We Are Filthy, Born From Mud - Chapter 52

Chapter 52: Yes, She Has Made Up Her Mind. So, Why Not This Time…

Zong Yougu was drunk.

After returning to the private booth, she had glass after glass, drinking quite a bit. Wan Chunming and the other actors in the crew thought it was simply because Yougu was too happy—after all, she had won such a major award, and how many days like this could one have in a lifetime? So they let her drink, letting her enjoy herself to the fullest.

Yellowish liquor went down Zong Yougu’s throat one glass after another, and she gradually began to lose her focus. In truth, she hadn’t drunk an enormous amount, but her tolerance was poor; after a few glasses, her head began to spin and drowsiness set in. The liquid in her glass hit the bottom, leaving only a shallow layer.

Soon, Yougu felt her mind grow dizzy and her eyes ache. She slumped over the table, her slightly curled fingers trembling involuntarily. Around her were hazy sounds of laughter and the crisp clinking of chopsticks against bowls mixed with chatter. Everything felt like it was moving further away; the voices grew faint, and she felt as if she were wrapped in sticky spring water.

She gradually drifted off to sleep—or more accurately, the alcohol numbed her brain, and she lost consciousness.

Zong Yougu forgot how she got home. Everything around her became irrelevant to her existence, as if a thin mist stood between her and the world, stripping her of any concrete or tangible perception. By the time she came to her senses, she was already sitting, swaying, in Hu Yinghua’s car. Her head rested against the car window; as the vehicle bumped along, her head knocked against the glass, making her dizzy with pain.

With a sudden brake, her head slammed into the back of the front seat.

“Sister Yougu, is it okay to drop you off here?” Hu Yinghua’s voice came from the front. Yougu heard it, but she couldn’t manage to open her eyes. Instinctively, she didn’t want to go home, so she stayed motionless, lingering in the car.

“Sister Yougu? Sister Yougu, are you awake?” Hu Yinghua turned from the driver’s seat and gave her a nudge, but her hand suddenly stopped in mid-air. She realized Zong Yougu was crying.

Indeed, Zong Yougu was crying. She stared out the window toward the direction of her home. In fact, she wasn’t particularly sad; her heart was filled more with rage. She was confident that Zong Liangu would return; she was confident she could force her back. So, she wasn’t sad. But for some reason, her tears flowed uncontrollably.

“Sister Yougu, are you dizzy because you drank too much? Do you want your partner to come pick you up? Sister Yougu, do you need me to dial the number for you?”

Zong Yougu finally spoke, waving her hand as she prepared to get out. Opening the car door, the coolness of the post-summer rain surged into the vehicle. Yougu sniffled. Holding the February Orchid bouquet in one hand and the heavy trophy in the other, she stumbled; at this moment, the symbols of her glory had become a burden.

She stepped through puddles, one step at a time. The rain soaked her expensive leather shoes, and muddy water seeped through the cracks. The cold, sticky sensation made her nauseous. A light drizzle began to fall again, but she had no way to hold an umbrella. Strands of wet hair clung to her cheeks, and her shirt was plastered to her body. She felt she must look ridiculous and wretched right now.

She fiercely kicked a pebble on the ground. Today should have been a happy day; everything was Zong Liangu’s fault. Zong Liangu was ungrateful; she didn’t appreciate a good heart. She should have realized long ago that Zong Liangu was a vicious dog. But there was nothing she could do—she, Zong Yougu, liked such vicious dogs. Because she wasn’t any better.

Click—

The front door opened. The moment she saw the interior, Zong Yougu’s breathing quickened, and her footsteps froze. Because she saw Zong Liangu inside the house.

As Zong Yougu stepped into the room, she saw Zong Liangu sitting composedly. Liangu was wearing Yougu’s casual clothes, a wide jacket draped over her frame. Her hair was neatly combed back, without a single stray strand.

“I thought you weren’t coming back.” Zong Yougu closed the door, leaning against it with her arms crossed. Her tone was acerbic, making no effort to hide her cold mockery.

Zong Liangu didn’t speak, just watched her.

“You need to understand one thing: in this world, only I can help you unconditionally. Only me.” Zong Yougu tilted her head back, looking down through hooded eyelids that obscured most of her pupils. She sneered at Zong Liangu. “No one will love you except yourself—except us. You need to know that, do you hear me? That Ge Ya won’t help you. She knows you lied now. She won’t help you, and you won’t find anyone else. You can’t leave me. You can’t leave me. Give up!”

As Zong Yougu finished, her chest heaved violently. Her alcohol-numbed brain was gradually clearing; her eyes had never seen so clearly. Zong Liangu remained seated, turning a deaf ear to Yougu’s words. Her hands were hidden in her pockets, silent.

“So you think I only came back because I had nowhere else to go?” Zong Liangu suddenly smiled. She stood up and lightly patted Yougu’s face with the back of her hand. She pointed toward the wardrobe, an almost innocent smile on her face. “You really wanted to see me come back dejected, didn’t you? The more wretched I am, the happier you are, right? Well, I’m going to have to disappoint you.”

Zong Liangu kicked the small bag at her feet. “You said it yourself: you are me, and I am you. It shouldn’t be too much to take a few of your clothes, right? I’ve helped you for so long, after all—don’t be so petty.”

Zong Yougu was stunned; for a moment, she couldn’t seem to grasp Liangu’s meaning. She reached out, wanting to take Liangu’s hand, but Liangu slapped it away. A sharp pain bloomed on the back of her hand, the numbing sensation traveling up her arm to her brain.

“So, you only came back for clothes?”

The moment she said it, Zong Yougu knew she had asked a stupid question. Sure enough, Zong Liangu began to laugh. Her laughter was sharp and incessant. The small room echoed with it, until the sound gradually dwindled into a raspy, breathy noise.

The sound died away, and the smile faded from Zong Liangu’s face. She stood tall, observing the woman before her—someone identical to her in both appearance and personality.

Many images flashed before Zong Liangu’s eyes. In her previous life, throughout her short existence, she had constantly been overcoming her instincts. She was afraid of blood, and afraid of the twitching muscles of freshly slaughtered livestock. Truthfully, the first time she killed a chicken, she was no better than Zong Yougu; the sight of raw meat scared her into dropping the knife, injuring herself instead—a story that made her adoptive mother laugh for days. She was naturally cowardly and afraid of death, but so what? She had overcome her instincts. In all her later missions, she never failed, and she never abandoned a task because of inner fear. She was naturally careless, but she had successfully pulled off so many hits regardless.

So, why shouldn’t it work this time?

She looked up at Zong Yougu, the smile in her eyes gone, replaced by a dense, heavy killing intent. Yes, she wanted to kill Zong Yougu. She had failed so many times before, hesitated so many times. Because her instincts wouldn’t let her strike Yougu. Because she was selfish, and the partiality and protection toward “herself” were deeply etched in her genes, influencing her every move. This time, she wanted to see if she could overcome this hurdle as she had done before.

What made Zong Yougu so sure that Zong Liangu couldn’t kill her?

She stepped lightly, unobtrusively closing the distance. Her hand in her pocket returned to the small knife, slowly pushing the blade out. Zong Yougu still didn’t notice; her head was still tilted back, standing dazed in place. Her white, slender neck was completely exposed to Zong Liangu, her chest rising and falling with her breath. In short, she was completely defenseless against Zong Liangu.

Zong Liangu laughed wildly in her heart, but she didn’t let it show.

“Yougu,” Zong Liangu spoke slowly, her airy voice weaving through the room like a snake.

Zong Yougu gave a soft “Mm.”

“Yougu, do you have any wishes?”

“I…” Zong Yougu propped up her chin, thinking carefully. “With you, actually, anything I do is interesting.”

The hem of Zong Yougu’s expensive suit brushed against the back of Zong Liangu’s hand; an untimely itch climbed from her hand to her heart.

“Liar.”

Zong Liangu knew Yougu was lying because Yougu simply wasn’t that kind of person. She and Yougu were not peaceful people without ambition; they both knew exactly what they wanted and would chase it by any means necessary, regardless of the cost. Right now, Zong Yougu wanted to trap her with lies, to keep her by her side forever. And she, in turn, was doing everything to hide her killing intent. They were both harboring their own ghosts.

“You caught me. Fine… a wish? I want to have no worries about food or clothes. I want everyone to see me. Money, fame—that’s all I want.”

This time, Zong Yougu laughed, her laughter identical to Zong Liangu’s from moments ago. She tilted her head back even further, her entire neck trembling with her laughter. Her swaying reminded Zong Liangu of that first chicken she ever killed.

The double-edged blade sank deep into the space between Zong Liangu’s index finger and thumb; the sharp pain excited her. She, Zong Liangu, could do anything. No one could stop her—not even herself.

She timed it perfectly, slowed her breathing, and slowly closed her eyes. Holding her breath and focusing, when she opened her eyes again, she felt as if she had returned to her days of solo missions.

Her left hand clamped onto Zong Yougu’s jaw, pinning her against the door so she couldn’t move an inch. Her right hand struck swiftly, her forearm lunging forward. The blade gleamed at her fingertips, a cold light flashing across both their faces.

Droplets of blood hit the wooden floor, seeping into the wide cracks. The blood flowed freely, yet there wasn’t a single scream.

Zong Liangu deftly put on her hat, picked up the bag from the floor, and left the place with hurried steps.