Dragon Raja 5; Chapter 369: For Your Majesty (184)

Dragon Raja 5

From the moment he woke up until now, he hadn’t moved a muscle, not even his little finger, except for his eyes. It was just so comfortable; it felt like a summer afternoon in early summer, having just woken up naturally, with every part of his body feeling relaxed and at ease, just like the summers of his childhood.

He vaguely remembered collapsing in a blizzard, the frozen North Siberia, and that perilous journey. The image of the enormous sleigh at the end seemed both real and unreal, like Santa Claus coming to rescue him. There was absolutely no reason for him to wake up in such an ordinary yet comfortable bedroom, and judging from the perceived temperature, he should be in a subtropical southern city.

He should have been alert, even fearful, but for some reason he felt relaxed. The howling north winds of northern Siberia were like a nightmare, and he had finally woken up from it, finding peace and tranquility in the present.

It could also be that he died. There is a saying that before a person goes to hell, they will go through a stage called “Bardo”. During this stage, the soul will see all kinds of strange visions and will also look back on their life.

He pushed himself up with both hands and slowly got up, looking around his bedroom. It was a very ordinary bedroom, with Chinese-style bamboo and wood furniture in plain colors, even a little rustic and shabby. The curtains with the little bear holding strawberries looked like cheap stuff that cost ten yuan a meter at the night market.

Surprisingly, the wildly chaotic painting on the wall, which at first glance might be mistaken for a child’s scribbles, was actually the work of Jackson Pollock, a master of American abstract art. Although his works had long fetched astronomical prices at auctions, the name remained largely unknown to the general public. The fact that the owner would hang a Pollock painting—of course, a reproduction—indicated that he was a person of considerable learning.

Lu Mingfei stepped out of the bedroom and wandered around. It was a rather old apartment, three bedrooms and a living room: two bedrooms, a study, a small kitchen, and a small bathroom. The apartment was quite tidy, but the worn-out towel on the sofa suggested a poor family. The bookshelves were filled with classics, unlike the newly renovated offices of business owners, where rows of gilded English encyclopedias stood proudly, untouched. Here, the books were worn from repeated reading. This must be a family of three, because there were three mouthwash cups on the bathroom counter.

Judging from the layout, this should be a Khrushchev building. In 1957, Soviet leader Khrushchev began building this type of affordable housing to solve people’s livelihood problems. China has also imitated many of them.

A Khrushchev building, a cramped little suite, where a somewhat impoverished intellectual family could live, yet he inexplicably felt a strange sense of familiarity with the place.

He tried to open the door to leave, but it was locked from the inside. He tried to break the lock with the inch-force technique from Bajiquan, but his wrist was jolted back and hurt terribly. His physical advantage was gone, and when he tried to recall, the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and Tomita-ryu sword techniques he had learned before were all blurry in his memory.

He wandered around the room, trying to find a clue. He stopped at the window and looked at the purple wildflowers on the windowsill through the glass. These wildflowers were the first thing he saw when he woke up, and for some reason they looked very familiar.

He suddenly remembered that this plant was called a bellflower, native to Europe, blooming in early summer. It had been introduced and cultivated throughout China at the end of the last century, including Lu Mingfei’s hometown. One day, Lu Lincheng brought home small packets of seeds from work, saying they were a gift from a friend who worked at a botanical garden. The father and son spent their weekends firing several crooked terracotta pots, and after several weeks of watering and fertilizing, the bellflowers actually sprouted! That summer, Lu Mingfei felt particularly proud because his windowsill was covered in purple bellflowers, and he told everyone he met about it.

He hurried back to his study, pulled a copy of Kant’s “Metaphysics of Morals” from the bookshelf, and opened to the first page: “Purchased by Lu Lincheng in August 1993 at the Xinhua Bookstore in the city.”

He was home, not to his uncle and aunt’s house, but to his own home!

Just then, the door lock clicked, and Lu Mingfei felt a chill run down his spine, unsure whether it was fear or anticipation. The door was pushed open, and a woman in a plain floral dress, carrying shopping bags, rushed in and slammed the door shut with her heel.

She didn’t even glance at Lu Mingfei out of the corner of her eye, but she was talking to him, “You’ve already graduated from university, instead of going to job fairs to hand in your resume and look for a job, all you do is stay at home sleeping and playing games! Trying to sponge off your parents? Our family isn’t big enough for you to sponge off.”

She took the meat and vegetables out of the plastic bag and rushed into the small kitchen, where she started working with them with a clatter and clang.

Lu Mingfei put down his book and stared at himself in the mirror. A white sleeveless vest, baggy shorts, and plastic slippers; his hair was disheveled from sleeping, and his face was tanned. An ordinary boy, no special description needed. The aristocratic air he’d acquired at Cassel College had vanished, along with his hard-earned muscles—or rather, they’d never existed at all. If he hadn’t opened that mysterious door, his life would have followed a completely unremarkable path.

He put down his book, tiptoed to the kitchen, stood by the door, and watched the woman cooking from a distance.

The woman was quite tall with a large frame, not the slender, graceful type that Chinese people prefer, but she had a decisive and efficient air about her, somewhat like an American woman. She looked to be over forty, with long, wavy hair, a well-maintained figure, and plenty of energy; when she cooked, it was as if she were commanding a vast army.

“I’m telling you, even if you don’t go out to look for a job, you should at least make some friends and go out to get some sunshine. You’re such a lazy cat at home, you’re practically growing mushrooms.”

“There’s no such thing as a job being superior or inferior; you always start with small tasks. Even something as simple as sending and receiving mail will do!”

“Delivering packages is fine. It’s tough working in all kinds of weather, but it builds your willpower, and you can earn quite a bit of money too.”

The woman heard his footsteps and spoke to him, but without turning around, she quickly gutted a chicken.

Lu Mingfei didn’t say anything, just silently watched her. She said a lot but received no response, then turned around angrily, “Since you’re here, why don’t you help? Go! Peel two cloves of garlic for me!”

She was a beautiful and spirited woman, a bit older, with a bunch of wrinkles around her eyes, but her gaze was still sharp. She gave the order, and Lu Mingfei should have rushed off, but he didn’t. He took two steps forward, almost running, and opened his arms to hug her. “Mom, I miss you so much.” He buried his head in his big, wavy hair. “I think I’ve been sleeping too long.”

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