Chapter 14 - Parallel Lines

Translator's Note:

Hello, I hope you've all been doing well.

Here you go, and I wish you a good read.

And, as I said before, if you wish to read ahead, you can head over to my Patreon to get early access to all the translated chapters.

Every animal must have had a harmless stage in its youth... Shuai Zhaomin pulled a slightly yellowed photograph from a folder, squinting at the image. It depicted an older man seated in an armchair, his expression kind but his eyes sharp. Gathered around him were six children.

 

Four boys and two girls, their ages averaging around seven. All of them were mixed-race, not purely Italian.

 

Shuai Zhaomin immediately identified which of them was that snake. Damn it, could he be any cuter? What happened? How did someone go from this to being so utterly infuriating?

 

Flipping the photo over, he found six names written on the back, corresponding to the children's order in the picture: Qingji, Tengshe, Migu, Sara*, Taotie, and Zhuque. They were distinctly old-fashioned, and Shuai Zhaomin couldn't even begin to imagine what they represented.

 

[T/N: Qingji (庆忌) is a mythical water deity from ancient Chinese folklore, particularly associated with the region of Qi (齐地). It is classified as a 泽精 (zé jīng), meaning a "marsh spirit" or "water essence." Qingji was mentioned in 《管子·水地》 (Guǎnzi · Shuidi), an ancient Chinese text attributed to Guan Zhong (管仲), a famous politician and philosopher from the Spring and Autumn period (770–476 BCE). The text describes Qingji as a spirit born from a marsh that has been dry for hundreds of years but still retains some water and fertility. This suggests that Qingji represents the lingering essence of water in arid lands, embodying both resilience and supernatural swiftness.

娑羅 (Suō Luó): This name is a transliteration of "Sāra" in Sanskrit, which refers to the Sāla tree (Shorea robusta), a tree mentioned in Buddhist texts. The name 娑羅 can refer to the tree, and by extension, it could carry connotations of sacredness, peace, or spiritual significance. The Sāla tree is particularly important in Buddhist history as the location where the Buddha attained Nirvana.]

 

Why go to the trouble of such names? For engraving patterns on those weapons, perhaps?

 

Turning the photograph back over, his eyes naturally fell on the child named Tengshe. Smaller than average, even delicate. His reddish-brown eyes sparkled with a faint misty sheen, a tiny nose, small lips, and slightly curly hair that puffed softly atop his head—it all screamed to be scooped up and cuddled.

 

Time, you cruel bastard.

 

"Serg, why do you have this photo?" Shuai Zhaomin asked, curiosity edging his voice. He knew Serg had other jobs beyond running the café, but he'd never pressed for details. Still, he often marveled at the precision and volume of information Serg managed to gather.

 

"I thought it might help make your work easier," Serg replied, placing a tray on the table. It bore a freshly brewed pot of tea, along with milk, sugar, lemon, and cinnamon. Instead of plain porcelain, Serg served it in a crystal glass adorned with intricate vineyard engravings.

 

The deep red tea shimmered like gemstones under the light.

 

"If anything, it's just making me hate Tengshe Brelini more," Shuai Zhaomin snorted, flipping through the photo again but leaving it out of the folder.

 

After a hearty meal, Serg closed up shop early. From the second-floor window, Shuai Zhaomin gazed down. The narrow alley below resembled a deep ocean—not entirely dark, but carrying an enigmatic glow that obscured everything within.

 

Across the way, most windows in the apartment complex remained lit. Occasionally, silhouettes carved by the glow of lamps drifted past, like actors in a silent play. It was oddly mesmerizing.

 

Shaking the photo absently, Shuai Zhaomin let out a soft laugh.

 

"Cutting ties with them is a blessing, but can it really be like this? After all, this is a contract relationship. Can you really walk away just like that?" Serg slid a perfectly prepared cup of tea—complete with milk and cinnamon—toward Shuai Zhaomin, accompanied by handcrafted snacks.

 

"Technically, no. He could sue me," Shuai Zhaomin replied, crossing his legs beneath the table and smirking. "But I've got a little leverage over my boss. Let's see how he chooses between public disgrace and a watery grave."

 

"Leverage?" Serg tilted his head slightly, a faint blush warming his milk-chocolate complexion. "Zhaomin, was it from the last batch of information I gave you?"

 

"Exactly. A gold mine." Just the thought of his boss's face paling, his jowls quivering—it lifted Shuai Zhaomin's spirits immensely.

 

After years of restraint—enduring without ripping that man's mouth off or planting a fist into his gut—was anyone out there more virtuous than him? Well, Serg excluded.

 

"Zhaomin, you're just…" Serg sighed softly, shaking his head as he stirred his own tea, sipping it with elegant precision.

 

"Hard to believe that guy was this cute as a kid." Shuai Zhaomin's dark eyes wandered back to the photo before narrowing slightly. "Hmm... is that a tattoo?"

 

"Tattoo?" Serg leaned closer, following the direction of Shuai Zhaomin's impeccably manicured finger.

 

The child named Taotie stood out—oldest of the six, with fiery red hair and nearly silver eyes. His expression was so composed it bordered on vacant. On the left side of Taotie's neck, a faint totem-like design, blood-red in color, stood out against his pale skin.

 

"No, the files didn't mention tattoos on the children. It's probably a birthmark," Serg mused. His focus wasn't really on the other five; his investigation had primarily centered on Tengshe Brelini, with the others being mere collateral.

 

"Probably..." Shuai Zhaomin's fingers tapped lightly on the table as his mind conjured an image of Tengshe's bare physique. Naturally toned and muscular, with some faint scars here and there, but no visible markings. Then, inevitably, his thoughts drifted lower...

 

"Fuck!" Shuai Zhaomin growled abruptly, tossing the photo onto the table and grabbing his tea, downing it in one go. "Shit!" He hissed as the liquid scalded his tongue.

 

"Zhaomin, really—you need to be careful," Serg chided, half-exasperated and half-amused, pouring him a glass of water. Shuai Zhaomin drained it immediately.

 

Drops of water slipped from the corners of his lips, trailing down his chin, along his neck, and disappearing into the open collar of his shirt.

 

Something in Serg's fingers itched, compelling him almost to reach out and brush the drops away. For a long time, his feelings toward Shuai Zhaomin had been far from platonic, yet he refused to let that show. Shuai Zhaomin had no such intentions, and Serg was painfully aware of how slim his chances were—how starkly Shuai Zhaomin drew the line between friend and lover.

 

"Serg, who the hell just strips naked the first time they meet someone?" Shuai Zhaomin wiped his lips with a hand, his movements brusque, and slammed the cup back onto the table, seizing a pastry and biting into it with frustration.

 

Serg smiled softly, lowering his gaze to avoid the flush creeping across Shuai Zhaomin's chiseled features. Was this embarrassment? Fury? Tengshe Brelini—what kind of spell did he cast to provoke such a reaction? Just like the serpent in Eden, a master of temptation.

 

"Damn it, this hurts like hell!" Shuai Zhaomin grumbled, utterly unfiltered in front of Serg. Scalding his tongue had only worsened his day, not to mention aggravating his injuries. Moving hurt, yet resting was no less infuriating—a constant reminder of his current limitations.

 

"Zhaomin, you're injured. You should focus on your recovery, not… this." Serg sighed, shaking his head as he watched Shuai Zhaomin—a whirlwind of energy even with his arm in a sling and a hand clutching his chest in pain.

 

"You rarely scold me like this," Shuai Zhaomin muttered, scratching his cheek in reluctant defeat as he sank back into his chair. Once settled, he retrieved the photo. "So Sara's a girl, huh…"

 

From beneath his long lashes, Serg cast an upward glance at Shuai Zhaomin. Setting his cup down, he leaned across the table, bringing himself close enough to catch the faint medicinal scent lingering on Shuai Zhaomin's skin.

 

"Are you looking at Miss Sara?"

 

"Hmm?" Shuai Zhaomin raised a brow, confused. Serg quickly recoiled, widening the gap between them.

 

Why did he even ask that? What right did he have to sound so bitter? The faint blush spreading across his milk-chocolate skin deepened, and he shook his head, his dark hair swaying with the motion.

 

"Pay no mind to what I said. I just… I…" Just what? Not even he could articulate it.

 

"I want the records on these people and the history of the Brelini family." At last, Shuai Zhaomin slid the photo back into its folder, seemingly unbothered by Serg's unease.

 

"Zhaomin, this has nothing to do with you anymore, does it?" Serg rarely refused Shuai Zhaomin's requests for information, yet this time he felt compelled to object—though without a strong reason to do so.

 

"Maybe not, but I'm curious." What kind of family would use a mortal combat to select their heir? What would happen if all the candidates died? Were there backups?

 

Damn it, this would make one hell of a bedtime story.

 

"No, Zhaomin. This is too dangerous." For once, Serg firmly knocked his knuckles against the table, his brows furrowing—a deep crease appeared, a rare imperfection in his otherwise flawless features. "The Brelini family is an ancient mafia dynasty. You've already made your escape; don't get involved again, please."

 

Behind his glasses, Shuai Zhaomin's dark eyes widened slightly before curving into a sly smile. "Serg, it's rare to see you so worked up. If you don't want to help, I'll find someone else."

 

That smile—mischievous and self-assured—was a clear sign. Serg knew it well. Shuai Zhaomin had made up his mind.

 

"Zhaomin, you know I worry about you—whether as a friend or..."

 

"Or?" Shuai Zhaomin had never seen Serg look so serious before, almost on the verge of tears. Scratching his cheek awkwardly, he wasn't sure how to safely navigate this moment.

 

What was going on today? First, the intellectual, un-mafia-like Tengshe Brelini; then a clumsy assassin who was useless outside a bed; and now Serg, inexplicably angry at him. He was in New York, not Wonderland, wasn't he?

 

Damn it. This was absurd. He probably only injured his body, not his brain!

 

Serg took a deep breath, his long lashes shimmering faintly as though catching the glint of unshed tears. It wasn't sadness—it was something more intense. Why was he so emotional? Shuai Zhaomin should just want to have some fun... right?

 

Shuai Zhaomin's collar was suddenly grabbed. Serg wasn't forcing him to stand; instead, he leaned in himself. Even so, Shuai Zhaomin's collar was still held tightly, leaving him completely immobilized because of his injury.

 

Something soft and damp brushed against his lips—a fleeting touch carrying the scent of black tea, mingled with Serg's familiar spice-laden fragrance.

 

His mind went blank in an instant... and in that moment, his tongue was lightly grazed. The gentle pressure against his lips deepened for a brief second before pulling away without lingering too long.

 

"Do you want to hit me?" Serg asked, his bitter smile tinged with despair.

 

"No..." Shuai Zhaomin groaned, pressing his temples as his mind reeled in disarray. "I think I understand how flowers feel now."

 

"Flowers?"

 

"Powerless to resist the damn bees." Damn it. Twice! He'd been kissed without his consent twice in one day!

 

He should knock himself out with his own plaster cast. Damn it all!

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