Chapter 43: The Life of “Truman”

“No.”

She refused.

“Why?”

Lu Qingqi wasn’t pleased.

It was a win-win—bliss and cultivation gains; how could she hoard it?

They were one and the same—naturally, share equally.

If it were her stumbling on such fortune, she’d drag past self along for the ride.

“No means no!”

“Come on, come on—let’s dive back into the research fruits.”

“Male-female romps can wait; transcendent power’s our true pursuit.”

The white-haired blue-eyed girl, legs still jelly-weak, hauled Lu Qingqi into the study, resuming the ability deep-dive.

The following days blurred into lectures, meals, more lectures—with Lu Qingqi occasionally catching future self pinned in the living room by her other “self” for that.

Each glimpse stirred a cocktail: fear, envy, temptation.

Boiled down, she was a hedonist.

Girl-form, under a man—savoring joy; a mental snag, but tolerable.

Plus, keeping it in the family—pressed by another self—no hygiene hang-ups, double the delight.

No loss—pure profit.

In the study turned classroom;

“Fatherly Love Episode [Akizuki Kousan’s Affection]—this lets us designate any man as our father; to outsiders, society at large—he becomes our dad, doting endlessly.”

“The sole side effect: he develops twisted emotions far beyond paternal love.”

“Three Kingdoms Episode [Heavenly Halberd, Pokes Right Through Righteous Fathers]—when striking your societal father, inherit it all: wealth, fame, status, the works.”

“Pair these, and you’ve got the embryo of a simple ‘boom old perv gold coin’ killer move.”

In the study, the white-haired blue-eyed girl pointed at the board, expounding combos.

“These two link via the ‘father’ concept……”

Lu Qingqi raised her hand—not a question, but an interruption.

“Future me—I plan to head back.”

“So soon?”

The white-haired blue-eyed girl’s fine brows knit.

“Not soon—I’ve been in the future days already.”

“Missing my little nest.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Mm.”

Future Lu Qingqi nodded, resuming the lecture.

But from an angle Lu Qingqi missed, those blue beauties dimmed with unspoken sorrow.

Night, in future Lu Qingqi’s bedroom.

The man’s towering frame caged her against the headboard, warm forehead to hers—his crisp scent mingling with her hair’s orchid sweetness.

Deep purple pupils pinned her teary-blue gaze; thumb grazed her flushed cheek, voice soft.

“Qiqi—unhappy?”

The girl didn’t evade, nodding with a touch of grievance.

“A bit.”

“She’s gone—no one to chat with; house empty again, just me.”

“I’ll keep you company.”

“You?”

The girl prodded his chest, griping.

“Old perv only thinks smut!”

“Am I your wife—or your caged canary, toy at whim?”

The man laughed outright, drawing her into his chest, face burying between her breasts, tone teasing.

“Depends on what Qiqi fancies—canary? Wife? Canary-wife?”

The words drew a reluctant laugh from her.

“Years on, and you’re still the same tit-obsessed, shameless oaf.”

She dipped, nipping his sharply lined shoulder—hard enough to vent days of boredom and woe, voice muffled.

“All your fault, you jerk!”

“Won’t let me out—trapped in this hood, bored to death daily!”

Teeth sank deep into his flesh; the man didn’t flinch—instead, his palm patted her back lightly.

Warmth seeped through thin fabric—like comfort, or some wordless atonement.

But more so, a silent nod of acceptance.

He knew his obsessions—had no intent to yield.

The girl gnawed a while, bite softening; finally, she just pressed her face to his shoulder, huffing low.

The man tightened his hold, chin to her crown, voice gentler still.

“Be good.”

“Give it time—I’ll take you out for a stroll.”

“Qiqi—I love you dearly.”

Next day, Lu Qingqi packed her bags—scant luggage, just mementos: future Lu Qingqi’s handmade beef jerky, fruit gummies, calcium tabs.

“Past me—before you go, hear a story first.”

As Lu Qingqi tidied, the white-haired blue-eyed girl halted her.

With that, the girl scooted along the sofa, leaving space.

Lu Qingqi agreed, settling in.

The white-haired blue-eyed girl gazed at the self beside her—black locks draping her chest, oversized men’s tee—nostalgia pricking her nose.

She pressed her brow, steadying, then spoke anew.

“Remember The Truman Show? Folks took us as kids.”

Lu Qingqi nodded.

“The Truman Show—Truman’s life a TV-orchestrated reality show; he uncovers the ruse, chases true freedom.”

Family, friends, colleagues—even the whole island: fakes, actors, crew.

Truman oblivious.

With age, anomalies piled: falling spotlights, “dead” dad resurfacing, wife’s wedding cue for lies.

Doubts bloomed; he probed the world’s verity, plotting escape.

Barriers abounded—yet Truman conquered fear, boating to sea, finding the door.

Philosophically rich, inspirational; Lu Qingqi rewatched it two-three times—rivaled only by One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, The Shawshank Redemption.

The white-haired blue-eyed girl contemplated this untamed, unconditioned past-self from another timeline, voice soft and slow.

“And now—I’ll tell of this tale’s kin: another Truman’s life.”