The Daughter-In-Law Is So Pitiful? Just Take Her Home and Pamper Her! - Chapter 15

Chapter 15: Xu Yao’s Past (1)

“Five years ago…”
The man’s voice was low and magnetic. He began to recount the past, his words awakening those long-buried years like a resurrected dream.

The smell of damp mildew mixed with the stench of bl00d fermented in the basement of the Purgatory boxing arena.

Xu Yao leaned against a rusted chain-link fence, bl00d from a wound on his right arm dripping down the metal grid, forming seven parallel lines on the cement floor.

At the clang of the referee’s cracked bell, he spat out a mouthful of bl00d. Between his fingers, a razor blade flashed coldly under the overhead light.

“Next match! Razor Hand vs. Iron Mask!”

The crowd erupted in a frenzy. A woman in a leopard-print skirt threw a red towel into the cage. Xu Yao used the tip of his blade to pick it up and wipe his face—the cloth instantly stained a deep red.

This was his fourth match of the night. His right brow had just been split by the last opponent’s brass knuckles, and bl00d blurred half his vision.

“F*** your rules,” the burly man across from him spat on the ground. “You brought a blade into the ring?”

Xu Yao didn’t answer—he simply rotated his wrist. The blade twirled between his fingers like a sliver of moonlight shaken loose from Death’s scythe.

As the bell rang, he crouched low and closed in like a stalking panther. The first punch grazed past his ear, the wind lifting his sweat-damp bangs and revealing a pair of predatory eyes.

When the second punch came, Xu Yao suddenly ducked. The blade sliced three inches along the man’s ribs—not deep, but enough for the referee to see the bl00d.

That was Purgatory’s rule: no match truly began until bl00d was drawn.

“Razor Hand! Razor Hand!” The crowd began stomping rhythmically.

The ceiling light above the cage swayed with their roar, casting a web of shadows across Xu Yao’s tensed back. A ten-centimeter scar stretched across his lower back—a souvenir from being caught on the chain-link fence last week. It throbbed with every breath.

The burly man swung a length of iron chain in fury. Xu Yao tilted his head to dodge, losing a few strands of hair to the swipe.

Seizing the opening, he pressed in close, twisted the blade in his fingers, and slashed at the inside of the man’s thigh—not fatal, but enough to buckle his legs.
As the man collapsed, Xu Yao slammed his knee into his jaw—he could hear the teeth shatter.

When the whistle blew, Xu Yao was lighting a cigarette with his bloodstained blade. The sparks from the lighter hit his abs, burning tiny red welts on his sweat-slick skin.

The crowd’s screaming reached its peak. Someone threw cash into the cage—bills scattered at his feet like offerings for the dead.

3 a.m.
Behind the Nightfall bar, Xu Yao crouched by the dumpsters, rinsing bl00d off his hands.

Rusty tap water sprayed from a pipe, washing over the tattoo on his right arm—a jagged mountain cliff, beneath which lay seven scars.

Suddenly, glass shattered deeper in the alley, followed by a boy’s muffled sobs.

“…Young Master Liu, please…”

Xu Yao shut off the water.
Around the corner, a boy in a school uniform was pinned against the wall, his cheek pressed to the filthy bricks over shattered glass.

A beauty mark teardrop sat beneath his eye, trembling with each whimper.
The man pinning him down had slicked-back hair and polished shoes—his heel grinding against the boy’s fingers.
“Run, huh? Didn’t you love running?”

Moonlight illuminated the bl00d on the boy’s uniform like plum blossoms blooming in snow.

Xu Yao suddenly remembered the winter he was fourteen, when his stepfather pressed him against a radiator. Melted snow had dripped down his pant leg just like that.

“Hey.”
His voice startled the man. As he turned, a blade was already pressed to his throat.

“Who the f*** are you—”

The blade moved half an inch forward. Bl00d instantly welled up.

The boy seized the chance and broke free, his sleeve tearing in the process. It revealed cigarette burn scars on his forearm—neatly arranged like some twisted ruler.

“I’ll count to three,” Xu Yao said, his voice colder than steel.

“One.”

The slick-haired man sneered. “Do you even know who I am? Liu Shipping—”

“Two.”

The boy flinched. Xu Yao noticed the frayed embroidery on the boy’s school crest: “Linjiang No. 2 High School.”

“Three.”

The blade plunged into the man’s thigh. His scream sent the crows at the alley’s mouth scattering into the sky.

Xu Yao grabbed the boy by the collar, hauled him to his feet, and stuffed a wad of cash into his uniform pocket—it was tonight’s fight earnings, soaked with both of their bl00d.

“Bus station. Route 302.”
He ripped off the boy’s name tag and gripped it tightly.
“If you dare look back, I’ll break your legs.”

By the time the sound of ambulance sirens grew close, the boy had already vanished.

At the base of the wall, Xu Yao found a torn backpack. A student ID slipped out—The boy in the photo smiled with pursed lips, and the teardrop mole beneath his eye had been inked into a little star with blue pen.

The next day, Purgatory boxing arena posted a notice: Razor Hand, permanently banned.

As Xu Yao packed his things in the locker room, the owner tossed him an envelope.
“The Liu family says if they ever see you again, they’ll take your arm.”

Inside was double pay. Underneath lay a train ticket.

Xu Yao burned the ticket with his lighter.
The ashes fell onto his bandages like a quiet funeral offering.

Facing the cracked mirror, he shaved his head with clippers.
The buzzing blade revealed a crescent-shaped scar on the back of his head—from when his stepfather smashed a beer bottle over him at fourteen.

When he walked out of the basement, the storm had just ended.

He bought the cheapest pack of cigarettes at the convenience store.
Inside the carton was a folded note:
“That kid is at Broken Soul Cliff.”
The handwriting was neat—likely a woman’s.

That night, at the Liu family’s freight dock, Xu Yao tucked his blade into the back of his waistband.

The warehouse lights were on. Two shadows moved behind the window—one crying, one laughing.
As Xu Yao reached for the lock, he heard a school badge clink repeatedly against the ground.

Crisp.
Again and again.

He kicked the door open.
The smell of mildew and bl00d rushed out to greet him.

In a dimly lit corner, the schoolboy was chained to a shelf.
His left eye was too swollen to open, and bl00d at the corner of his mouth had dried and cracked.

And sitting on a shipping container, smoking casually—was the same slick-haired man from last night: Liu Mingyuan, eldest son of the Liu family.

“Well, well. Razor Hand,” Liu Mingyuan blew a smoke ring and nudged the boy’s backpack with his shoe. “Come looking for your little mutt?”

Books tumbled out, their covers stained with bl00d, scribbled over with childlike star doodles—identical to those on the student ID.

Xu Yao’s blade spun in his palm.

“Let him go.”

Liu Mingyuan grinned, then suddenly drew a hunting knife from his belt, the tip pressing against the boy’s throat.
“You get on your knees and beg, and maybe I’ll—” Before he could finish, Xu Yao’s razor sank into his wrist.

Liu Mingyuan screamed as the knife clattered to the floor.
Xu Yao surged forward, slamming his fist into his nose. The crack of bone echoed through the warehouse.

The boy looked up weakly, chains clinking.

Xu Yao knelt beside him and forced open the lock in a few quick motions, revealing wrists wounded to the bone, raw and oozing, crusted in black-red scabs.

“Can you walk?” Xu Yao asked softly.

The boy opened his mouth but only coughed up bl00d.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed outside. Flashlight beams danced across the warehouse windows.

Clutching his bleeding wrist, Liu Mingyuan sneered, “Cops are here, Razor Hand. This time, you’re finished.”