Please don't question multi-week players

Chapter 424. The Story of the Third Playthrough (1)

To be honest, I don't know why I ended up here.

The first sentence of the diary entry is filled with confusion.

Jiang Jianxin's gaze fell upon the words, and his thoughts drifted to that more distant era when the red moon hung high in the sky.

The start of the third playthrough was really not good.

As far back as she can remember, she wandered alone in the civilian district of the Bright Realm.

The streets were filthy, the road surface was always black and sticky, covered with grime of unknown origin.

She huddled in a sheltered street corner, wrapped in a tattered rag she had picked up, its color indistinguishable, her overly quiet eyes watching people come and go.

At that time, those strange green light spots could already emerge from her palms, soft and warm.

But she didn't understand what it was; she only knew that when the light appeared, the bruises on her body would hurt less.

The other children on the street, however, took it as a bizarre trick. They surrounded her, laughing, clapping, and making up off-key tunes, singing that she was the "little green monster."

At such times, the little girl, dressed in tattered clothes, would shrink herself even tighter and stare quietly at a patch of compacted mud on the ground, as if there were something extremely attractive there.

She neither cried nor made a fuss, and didn't even look up at them.

She knew that if she remained unresponsive like a stone, their interest would quickly wane, receding like the tide as they moved on to find more interesting toys.

Sure enough, the children soon got bored with the little mute boy's lifeless demeanor and scattered.

Day after day, she huddled in the shadow of the garbage dump.

The sun rises and sets, stretching and shortening the slanted shadows of the slum houses.

As dusk falls, cooking smoke and the faint aroma of food drift out from the drafty windows on all sides.

The aroma of rice in the porridge, mixed with a hint of pickled vegetables or cucumbers, gently wafts into your nostrils.

That's the taste of "home".

On the third viewing, I would raise my head and gaze intently at the windows lit by dim, yellow lights.

She would imagine in her mind whether there was a waiting figure behind that window, who would peek out, wave in her direction, and call out in a voice she had never heard but had imagined countless times:

"Darling, come back for dinner!"

But illusions are fragile, easily shattered. She simply withdrew her gaze and buried herself deeper into the tattered cloth.

The last rays of the setting sun swept across the street, casting long, long shadows of parents and children returning home, their shadows overlapping intimately and stretching all the way to the alley entrance.

The only thing that remained overshadowing her was the silent, cold, and ever-growing shadow cast by the garbage heap behind her.

This went on for a long time, until one day, everything changed.

First, the number of children playing around decreased day by day. On the empty streets, only horse-drawn carriages full of corpses remained, and the heavy sound of their wheels rolling over the muddy filth became more and more frequent.

Sometimes, the lifeless little face on the bus, half hastily covered by a tattered straw mat, was just a few days ago running and jumping around by the garbage dump.

A stench of decay and despair began to fill the air, and as people spoke in hushed tones, they invariably uttered that one word:
[Epidemic]

But what does this have to do with her?

She was still that little beggar huddled in the street corner, rummaging through the garbage to make a living.

The burning emptiness in the stomach can usually only be barely suppressed by a few sour weeds or fruit pits left over from someone else's chewing, still covered in dirt.

The faint green light in her palm was a strange ailment she dared not show to others.

She remembered a drunkard who caught a glimpse of it, backed away in terror, and screamed:
"Devil! Green palms... You're a monster who deserves to be burned at the stake!"

From then on, that faint light only dared to quietly illuminate her worn-out knees in the dead of night when no one was around, under the tattered cloth she huddled in.

The days passed in numbness and vague fear.

Until that day, a crazy woman appeared on the street carrying an empty basket.

Her clothes were tattered, her eyes were unfocused, and she grabbed at everyone's sleeves as she passed by, her voice broken:

Where is my Delilah?

Have you seen my Delilah?

Without waiting for an answer, she started crying and laughing at the same time:
“My Delilah…Mommy lost you…” “It’s all Mommy’s fault, it’s all Mommy’s fault!”

She began to slap her own cheeks forcefully, the sound of the slaps echoing crisply in the quiet street. As she continued, she collapsed, letting out a mournful cry like a wounded wild animal.

Passersby kept their distance, shaking their heads and sighing.

Everyone knows that her Delilah died on the very first day the plague struck and was buried in a mass grave outside the city.

Where can it be found again?

That evening, dark clouds hung low, and a cold rain began to fall.

On my third playthrough, I wrapped myself tightly in the soaking wet, even heavier rag, and as usual, I trudged to the familiar garbage heap, rummaging through the mud and stench.

Raindrops pattered against the scrap metal and broken tiles.

Just then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw that the madwoman was still standing there, carrying a basket, pacing in circles in the rain, like a lost soul.

On the third playthrough, he lowered his head, focusing on a hard, black lump that appeared to be food, half-buried in the mud.

The icy rainwater flowed down her tangled hair and into her neck.

Suddenly, a cold, withered hand gently rested on her bony shoulder.

She trembled and slowly turned her head.

It was that crazy face, with wet hair clinging to his scalp and cheeks, and rainwater mixed with mud carving deep furrows on his face.

But the woman's gaze towards her changed in an instant.

His unfocused gaze suddenly sharpened, bursting forth with an overwhelming joy at something lost and found.

She grinned, revealing an incredibly gentle, silly smile. Her voice trembled with excitement, yet remained exceptionally clear, piercing through the rain and reaching the ears of the third generation:

"Delis, Mom has finally found you..."

The woman's trembling hand touched her cold, wet cheek, as rainwater and scalding tears streamed down her face.

"Mommy misses you so much... Come home with Mommy..."

……

From that day on, the days of slowly rotting in the garbage dump seemed to have been washed away by that cold rain, creating a crooked crack that let in a sliver of completely different light.

In the third playthrough, I was led back "home" by the hand of a crazy woman.

It was a small, dark, but exceptionally clean shack.

The woman called her "Delis," her voice carrying the unwavering certainty of a drowning person clinging to a piece of driftwood.

She steamed soft, fragrant buns for the little girl, cooked thick, steaming porridge, and used a faded but softly starched fabric that she found somewhere to sew a well-fitting garment, carefully wrapping it around the girl's body covered in chilblains.

Madness seemed to linger within her at times. Most of the time, she simply worked quietly or gazed at "Delis's" face for a long time.

But sometimes, she would suddenly put down her work, come over, stroke her head with her rough but warm hands, and murmur softly:

"My Delilah... is the cutest girl in the world."

At this point, the third playthrough will freeze.

The warmth of the porridge seeped into her palms, the sweet aroma of the steamed buns lingered in her nostrils, and the new clothes brushed against her skin, bringing an unfamiliar, soft touch. All of this felt so real that it made her dizzy.

But deep inside, a cold voice always whispers—

You are not Delis. You are just a little monster whose palm glows green, someone you found.

She stole a glance at the small, cleaned-up reflection in the woman's eyes; the tenderness in that gaze was almost overflowing, making her heart flutter.

She knew she wasn't Delilah.

But... Delis has a mother like that.

She can steam buns, cook porridge, and make clothes. She can gently stroke her head and praise her mother in the most precious tone in the world.

She lowered her head, took a big bite of the steamed bun, and the sweetness melted on her tongue, spreading all the way to a sour and constricted corner of her heart.

She also really wants... to have a mother.

(End of this chapter)