The Rise of a Special Forces Soldier Abandoned by a Wealthy Family

Zeng Long's body swayed almost imperceptibly. He neither admitted it nor refuted it.

Yan Rugo's tearful accusations and narration, though only fragments, pieced together more cruel details about his background that he couldn't find out through normal channels.

His heart felt as if it were being cut by countless blunt knives at the same time, sending waves of unbearable pain and a deeper sense of bewilderment through him.

It turns out that in this tragedy of fate, everyone... is a victim.

These victims, however, are all living their lives with difficulty, enduring eighteen years of pain and torment on their own paths.

Yan Rugo gradually stopped crying. She vigorously wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand, her swollen eyes looking at Zeng Long with a stubborn inquiry:

"Can you tell me... what... you've been through in these eighteen years?"

Her voice was still hoarse from crying, "Where did you go? Why... why did you appear in such a... forceful manner this time?"

The layers of mystery surrounding Zeng Long made him seem so enigmatic and unapproachable, prompting Yan Ruge to bombard him with questions that had been building up in her mind.

Zeng Long did not answer immediately.

He raised his head again, gazing up at the starry sky, no longer pure under the city lights. His gaze seemed to pierce through the layers of time, reaching a distant shore where he saw his younger, helpless self...

In my mind:

A thin, filthy little figure, like an abandoned, broken doll, sat slumped on the cold, muddy ground, like a lifeless lump of mud.

Slowly and with great difficulty, he raised his small hand, which was cut by broken glass, the wound gruesome, and the blood had simply congealed into a dark red scab, and placed it in front of his eyes. He stared at it quietly and blankly for a long, long time.

Then, he stuck out his small, equally filthy tongue and, with an almost numb curiosity, gently licked the dried blood from his palm.

The taste... was fishy and salty, with a strong rusty smell.

That must be... the feeling of being alive.

But this feeling was incredibly cold, incredibly painful? Yet... incredibly real, so real it was etched into my very bones.

The child closed his eyes tightly and clenched his injured little fist with all his might, as if trying to grasp something, but he couldn't grasp anything at all.

Then, he suddenly opened his eyes. Those eyes, which should have been clear and bright, were filled with helplessness, fear, and confusion that were completely out of character for his age. He stared intently at the unfamiliar, indifferent starry sky above him.

Zeng Long's eyes slowly welled up with tears, and another scene appeared in his mind:

It was still that same thin figure, wearing a worn-out T-shirt so dirty that its original color was completely unrecognizable, and so oversized that it resembled a strange robe, the hem of which dragged all the way to his knees.

On his exposed arms and calves, old and new scars were gruesomely intertwined; some were scrapes from crawling and rolling around, some were bruises from bumps and knocks, and some...

These are the eerie red rashes or the fine, chilling needle marks left by "inhuman experiments."

He crouched in the corner, his small hands, covered in tiny wounds and grime, tightly gripping a piece of black bread so hard it could break teeth, and holding half a bowl of murky water floating with suspicious oil and impurities.

He silently and mechanically gnawed and swallowed. His body burned with pain, and the tattered clothes, soaked through by the icy rain and clinging to his skin, brought a bone-chilling cold.

Zeng Long's eyes became even more blurred at this moment, as if they were filled with the mist of endless suffering from his memories.

He suddenly and almost violently pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, took one out and put it in his mouth, then struck a match.

The orange flame flickered in the night, illuminating his unfathomable eyes, which were now churning with waves of pain.

He took a deep, greedy drag, the pungent smoke swirling in front of him like a blurry barrier—

Half of it was inhaled deeply into his lungs, as if he wanted to use this burning pain to suppress the trembling deep in his soul.

He didn't look at Yan Rugo beside him, his voice hoarse as if it had been ground by sand, carrying a weariness and numbness born of endless vicissitudes: "My past?"

He suddenly let out a low, mournful laugh, which drifted in the night wind, carrying a heartbreaking quality.

"Hahaha……"

A single, scalding tear, finally unable to be held back any longer, silently slid down from the corner of his eye, which he had been forcibly suppressing, and was quickly cooled by the night wind.

He raised his head, facing the starry sky that had witnessed all his suffering, and in a tone so flat it was almost cruel, devoid of any emotion, slowly, word by word, recited:

Born without knowing where I am, orphaned and ravaged by the wind. Holding a black steamed bun, I swallow bitterness, tears of blood streaming down my face.

Scars crisscrossed his childhood body, his thin bones and childlike eyes filled with pain and confusion.

A childhood of tattered clothes, year after year, eyes... desolate...