Two sheet music books were nothing. Now that they had 300 yuan, it was enough to buy him an electronic keyboard. Once the issue with Mao Mu was settled, she’d buy him a brand new one, so this kid could feel—firsthand—what warmth from a sister really meant.

Needless to say, the little piano prince immediately lost himself in the embrace of his beloved music.

Chen Siyu didn’t disturb him; she had to face the mirror and continue practicing her fundamentals.

Although she couldn’t perform on stage yet, she had to be ready at all times—so that the moment she got the chance to go on stage, she could captivate every single audience member!

Lying side by side on the ornately carved big bed, the two of them had to seriously discuss how to deal with Mao Mu.

Chen Siyu said, “Let her come if she wants. Then we’ll be good and dutiful to her.”

Chen Xuan’ang stared at the music scores and asked, “How do you mean, ‘be good and dutiful’?” He had a feeling she wouldn’t be too kind.

As expected, Chen Siyu replied, “Be so good to her that she dies on the spot. How about that?”

Her sister was beautiful and sweet-talking, but ruthless and sharp-handed. She was talking about Xuan’ang’s own maternal grandmother, yet the boy showed no disgust and even nodded, “Okay.”

No wonder the book described him as a loyal dog brother—meaning he had no moral compass and was loyal only to his sister.

It was hard not to feel touched, but Chen Siyu also thought this kid was a bit too cruel.

Of course, she didn’t want her brother’s worldview to be too warped or for him to be her free blood bag, so she planned to educate him on kindness once they dealt with Mao Mu.

She added, “By the way, what’s Mao Mu’s youngest son’s name? Is it Wang Dapao?”

Mentioning her little uncle Wang Dapao, Xuan’ang sneered: “He’s also one of your…”—one of the many older ‘brothers’ in the backseat.

Mao Mu had strong reproductive ability: two children with her first husband, who was drafted and died in the war; then Hu Yin with the Hu family master; later remarried a man surnamed Wang and had three more kids.

Wang Dapao was her youngest son, 18 years old, working at a state-run store. Because he could get hold of candy and biscuits and had a government-awarded bicycle—basically a ride—he was one of those ‘brothers’ who liked to chase after the original Chen Siyu.

According to the original body’s memory, her hatred for Xuan’ang stemmed from Wang Dapao’s slander.

Wang Dapao often told the original girl that Xuan’ang was bad to the core, even at a young age: he liked to sneak into toilets to peek at girls’ bottoms and threw bricks into cesspools to splash them. He was a little hooligan.

Coincidentally, the original body was once splashed with feces while squatting in the toilet as a child, nearly disgusted to death.

That’s why she felt nauseous whenever she thought of Xuan’ang and refused to acknowledge him even knowing he owned land with an ink factory.

But actually, Wang Dapao himself was the real hooligan.

He didn’t dare make big mistakes but loved to steal candy and biscuits from the department store under the guise of his position, then use them to ingratiate himself with girls—taking chances to grope their bottoms.

As for Old Mao, although Widow Zhang repeatedly claimed the two were innocent, as a thousand-year-old fox spirit, Chen Siyu knew men too well: even a half-disabled woman like herself often encountered unwanted groping.

Besides, Widow Zhang was only thirty, a beautiful young widow.

Old Mao’s kindness was definitely not pure.

Widow Zhang’s trust probably stemmed from the fact that Old Mao hadn’t yet shown his fox tail.

So Wang Dapao and Old Maotou—nephew and uncle—were both hooligans.

Chen Siyu’s goal regarding the hooligans was: “If conditions allow, I’m going to send them to free meals.”

Chen Xuan’ang blinked in surprise and asked eagerly, “Sister, where are there free meals?”

The silly brother’s face showed the innocence appropriate for his age, and he licked his lips. Was he craving free food?

“Prison food. If you want to eat it, I’ll send you there too,” Chen Siyu said sincerely.

The brat brother realized he was tricked again, turned away angrily, and suddenly whispered, “Ah, a mouse.”

Chen Siyu screamed and shrank into her thick cotton quilt.

The brat brother smirked with closed eyes, pleased to discover his ruthless sister was also afraid of mice.

Hmph!

Although she could win thunderous applause once on stage, arranging for someone wasn’t so easy.

After nervously waiting three or four days with no news, one day the ink factory’s leadership was to visit Mao Mu, and Chen Siyu had to go too. Just as she was preparing to ask for leave, Xu Li brought a message for her to go to the Song and Dance Troupe.

So, two big matters coincided. After some thought, of course her work took priority.

Thus, Chen Siyu left her brother behind and rushed to the Song and Dance Troupe to discuss her job.

Two flowers bloom, each showing their own branch. First, about Xuan’ang’s side.

In a crowded, cramped courtyard at Sanli Bridge in North City, there stood a set of heavily embroidered, gold-trimmed ceremonial clothes. A wooden bedboard was set in front of the clothes, and an elderly white-haired woman lay there, sobbing, “Oh dear, I don’t know if I’ll get better this time.”

This was, of course, Mao Mu.

Her son Wang Dapao carried a bowl of medicine and said, “Don’t worry, I’ve already hung out your burial clothes to dry.”

The neighbors were shocked: “Dapao, your mother’s burial clothes are out to dry, why not send her to the hospital?”

“I only make 15 kuai a month at the state store. After buying medicine, I have no money left to send her to the hospital,” Wang Dapao said, pulling at his hair in distress. “Drying the burial clothes—maybe she’ll wear them someday.”

Another neighbor sighed, “These burial clothes are really nice, triple-layered and sixfold wrapped.”

Although it was the Liberation era, people still wore traditional funeral clothes when they died.

Proudly, Mao Mu said, “My burial clothes are…”

The neighbors all perked up to listen.

But Mao Mu certainly wouldn’t say these were the spare burial clothes once embroidered for the empress dowager in the palace.

If she wore them, even the King of Hell would have to admit defeat and respectfully call her “Your Majesty.”

In short, these burial clothes were her greatest pride in life; hanging them out proved she was truly ill and close to the grave.

A neighbor asked, “What about your eldest son? Doesn’t he take care of you?”

“Eldest son also only makes 15 kuai a month. He has three sons. He wants to care for me, but you tell me, we’re this old now—how could he bear to let his grandsons starve while taking care of an old woman like me?” Mao Mu sighed.

The neighbor thought for a moment: “I vaguely remember you have a grandson and a monthly income. Why not use that money to go to the hospital, save your life first?”

Mentioning Xuan’ang, and knowing he gave his rent money to a notorious little troublemaker while letting her smash his uncle’s head, Mao Mu gritted her teeth in anger.

But she couldn’t scold him openly in front of others; she just shook her head weakly and said, “A child doesn’t obey their elders, that’s how it is!”

“The kid’s still young, right? If he doesn’t give you the money, could it be that he’s spending it on frivolities?” a neighbor exclaimed in surprise.

Mou Mu sneered coldly, “He wouldn’t dare.” Since Hu Yin was evidence of being an enemy spy, she had Xuan’ang firmly in her grasp.

But she couldn’t control Chen Siyu—the infamous little troublemaker of the whole city.

As for her son Dapao, no matter how obedient he seemed now, when he saw Chen Siyu, all he could do was grin foolishly and drool.

Of course, she didn’t dare tell the neighbors about that.

Seeing a car drive by, Mou Mu quickly signaled her son to keep an eye out so he wouldn’t miss the leaders from the ink factory.

As Wang Dapao stepped outside, he vaguely felt something whisk past his ear, but just then he saw Director Qiao and Factory Manager Gao get off the bus, so he hurried to greet them.

Mou Mu laid back down, closing her eyes in the sun, and began to moan softly.

Xuan’ang was her eldest grandson—her own blood—and she had to get back both him and the monthly grain ration tickets.

Something else whisked past her ear; she tried to look but then someone entered, prompting a long sigh, “Ah, my life is truly bitter.”

It was Director Guo and Accountant Qiao.

Seeing the burial clothes laid out to dry, Director Guo hurriedly said, “Comrade Mou Mu, we’re not too late, are we?”

Mou Mu’s hands trembled as she replied, “Back then the Hu family’s master bullied me, the whole old society bullied me. Now I’m sick all over and too weak even to attend complaint meetings. What’s the point of living? Might as well die.”

Hearing her playing the pity card, Director Guo quickly comforted her, “No, no. This is a new era. As a representative of the suffering masses, you must live and enjoy life. That’s what the predecessors fought and sacrificed for.”

“Director Guo, I won’t even talk about Xuan’ang being my grandson. Just because he’s the last descendant of the Hu family, he should be responsible for me, shouldn’t he? My foot was injured by the Hu family’s butler back then,” Mou Mu added.

What could Director Guo say? He glanced back, “Why aren’t Xuan’ang and his sister here yet?”

He decided to hand over the thirty yuan first; if Siyu came later, they could give more. Mou Mu was just too pitiful.

The old lady wanted to complain more but suddenly smelled something burning.

“Ah! My burial clothes!” she cried out.

Wang Dapao was watching Accountant Qiao take out money and didn’t notice the clothes catching fire. The burial clothes, drying thoroughly in the sun, were extremely dry, and as soon as a spark touched them, the gold and silver threads burst into vivid flames.

“Dapao, hurry! My burial clothes are on fire!” Mou Mu shouted and jumped up.

Director Guo was stunned—weren’t they told Mou Mu was very ill? How did she have so much energy to shout?

The neighbors were shocked too—because they realized the gold thread on the burial clothes was real gold and didn’t melt in the fire.

Only after half the clothes burned did everyone react and try to put out the fire.

Director Guo just grabbed a bucket of water when a foolish girl came out and blocked him with her hand: “Who are you? Why are you burning my mom’s burial clothes?”

Director Guo froze, thinking, We came to bring money, how did we turn into arsonists?

Before anyone could react, the fire spread from the burial clothes toward the bed.

Wang Dapao, not very bright, grabbed Qiao Guiyun, “Could it be you set the fire?”

Qiao Guiyun shrugged, “What nonsense are you talking about? Let go of my clothes!”

But Dapao’s grip was too strong. With a rip, Qiao’s coat was torn. Director Guo, losing patience, grabbed Dapao and threw him aside.

Mao Mu was even more anxious. Her leg wasn’t well, and seeing the camp bed catch fire, she tried to grab onto Director Guo to stand up. But—rip!—with a loud sound, she accidentally pulled down Director Guo’s pants, revealing a pair of underwear more tattered than a rag.

The old lady was stunned on the spot. Director Guo was a government official, yet his underwear was even more worn out than hers.

The watching neighbors were also shocked: That part of the leader’s briefs looked like a giant black hole—did he not even use toilet paper when he went to the bathroom?

That pair of underwear must have only held symbolic meaning at that point.

Of course, Mou Mu knew the ink factory leaders wouldn’t burn her clothes—someone else was the culprit.

She wanted to apologize, but her foolish daughter just shouted, “Compensate us!”

Her son joined in, pinning Director Guo’s hand as he tried to pull up his pants, “Compensate us!”

How could she fight for grain tickets and monthly rent under such a scene? Mou Mu’s heart was breaking to pieces.

She forced a smile, trying to ease the tension.

Her son shouted again, “If you don’t pay, I’ll report you to the ideological committee for abusing a poor white-haired woman!”

What a mess this was—Mou Mu’s heart was thoroughly broken.

Outside the courtyard, Chen Xuan’ang shook his slingshot and gently blew on his hand, burned and blistered by coal ash.

He gritted his teeth; it hurt badly!