Chapter 76 No…

Chapter 76 No.......

"Today is too rushed. This kind of surgery... always requires an advance appointment," Jiang Huaiyan said after a moment of silence. "Tomorrow. Rest well today, and I'll help you schedule your surgery for tomorrow."

"Think it over again. If you change your mind before tomorrow, you can still back out."

Jiang Huaiyan picked up the communicator and walked out of the room, presumably to contact someone about Zhu Shinian's surgery.

After the door closed, the room fell into a terrifying silence once more, so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Zhu Shinian never regretted any decision he made, but a single day stretched into an eternity—long enough for negative, tangled emotions to catch up and envelop him.

This was the only chance in his life to have a child.

Three months. At three months, the child already had a heartbeat and limbs.

Did he know his father was going to abort him?

Would he regret being so well-behaved all this time, never causing trouble or pain for this heartless person?

Stop thinking. No more thinking.

Zhu Shinian knew the more he hesitated, the harder it would be to let go of the child. He reached out, fumbled for the call button by the bed, and pressed it gently.

A young nurse pushed the door open and walked in. He was an omega, with a round face and a very youthful appearance—around eighteen or nineteen, just at the age for an arranged marriage.

Did he have an alpha? Did he have his own children?

They would all have them, eventually. If not now, then later.

Now or later, the only one who would never have a child was Zhu Shinian himself.

"Mr. Zhu, do you need anything?" the nurse asked with a polite smile. He was a lovely omega, with deep dimples on both cheeks when he smiled.

His words snapped Zhu Shinian back to reality. Realizing what he had been thinking, Zhu Shinian was startled.

How had he become so... so jealous of others, so unreasonable?

"Is there anything to eat?" Zhu Shinian's voice was a little hoarse, so he cleared his throat. He desperately needed something to distract himself. "Anything will do, just a little."

"Yes, Mr. Jiang asked us to have some food ready for you. He said you'd be hungry when you woke up. I'll bring it over now."

The nurse turned and left, returning shortly with a tray.

A large bowl of chicken soup, the surface skimmed clear of fat; a plate of tender, white steamed fish fillets; a bowl of millet porridge, neither too thick nor too thin, with a shiny layer of oil floating on top; and a small cup of pear soup with rock sugar.

All light, nutritious, and easy to digest—clearly prepared with the thought that Zhu Shinian might not have much appetite.

Zhu Shinian sat up, picked up the bowl of millet porridge, and took a sip. The warm liquid slid down his throat, settling his stomach a little.

He took another sip, picked up a piece of fish with his chopsticks, chewed it, and swallowed. The fish was tender, with almost no fishy taste.

Everything was delicious. Jiang Huaiyan had put a lot of thought into it.

Zhu Shinian used to be an alpha and had always had a large appetite. This amount was hardly filling; in normal times, even finishing everything wouldn't have kept him full for long.

But now, after just one bite, his stomach felt full. Trying to force in any more would make him nauseous.

It was as if the child he was about to abort was silently retaliating against him.

Zhu Shinian forced himself to eat half a bowl of porridge, a few slices of fish, and a few sips of chicken soup.

He had to pause after every swallow, waiting for the queasy feeling to pass.

The nausea didn't hit violently—just a dull, oppressive sensation in his chest. Zhu Shinian put down his chopsticks, leaned back against the headboard, and closed his eyes, waiting for the discomfort to subside.

But instead of fading, the sick feeling grew stronger. Zhu Shinian was forced to stumble out of bed, into the bathroom, and vomit until he was completely drained.

His throat burned painfully, and his legs felt weak. He could only stay upright by leaning against the wall.

"Zhu Shinian?"

He heard someone calling him—it was Jiang Huaiyan. But Zhu Shinian was too sick to respond.

"Zhu Shinian?" Jiang Huaiyan's voice came closer. Then the bathroom door, which wasn't locked, was pushed open. Jiang Huaiyan stepped in quickly and reached out to steady him by the shoulder.

Zhu Shinian leaned on his arm. Jiang Huaiyan unscrewed a bottle of water and gave him a sip.

The cool water slid down, soothing his scorched throat. Zhu Shinian felt a little better.

"I'm sorry..." he apologized softly.

"I wasted the food you had prepared... It was really delicious. I didn't mean to throw it up."

"Zhu Shinian, saying things like that hurts me. Please don't say that again. Do you really think I would blame you for that?"

"No, no..."

Zhu Shinian's face was pale as he explained weakly.

"I just feel bad wasting such good food."

He lowered his head, as if he really believed he had done something wrong.

Jiang Huaiyan didn't say anything more. He gave Zhu Shinian some more water, and after a moment, carried him back to the bed.

"If you don't have an appetite, then don't eat. Have some nutritional supplements later. I'll stay here with you. If it bothers you to waste the rest, I'll eat it later. I've already scheduled the surgery. I'll go with you tomorrow."

He reached out and tucked the blanket around Zhu Shinian. "Get some rest."

It felt like the longest day of Zhu Shinian's life—longer than any summer solstice. He struggled through the day, waiting for it to end.

But when night finally came, he tossed and turned, unable to sleep.

When he finally managed to drift off, he had a dream. He dreamed he was clearing a trench, and a soldier under his command picked up a dirty, skinny stray cat.

The cat was ugly, its fur matted, and it had stomatitis, unable to eat human canned food.

They couldn't even guarantee their own survival, let alone a cat. Zhu Shinian told them to throw it out and forget about it.

But the next day, after the front line had shifted, the same dirty cat appeared again in the trench.

It was even skinnier and dirtier now. He had heard that cats are very clean; as long as they have any strength, they'll groom themselves.

"General, we moved the front line over a thousand meters, and it followed us all this way..."

Zhu Shinian looked down at it. Skinny, dirty, impossible to tell what it originally looked like, but it was affectionate. As soon as Zhu Shinian walked over, it came over and rubbed against his pant leg.

If they left it behind, it would die.

But how could Zhu Shinian take care of it? Medicine and rations were the most precious things on the battlefield; there was no extra to spare for a cat, especially since it couldn’t even eat canned food for people.

“Drive it out,” Zhu Shinian said again.

Zhu Shinian didn’t see it again in the trench the next day. At the camp entrance the following morning, there was only the stray cat’s cold, stiff body.

For an instant, Zhu Shinian felt as if he were frozen in place, unable to move.

After a moment, he realized it was a gripping pain in his heart, spreading through his whole body, making it hard to breathe.

It felt like he had lost something very important.

But it was just a stray cat, right? And he made the call himself. Why... why did he feel so sad?

Why did he regret it so much?

Zhu Shinian gasped heavily, waking from the dream with a start.

“What’s wrong?” Jiang Huaiyan immediately sat up from the narrow accompanying bed. “Had a nightmare?”

It was early morning, the sun not yet fully risen, but the sky was already light. Outside the window, birds chirped faintly.

How could there be a cat in a trench? Even if there had been cats on that battlefield, they would have died long ago under the fierce artillery fire, leaving not even bones behind.

It was a strange dream. The soldiers in it all seemed to have the same face, like a clumsy copy-paste. But the part about the stray cat felt so real—it grew thinner and dirtier each time, as if Zhu Shinian had killed it with his own hands.

But Zhu Shinian had killed countless people, let alone a cat. He shook his head, as if trying to physically shake the dream out of his mind.

He shook his head and said he couldn’t remember what he dreamed about. Jiang Huaiyan didn’t ask further.

Zhu Shinian was the first patient scheduled for surgery that day. The doctor, nurse, and anesthesiologist were all in place by eight in the morning.

Zhu Shinian changed into a hospital gown. The light blue garment was ridiculously oversized, with the collar hanging loosely, revealing a pale neck and collarbones.

He lowered his head, lost in thought, unconsciously rubbing the sleeve of his gown.

“Mr. Zhu,” the nurse handed him the surgical consent form and a pen, “please take a look, and if everything’s correct, sign here.”

He looked up, nodded, and took the consent form.

Zhu Shinian quickly skimmed through it—the surgery name, risks, and precautions all looked good. He uncapped the pen, placed the cap on the other end, and put the pen to the paper.

Suddenly, there came an intermittent crying sound from outside the window—a child’s cry. Zhu Shinian paused. He remembered that this hospital didn’t have a pediatric department.

His hand, holding the pen, stopped in midair. He looked up at the nurse. “Why’s a child crying?”

The nurse was taken aback and listened carefully. The morning hospital was utterly quiet.

“You must have misheard, sir. Our hospital doesn’t have a pediatric department, and patients rarely bring children here—children have weak immune systems and might catch an illness.”

“It’s gone now, but I just heard it.”

“I was sterilizing surgical instruments just now, so I might not have noticed any outside noise. It was probably the head nurse’s stray cat. She found it in the backyard a few days ago. Cats can sound quite like children sometimes. Since we don’t have a pediatrics department, it can’t be a child.”

Zhu Shinian nodded, picked up the pen again, and signed. The tip touched the signature line, leaving a small ink dot.

His hand was weak and trembled slightly, making the final vertical stroke drag a little long.

The nurse took the signed consent form. “Mr. Zhu, please prepare. We’ll start the surgery soon.”

“Okay, thank you for your hard work,” Zhu Shinian replied politely.

“It’s our duty,” the anesthesiologist said in a gentle, soothing voice. “Mr. Zhu, relax. Think of it as taking a nap—when you wake up, it’ll all be over.”

The needle pricked the vein on the back of his hand, a slight sting like a mosquito bite.

The surgical light above was a bit harsh, making him instinctively want to close his eyes. As he closed them, drowsiness began to set in.

The anesthesiologist was right—just sleep, and when he woke up, everything would be over.

After waking, he would return to the battlefield, fulfilling his duty to the people in the Resistance zone and the Resistance Army.

Fight on until the day peace arrives.

Suddenly, something moved inside his lower abdomen.

It wasn’t ordinary muscle spasms. He could distinctly feel that something inside his reproductive cavity had moved.

It was his child.

It was his child’s final cry for help.

“No...”

Fragmented syllables struggled out from between Zhu Shinian’s lips. In the next second, the anesthetic took full effect.

Consciousness began to recede like a tide, starting from his extremities, slowly creeping over his entire body.

Zhu Shinian lost consciousness and fell into a deep sleep.

Warm tears slid from the corners of his eyes, streaming down his temples into his hairline.

A patient kept crying uncontrollably even under anesthesia. His eyelashes were soaked, clumped together by tears.

The lead surgeon looked up from the instrument tray, glanced at Zhu Shinian, then shot a look at the nurse, seemingly displeased that she lacked the sense to wipe the patient’s tears.

The nurse quickly used tweezers to pick up a cotton ball and gently pressed it against the corner of Zhu Shinian’s eye, absorbing the tears.

But as soon as she finished, new tears flowed out, as endless as a spring.

“Anesthesiologist,” the lead surgeon glanced at the monitor, then at the endless tear tracks on Zhu Shinian’s face, “did you jab the patient too hard? Why is he crying like this?”

“I don’t think so. The dosage was normal, and the needle went in smoothly. It’s the same gauge as a regular IV or blood draw needle—shouldn’t be that bad. Don’t blame me for nothing, Doc...”

On the operating table, the patient’s tears finally stopped. The nurse and anesthesiologist both breathed a sigh of relief.

His eyes were closed, the tears on his lashes completely dried by the cotton balls, no longer clumped.

The patient had a cold, beautiful face. Now that the anesthetic had taken effect, his sleeping expression was peaceful, as if in a medically effective, dreamless, long sleep.

But somehow, his face gave off a strange sadness.

Like Ophelia in the final scene of a Shakespeare play, sleeping in a stream full of flowers.