Please don't question multi-week players

Chapter 425. The Story of the Third Playthrough (2)

She had never known what it felt like to be loved by her mother during her third time. But since that day, it felt as if she truly had a mother.

Even if this love is stolen.

She no longer has to rummage through stinking garbage heaps for food, nor does she have to huddle in a street corner on a cold night, licking the warm light shining from other people's windows with her eyes.

Every night, in the dilapidated shack, there is always a dim, flickering light left on for her.

The woman was dressed in rags and spoke incoherently; to onlookers, she was a madwoman to be avoided.

But for the third time around, she is an angel covered in dust, the only warm light in her gloomy life.

But this stolen light is ultimately fleeting and fragile.

The plague is spreading and becoming increasingly rampant.

More and more corpses lay strewn across the streets, and the wheels of the carts carrying the bodies rolled tirelessly over the gravel road day and night, making a monotonous and heavy sound.

Finally, one day, the first purplish-black rash appeared on the madwoman's neck.

Then came the arms, cheeks, and the whole body. The flesh festered, emitting a sweet, putrid stench.

She began to cough, curl up, and her body became more and more hunched over, like a withered leaf hollowed out by insects.

During my third playthrough, I often sat on the creaking edge of the bed, listening to the suppressed, broken groans coming from beside my pillow, and gazing out the window at the endless cycle of corpse-carrying carts under the gray sky.

A chill seeped into my bones.

Clearly... clearly my fingertips had already touched that little bit of warmth, so why did it slip away through my fingers again?

Like water held in the palm of your hand, no matter how hard you try, all that's left is a cold, bone-chilling dampness.

A deeper despair followed.

The Vatican has doubled the property tax. Even the shacks they live in in the slums are now subject to taxation.

The madwoman used to make a living by steaming and selling steamed buns, but now, who would dare buy a steamed bun made by a plague patient covered in pus?

To onlookers, the rising steam seemed to be crawling with invisible plagues and insects.

My home is gone just like that.

The mother and daughter were roughly dragged into the street and laid down among the haphazardly laid, already rotting corpses.

The cold wind was like a knife, scraping across her skin. The woman's vitality was rapidly slipping away with the spread of the abscesses and each hollow cough.

On her third playthrough, she realized she had to do something.

She went to look for work, but the plague destroyed everything; factories were laying off workers, and all she got was indifferent rejection and being driven away.

With nowhere else to turn, she learned to steal. She would target passersby who looked decent enough, rush over, grab anything of value, and then run away with all her might.

Hunger made her unsteady on her feet, and her frailty rendered her powerless to resist. Most of the time, she would be caught.

Punches, insults, and shoe soles rained down on her thin back.

Of course, it hurt a lot when she was beaten, but what hurt even more was when she got back and the madwoman saw her bruises all over her body, and those murky blue eyes that were instantly flooded with tears.

The woman would hold her tightly, letting out hoarse sobs, her scalding tears dripping onto San Zhou's neck, burning her heart with pain.

Although life was tough, she never complained; she even felt that the pain was worthwhile.

Because she has a mother now.

She had to steal the bread, steal the chance to survive, and let her mother live, no matter what.

Then one day, while searching for her target in the biting wind, she spotted a magnificent foreign carriage bearing a flame emblem, and a girl dressed in an exquisite white dress surrounded by others who respectfully addressed her as Miss Sylvia.

On his third playthrough, he rushed over, his fingertips touching the soft purse embroidered with gold thread, and grabbed it tightly.

Almost simultaneously, a thick, strong hand gripped her shoulder like an iron clamp.

It’s over.

She closed her eyes, her body instinctively curling up, waiting for the pain to begin.

The expected beating did not occur.

A childish voice, filled with undisguised curiosity, rang out:
"Aren't you cold wearing so little?"

I opened my eyes blankly on my third loop, and met a pair of clear, unadulterated eyes.

The young lady tilted her head and looked at her for a while, then waved her hand:

"Fine, you can have this money pouch."

She released her grip.

The heavy purse felt real in my palm, carrying a strange and burning temperature.

She was stunned on her third viewing; the overwhelming joy and lingering fear made her feel numb all over.

Now I have money... I can buy medicine!

Mom is saved!
She couldn't care less about anything else, clutched her purse tightly, and ran back to that street corner as fast as she could ever go.

The wind whistled in my ears, and my heart pounded wildly in my chest.

The woman was huddled in the corner. The third observer abruptly stopped, his ecstasy freezing and shattering in an instant.

The woman's face had turned a purplish-black color, a color indicative of impending death.

"Mother……"

Her voice was trembling uncontrollably.

"Don't die, I'm going to buy medicine... I have money... Look!"

She held up that exquisite money bag as if she were holding up the last hope of the world.

Just as she turned to rush out.

A cold, festering hand gently tugged at the hem of her dress.

"My... dear daughter..."

The woman's voice was barely audible.
"Don't waste your money..."

"Mom is leaving... Keep this money... Live well..."

The hand trembled, using the last bit of strength to touch the dirty cheek of the third time.

The woman's cloudy blue eyes were filled with tears, yet her gaze seemed to pierce through her, looking towards some distant void.

“Delilah…my Delilah…”

"If only you were really Delis..."

Her strength was rapidly waning, her eyelids drooped heavily, and then she struggled to open them again.

In her final, fading pupils, she seemed to see the silhouette of another person through the thin, bony girl before her.

Suddenly, with great difficulty, a muscle twitched on that ulcerated face.

A relieved smile gently spread across her face.

“If Delis were still alive… she would be about your age…”

As soon as she finished speaking, the hand that had been stroking her cheek fell limply to her side.

I didn't do anything on my third playthrough.

She still clutched the purse tightly, her knuckles white, sitting stiffly beside the rapidly cooling body.

The tears had long since dried up, leaving only a burning, dry feeling in my eyes.

She stared blankly at the ground in front of her, which was stained dark red by the blood moon.

The red was so thick it was almost impenetrable, so sticky it was suffocating, like blood ripped from the deepest part of her heart, spreading silently and permeating her entire world, unstoppable.

In the afternoon, the Vatican issued a new decree.

To curb the plague, all those who died from the disease were to be burned on the spot, and soldiers would receive a corresponding amount of reward for each body burned.

This order quickly became a passport to hell.

In order to collect a few more copper coins, the soldiers began to drag away those who were still breathing and only showed symptoms, and burn them alive.

When the patrolling soldier's clattering boots stopped at the corner of the wall, the third timeline simply hugged his knees, curled up next to the woman, his eyes wide open and utterly empty.

She was like a doll whose soul had been ripped out.

The soldier glanced at the purplish-black corpse on the ground, then at the girl who was as dirty as a little beggar, too lazy to examine her or even distinguish her.

"This is about right, let's burn it together."

Firewood was roughly piled up around the perimeter, and torches were thrown up.

The dry firewood crackled and popped, and blazing flames suddenly shot up.

On the third playthrough, there was still no movement, no screaming, no struggle.

The scorching heat from the flames, combined with the boundless coldness in her heart, was slowly tearing her apart.

This world may have a beautiful side, but what lay before her was only utter despair, rotten to the core and infested with maggots.

She came here perhaps only to experience all this malice.

Just as the flames were about to engulf her, a sudden, cold wind swept through the filthy streets without warning, extinguishing the approaching flames completely.

The third time, the eyelashes trembled very slightly, and the eyes slowly lifted.

In the deepest shadows of the street corner, a black figure stood silently, unnoticed.

He was a boy dressed in a well-tailored black gentleman's suit and wearing a black wizard's hat.

He stood there, his face initially expressionless, but when he met San Zhoumu's gaze, he subconsciously forced a smile, wanting to comfort her.

The boy's expression was focused and adorable.

The blood-red moonlight illuminated his earnest eyes and brows beneath the brim of his hat.

—That was her brother, Edric, in the first reincarnation.