Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Mansion —

The relentless rain, the rumble of thunder, and the drenched streets formed the backdrop as ten-year-old Zhao Jiarui stumbled forward with unsteady steps. Bloodstains streaked down his soaked clothes, yet he felt nothing; only fear consumed his small heart, and the image of his sister's falling body kept flashing before his eyes. A yellow, old taxi appeared in the distance, screeching to a halt beside him. The driver, a frail man of about sixty, lowered his window and asked, "Son… why are you running like this at this hour?" Jiarui said nothing, his breathing heavy, eyes frightened, lips trembling, until in a broken, feeble voice he begged, "Uncle… please… take me to Yan Residency. I… I need to see my father and grandfather… please." The old man, seeing his state, was silent for a moment before opening the door: "Come on, son… hurry, get in." Slowly, Jiarui sat in the seat, still clutching the bloodstained locket his sister had given him. The taxi cut through the rain in silence; the driver glanced at him through the rear-view mirror: "Who did this to you, son? Your clothes are soaked, stained with blood… tell me something?" Jiarui lowered his head, his eyes red, his tears gone, his mind consumed by a single face—the eighteen-year-old boy with a gun, who had taken his mother and sister from him. "I… I want to go home," he whispered. Understanding the shock he was in, the driver said nothing. About twenty minutes later, the taxi stopped before the grand gates of the Yan Residency, rain still pouring, the golden letters of the gate glimmering: YAN RESIDENCY. Jiarui quickly handed the money to the driver, who, before taking it, held his hand and said, "Son… go inside and tell a grown-up everything. You are not alone. God is with you." Jiarui nodded slightly and walked toward the gate, trembling as he rang the bell. Footsteps approached, the gate slowly opened, revealing a soaked, small Jiarui. The maid who opened the door asked, "Child… who are you here to meet?" Jiarui said, "Mr. Yan… my father and grandfather." The maid called inside and told him to follow her. As he entered, he marveled at the mansion's luxurious, high-tech interiors before being led to a room where two men awaited: one seated, at least sixty to seventy years old, and one standing, around thirty-five, both dressed in luxurious attire. Yan Yuxuan—Jiarui's stepmother and his real moher sister —entered in an elegant gown, her face adorned with a faint, fake sweetness, eyeing him as though he were a filthy creature caked in mud. "Oh… so this is the boy? Look at how much he has grown! Out playing with his mother and… sister, no doubt, hence this state," she said with a poisonous smile. Grandfather Yan Zhenhai's eyes hardened, his anger evident, fidgeting in his seat, while Jiarui felt his heart break, realizing this house was vast but its hearts small. Trembling, he took out the bloodstained locket, and, swallowing his pain, handed it to Yan Zhenhai. "My… my sister told me to give this to you. My mother said it… it's a memento of our father," he whispered. The grandfather's old eyes fell on the locket, time seemed to halt—it was the very same locket from twenty years ago. Muttering in shock, "The same… it's the same…" his neck veins tense, he looked sharply at his son, Yan Zhenyu. "Zhenyu! This… this is the locket your mother gave Zhao Qi! She was alive! And this… this is your son!" The father's cold face cracked slightly for the first time, a mix of shame and disbelief in his eyes, before returning to impassivity. "A fake locket can be anywhere, Father. I will conduct a DNA test. Until then…" Yan Yuxuan interjected, her voice sweet yet cruel: "Until then, he should stay here. But look at his condition. He must be cleaned, so no stain mars our magnificent home." Grandfather Yan Zhenhai's face reddened, slamming his fist on the table in anger: "Enough! This child is proof of my granddaughter's sacrifice and my daughter-in-law's humiliation! DNA test or not, he is my grandson!" He grabbed Jiarui's trembling hand firmly. "Son! Don't cry! You are not alone. I am your grandfather, and I will ensure justice for you." For the first time, Jiarui felt genuine affection, tears flowing—relief entwined with pain. "Grandfather… my sister… she said… take revenge…" he sobbed. Closing his eyes, Yan Zhenhai inhaled deeply, a fire of vengeance igniting across his face. "Yes, my son. Revenge will be taken. Go, rest first." The maid quickly led him to a new, spacious room, his own now in the mansion, while he looked back at his cold, indifferent father—whose eyes seemed empty, as if he had just dismissed a stranger. Jiarui realized he had a family, yet his father's love and home's comfort were still far away; his new life had begun amidst fire of vengeance and rejection. The maid, Lu Feng, left him there, and in a corner of the room, a small, sweet six-year-old girl danced softly on tiptoe, her long hair loose, eyes sparkling, absorbed in her own world, a vision of life and innocence so stark against the night's horror. Zan Yan, silent, asked, "Who is she?" Lu Feng smiled proudly, "She is my daughter. Lovely, isn't she?" Jiarui nodded, curiosity breaking through fear for the first time. "Her name?" he asked. "Anya Lu," Lu Feng replied, referencing a favorite character, her joy contrasting the mansion's darkness. Observing them quietly from his slightly open door, jiarui saw Lu Feng's fear, Anya's innocent joy, even how the staff secretly referred to his stepmother as a witch. Alone now, he closed the door, aware that enemies lurked both outside and within, yet Anya's innocence offered a strange comfort amidst his growing fire for revenge and profound grief.