Crazed Whisperer

Chapter 9: The Marionette's Abash

Night fell once again over the Xuan estate. Xuan Jing wandered thoughtfully through the familiar halls, a sense of purpose in his steps. The stray cat he had picked up, still nameless, followed closely at his side. In his hand, he carried a trusty teal lamp that cast soft shadows on the walls. He was dressed in flowing white robes accented with touches of teal, paired with loose-fitting pants. His bare feet moved silently over the cool, teal-fur rug, while his long hair, untied, fell freely down to his waist.

Meeting his destination, Xuan Jing took a deep breath and looked up at the sandalwood double doors with their ornate, golden twirled knobs. The cat, as if sensing the importance of the place, settled at the door, waiting obediently. A small, rare smile crossed Xuan Jing’s face at this quiet gesture. Turning the knobs, he stepped into the room—his deceased mother Yě Shèng’s sanctuary.

He had kept it spotless since she passed, just as he did when she was alive. The space remained untouched by any other hands—no servants, siblings, grandparents, not even his father had set foot here. It was a space just for him, filled with an unspoken connection. The room bore a resemblance to his own, with its sense of order and a certain lingering warmth that hinted at memories he held close.

Xuan Jing stood in front of the portrait, the soft teal light of his lamp illuminating the delicate features of his mother, Yě Shèng. In the painting, she was portrayed with an ethereal, haunting beauty—her pale skin glistening like the moon’s light on water. Long, silken black hair cascaded down her back in waves, with a single streak of white running through her locks, giving her an air of both mystery and grace. Her expression was poised, lips painted dark and slightly parted as if she were on the verge of speaking secrets long buried. Her eyes, though captured in the stillness of the portrait, carried the depth of someone who had lived many lives, someone who had seen too much but remained untouched by it all.

She held a cigarette holder in one hand, elegant and yet defiant. It was almost as if she was mocking the world around her, sitting amidst a sea of black roses that seemed to bow to her presence. She was regal, untouchable, and to Xuan Jing, still alive in the confines of this room.

He chuckled softly, but it was humourless, the words bitter on his tongue. "Would you ever believe it, Bà ba? That someone had the nerve to call you a dog today?" His voice cracked, and he inhaled sharply through his nose. His grip on the teal lamp tightened as he stared into her painted eyes. "Feng Hao deserves more than just his burning eyes," Xuan Jing muttered. "He should burn so badly his entire fucking bloodline would feel it."

(Bá ba in Mandarin Chinese term means Mother.)

His lips curled into a grin, but it was twisted—dark. That kind of grin that hid all the fractures within him. He hated Feng Hao, hated the reminder of what he had lost, what had been taken from him. His mother had always been a pillar of strength, a force that couldn’t be reckoned with. And now she was just a painting. A ghost in his memories.

Xuan Jing sighed, his voice lowering. "And someone even said I had to take responsibility… responsibility. What does that even mean? Why is that word creeping into my life now, bà ba?" He stared into her eyes, as if expecting her to answer, to explain why everyone seemed to want him to care about things he had no interest in.

For the longest time, there was silence. The room was dim and still, save for the soft flicker of the teal light casting shadows on the walls. His mother, painted with that same defiant air, offered no solace.

And then it broke. Xuan Jing, who had never allowed himself to crumble before anyone, felt something tear within him. He fell to his knees before the portrait, dropping the lamp, his hand desperately reaching up to touch her face—her perfect, untouchable face. His shoulders shook as the tears came, thick, black streams pouring from his eyes like dark ink smearing his pale skin.

"Bà ba…" His voice was a broken whisper. "I miss you… I miss you so much."

His free hand clenched the teal rug beneath him as he wept, his body shaking. His tears weren’t normal—they never were—but he didn’t care. They stained the floor beneath him, black streaks marking his grief. He pressed his forehead to the portrait, sobbing uncontrollably now. For all the strength, for all the indifference he showed the world, here in this room, in front of her, he could fall apart.

But the moment was short-lived.

A sudden knock echoed through the halls, startling him. No one knocked on this door. No one dared come to this room. It was sacred. It belonged to him and his mother alone. He pulled away from the portrait, his tear-streaked face turning cold again like ice settling over his features.

And then the sound of hissing—his cat. It wasn’t the normal kind of hissing. It was full of warning, a guttural growl that seemed almost frantic. The hissing was followed by a dull thud outside the door, and then… silence.

Xuan Jing wiped his black tears from his face, but the stains remained, like dark scars against his pale skin. He stood slowly, his expression cold, controlled. Whatever had happened to his cat, he would find out. But his hands were shaking, not from fear, but from the rage that simmered just beneath his skin.

He stepped toward the door, his steps slow and measured. Whoever had dared disturb him in this room would pay. The atmosphere shifted, the air growing thick with the tension of what was to come.

His hand wrapped around the golden knob, and he paused for just a second, his cold eyes narrowing.

The silence outside was ominous, thick, and he could feel a presence waiting—something dark and malevolent.

Whoever it was, whatever it was, would regret coming here.

With a swift movement, Xuan Jing flung the door open, his face expressionless yet holding a promise of what lay behind the calm exterior.

The hallway was dark, the teal light from the lamp casting faint shadows. And there, in the dim light, stood a figure—an intruder who had dared enter his sanctuary.

Xuan Jing’s eyes sharpened, a low growl rising in his throat. His hand twitched, itching for action.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" His voice was low, cold, and deadly.

The figure didn’t respond immediately, but a familiar scent wafted into the room—a stench he had encountered before. A foul, rotten odor that made his blood boil.

The figure finally moved, stepping into the faint light. The cat lay motionless on the floor behind them, its small body still, but a faint rise and fall in its chest indicated it was still alive—barely.

"Now, now, Xuan Jing," the figure said with a mocking tone. "Is this any way to greet an old friend?"