Chapter 187 Day 19 of Transmigrating into a True and False Young Master Novel

Chapter 187: Day Nineteen of Transmigrating into a Fake Heir Novel

After quickly clearing a small space to settle in, dinner could only be instant noodles soaked in hot water.

Fortunately, the old house, long uninhabited, still had electricity, and a dim light bulb gave off a faint glow.

At night, Song Xinghai was assigned to the room that had belonged to his own biological parents.

He lay in bed, staring at the blurry, mottled ceiling in the darkness, listening to the chirping of unknown insects outside and the wind moaning through the broken window frames.

Fear wrapped around his heart like cold ivy, tightening inch by inch.

Looking around at the poverty and decay—this was where his biological parents had lived and died, and where An Yi had grown up—

The stark contrast chilled him to the bone.

He recalled the spacious, bright Song family villa, the soft, comfortable bed, the exquisite food, Lin Wan's gentle care...

He didn't want to ever come back here!

Was An Yi bringing him here today a warning?

If he stepped out of line, if he still dared to covet what wasn't his, would he be sent back to this terrifying place?

This realization made him tremble with fear, his teeth chattering.

He curled up, hugged himself tightly, and lay awake all night.

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The next day, just before dawn, the mountain mist hadn't fully cleared, and the air was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of grass and trees.

An Yi had already gotten up, rummaged for a while in the old storage room, and emerged with three rusty scythes with rough wooden handles.

He walked to the yard and handed one of them to Song Xinghai, who was still groggy.

Song Xinghai watched An Yi approach with that scythe gleaming with cold rust and felt an inexplicable tension, instinctively stepping back, a flicker of panic in his eyes.

Seeing his reaction, An Yi paused in exasperation.

Did he think he was going to chop him with that broken scythe?

Without bothering to explain, he simply held the scythe out again.

Realizing he had overreacted, Song Xinghai's cheeks flushed. He quickly reached out and took the rusty, iron-smelling scythe. The cold, rough feel was uncomfortable. He looked at An Yi blankly, unsure what this was for.

An Yi ignored his bewildered gaze and handed the next one to Yan Hui, who had woken up early and was leaning against the doorframe watching him.

Yan Hui took the scythe, testing its weight casually in his hand.

"Follow me," An Yi said curtly, picking up the remaining scythe and slinging a basket of incense, candles, and spirit money over his shoulder that he had prepared the night before. He turned and walked toward the small path leading up the slope behind the house.

Yan Hui immediately took long strides and followed without hesitation.

Song Xinghai watched their retreating backs, steeled himself, and stumbled after them, his steps uneven.

The path on the slope was completely overgrown with wild grass.

In early summer, the vegetation was lush, with many grasses nearly waist-high, their leaf edges bearing tiny serrations that caused a slight itch when brushing against skin.

An Yi walked steadily, nimbly avoiding potholes and tricky spots.

Yan Hui, relying on his height, caught up in a few strides and took the initiative to use his scythe and body to cut and push aside the obstructing grass.

He also carried a basket on his back, yet walked steadily.

An Yi glanced at him. Nice work, kid.

Poor Song Xinghai, who was last in line.

Already unsettled, having never walked on such terrain, and dressed unsuitably, he stumbled over the tangled grass roots after just a few steps.

"Ah!" A scream followed by a dull thud as something heavy hit the ground.

Song Xinghai's foot slipped, and he completely lost his balance, falling headfirst with a thud. The scythe flew out of his hand and into the grass.

He lay dazed, his palms and knees burning, grass clippings all over his head and face. He was a mess.

Hearing the noise, An Yi stopped and turned around.

Seeing Song Xinghai lying in the grass, unable to get up immediately, An Yi paused for two seconds. His face expressionless, he said flatly, "...Watch your step."

Then he continued pushing through the grass, making no move to help.

Yan Hui glanced back with a smirk that held no sympathy. He quickly turned back to focus on clearing the way for An Yi.

Suppressing the pain and grievances, Song Xinghai struggled to his feet, found his dropped scythe, brushed off the dirt and grass clippings. His eyes were already red, but he didn't dare complain, gritting his teeth to follow more carefully.

By the time they stumbled and climbed halfway up the hillside to find the two earthen graves side by side, almost completely swallowed by weeds, both Yan Hui and Song Xinghai were a complete mess.

Yan Hui fared better—only his pant legs and shoes were stained with mud and grass juice, with a thin layer of sweat on his forehead.

Song Xinghai fared worse, having fallen several times. His clothes were dirty, hair messy, and his palms and knees were probably scraped and raw. His pale face had even acquired a few small red scratches from the grass blades.

An Yi pointed at the two nearly shapeless, overgrown graves, in a flat, calm tone: "This is the place."

Without further delay, he rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing his pale forearm, and started clearing the thick weeds covering and surrounding the graves, his scythe making "swishing" sounds as it cut through the grass.

Seeing this, Yan Hui and Song Xinghai quickly stepped forward to help.

Though Yan Hui had never done such farm work before, he had excellent physical fitness, adaptability, and learning ability. He mimicked An Yi's movements, clumsy at first but quickly mastering the technique. He wasn't very efficient, but at least he could cut the grass steadily without hurting himself.

Song Xinghai was a completely different story.

He held the scythe awkwardly, having no idea how to exert force.

As he imitated An Yi's swing, his arms felt weak. The blade either bounced off the thick roots or slid away.

"Ah!" Another short cry of pain.

Song Xinghai felt a cold sensation on his index finger, followed by a sharp sting.

He looked down and saw a cut on his left index finger from the scythe blade. Bright red blood immediately welled up, stark against his fair skin.

Hearing the sound, An Yi turned and saw Song Xinghai holding up his bleeding finger, eyes red, on the verge of tears, looking utterly pitiful.

An Yi closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and found it hard to watch.

"...The wound isn't deep. Press on it," he finally said, his tone flat.

Song Xinghai pressed the wound tightly with his uninjured hand, the pain, the grievance, and the fear of this desolate mountain—of these two graves representing the origins he didn't want to face—all combined. He finally couldn't help it, and tears streamed down his cheeks.

But he didn't dare stop. Sniffling softly, he continued cutting grass clumsily in his injured way, looking utterly miserable and pathetic.