Chapter 16: The Beast Within—Domestic Violence

From a distance came the lady’s call: “Young master, come out for dinner! No time to cook; let’s have fast food!”

In my mind, fast food meant delivery by someone riding an electric scooter; the taste was acceptable. I hurried out; the young master’s father sat on a worn sofa, his face dark and silent.

On the wooden coffee table were three white foam food containers and disposable plastic-wrapped chopsticks. Opening one revealed egg fried rice topped with some pickled chili peppers — instantly irritating. Muttering, I said, “This lousy stuff again!”

The young master’s father, already simmering with anger, glared and shouted, “Who doesn’t eat this? If you’ve got the guts, buy your own!”

I felt deeply wronged and had to clarify, “I’m still a student; where would I get the money? Either you pay or…”

“I want you to study hard—that’s for your own good! What do I get out of it? You’ve been back for so long, playing on your phone all day, not reading a single book! What are you even thinking?”

The lady couldn’t bear to hear more quarrelling. While eating, she urged, “Enough! Eating won’t shut your mouths, but how about saying less, alright?”

My heart ached, and I couldn’t help but cry, mumbling, “He’s the one who wants to argue; how can you blame me?”

The young master’s father was about to speak, but the lady, sensing the tension, shouted loudly, “Enough! Stop it!”

Those words silenced everyone. Angry and frustrated, I hastily ate a few bites, then stormed into my small room, slamming the door shut to keep them out of sight.

Suddenly, the living room echoed with the parents’ quarrel. One phrase stung me deeply: the young master’s father said, “Since she’s not my child, I can’t raise her for nothing. I’m going to—”

The lady’s voice dropped to a near scream, “How dare you! Are you human or beast? I’ll fight you to the death!”

“I’m not afraid. Why should I raise someone else’s blood? What kind of nonsense is this? Raising a dog is one thing—it wags its tail at me! But raising this kind of person, isn’t it like raising a traitor? Look at her, scowling and growling at me as if I owe her something!”

I had never heard such cruel and heartless words before. The young master’s father might not realize it, but even adopted children deserve better. Besides, I was born after their marriage; even without blood ties, this is unacceptable.

Then, in a hushed voice, the lady said, “If you really think that way, then we’ll have to divorce! I’ll take the child and leave!”

This was significant. For a long time, the young master’s father remained silent.

I glanced at my phone, thinking: what if he tries to assault me? I can’t call anyone; as the saying goes, family scandals mustn’t be exposed. Still, I have martial arts skills. With his character, he’s no match for me…

Lost in thought and unable to sort through my worries, a sudden loud pounding came from the living room, as if someone was beating something—terrifying!

Then came the lady’s heart-wrenching scream, accompanied by violent thuds on her back. Her cries of pain were piercing beyond belief!

My heart raced. The young master’s father was attacking the lady mercilessly, attempting to take advantage of me—I was terrified.

Suddenly, the screams grew even more chilling. What if he killed her? I was a fighter myself; I couldn’t pretend not to hear this by hiding in my room.

With a crash, I sprang to life, flinging open the door angrily. I strode into the living room to find the lady lying heavily on the floor, battered by a heavy club, while the young master’s father raised it high, striking her relentlessly.

This wasn’t beating someone—it was like slaughtering a pig. Who hits their wife like this? Was he trying to kill her?

Stunned, eyes bulging, I shouted, “Stop! Are you even a husband?”

He threw down the club and turned to yell at me, “It’s all because of you! Since she’s not my blood, I won’t hold back in front of her. Come to your room!”

The lady struggled to rise, shouting, “No! You can’t!”

Her voice meant nothing to the frenzied young master’s father, who lunged like a fierce lion, crossing the tea table in a single stride, eyes gleaming with greed.

I had already prepared myself; fury surged as blue flames blazed in my eyes, an ominous aura radiating from me…

He tried to tackle me, but I dodged; missing once, he charged again, but the situation changed.

I swept my leg in a technique taught by my master, flicking my body aside, then pushed with all my strength using momentum.

With a loud thud, he slammed the wooden table over, staggering and falling onto the sofa like a clumsy dog.

I channeled all my rage into my right fist and struck the back of his neck fiercely.

His head bounced uncontrollably, twitching in agony, losing all fighting power.

Gripping his collar with my left hand, I yanked him up and pummeled his nose countless times. He went dazed, bloodied, and I shoved him down onto the sofa with force.

The lady was petrified; her husband motionless, barely moving, unable to control his body. What to do?

After a long moment, she came to her senses and asked, “Young master, did you kill your father?”

Based on experience, he was just in extreme pain and not thinking straight. I said, “Mom, he’s not dead!”

Those words were crucial—exactly what she longed to hear! She was so overjoyed she nearly went mad, fighting through her pain to embrace me tightly. “Young master, you finally recognize me as your mother! That’s wonderful! But what about your father?”

I had to accept this woman as my mother. My own family might be gone; the earthquake left few survivors, according to the news.

“Mom, look at your body—he beat you like this! What kind of person is he? If you don’t teach him a lesson, he’ll keep bullying you!”

The young master’s father lay twisted on the sofa, barely alive, his lips mangled like a cleft, face a bloody mess, writhing in unbearable pain.

As the saying goes, family scandals must be kept private. How would he hide this from the neighbors?

The lady softened, dragging him onto the sofa properly, blood dripping everywhere…

He still couldn’t move like a normal person.

I was furious, wishing I could kill him. Without him, the lady might become a widow, but I had to swallow this anger.

The only option now was to take him to the hospital. Though there was no car, there was an electric scooter. They wanted me to carry him downstairs…

No way. He had already tried to harm me; I wouldn’t be foolish enough to let him near.

The lady had no choice and carried her husband downstairs.

Outside was pitch black. The corridor light on the fourth floor was out, so she used her phone’s flashlight to guide her steps. At the scooter parking area, I helped support the young master’s father.

But he was like a dying pig, utterly incapable of standing. I had to hold him tightly.

Neighbors passing by stopped to watch, asking questions. There was no way around it; I just said he’d fallen and been injured.

The lady anxiously fussed for a while before finally pushing the scooter out. The back seat could only hold one person. I sat on it, leaving no room for him.

We had to ask around, and a neighbor kindly offered his larger vehicle. We managed to fit the young master’s father in the middle—three of us in one vehicle—and struggled to get him to the hospital.

Even at 10 p.m., the hospital was busy. They placed him on a bench on the second floor to wait while the lady sought a doctor.

The neighbor left, unable to wait any longer.

I refused to let him get close, so I laid him on the long bench, hoping he wouldn’t die.

His face was covered in blood, dripping everywhere. I wanted to wipe it off but had no tissues.

After a long wait, the lady returned and said, “Young master, carry your father. I’m too tired!”

That was the last thing I wanted to hear. If he were truly my father, he wouldn’t have treated me so badly or done such foolish things. Still, I didn’t want to hurt the lady’s feelings, so I said, “I’m too small; I can’t carry him.”

She couldn’t argue and half-squatted, turning her back to me, gripping his arms tightly, and hoisted him up. Despite her injuries, she bore the pain and trudged through a door to the right.

Inside was a female doctor in a white coat, wearing a mask that covered her face, only her eyes visible—likely in her thirties. A stethoscope hung around her neck.

She instructed the lady to lay the husband on the examination bed, placed the stethoscope on his chest, and listened carefully. Then she took a bamboo tweezer from the desk, shone a small flashlight into his mouth, and said, “These injuries are from a fight. His nasal bone is fractured, and all his front teeth are knocked out. Surgery is required.”

The lady was overwhelmed and blank, asking, “What do we need to do now?”

The doctor explained the procedure: “He must be admitted. You need to pay the hospital fee first; we will take care of the rest.”

The lady anxiously wrung her hands, pacing, and asked, “Where do we pay?”

The doctor went to the desk, filled out the admission form in medical script, tore it off, and handed it to the lady…