his tall figure casting a shadow that completely enveloped me.

He bent down slightly, reaching out to me.

That hand, which had just wiped a blood-stained blade, was bony and distinct, almost transparently pale.

He looked at me, the corner of his mouth very slowly, very slightly twitching upward.

His voice was exceptionally gentle, with a hint of imperceptible “claiming credit” for completing a task, and he asked clearly:

“Good grandchild, do you still need friends?”

“…”

I looked at his handsome, icy face, which was trying hard to convey “benevolence,” at his outstretched hand, which might still carry the smell of blood.

Then I looked at the group of “new friends” on the grand hall floor, trembling like sieves, their eyes filled with despair…

An indescribable chill instantly swept over my entire body.

A warmth in my crotch surged uncontrollably, quickly soaking the expensive, soft silk beneath me.

“Waaahhh—!!!” This time, my crying was no longer feigned, nor was it from fright; it was a complete collapse, a heart-wrenching wail filled with the distinct smell of urine!

Transformation plan?

What the f*** is this that’s not quite right?!

This is clearly crashing a rocket into the eighteenth layer of hell, ahhhhh—!!!

Mo Yan’s outstretched hand froze in mid-air.

He looked at my soaked pants, smelled the sudden strange odor in the air.

Then he listened to my deafening cry, filled with “rejection.”

In his bottomless, cold eyes, for the first time, a huge, pure, bewildered expression, like that of a child who doesn’t know what to do…

Bewilderment.

(End of text)