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For the next few months, every day there were workers coming and going here. Life inside the statue for Wang Rong seemed to gain a new vitality—she found herself eagerly anticipating their arrival each day, listening intently to their conversations, and learning some news about old acquaintances. Bai Shikun and Long’er had long left the little eastern town; no one knew where they had gone into hiding, and thus they faded from public view.
To her surprise, her assistant JUDY had actually become the last chairperson of the Holy Mother Society, but due to various illegal activities, was sentenced to twenty years in prison.
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Curiously, after five years in prison, JUDY hanged herself. The reason remains a mystery. The media at the time only briefly reported “The Last Chairwoman of the Holy Mother Society, Judy, Hangs Herself in Prison,” leaving only netizens and conspiracy theorists to endlessly speculate whether her “suicide” was genuine or coerced.
Rumor had it that some time before her suicide, Judy had written to the Bai family, claiming to possess a huge secret concerning Bai Shikun and Wang Rong, hoping the family would help her win her appeal, for nobody wished to face twenty years behind bars.
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She confided in a friend she met in prison, saying that Wang Rong’s true origin would be an earth-shattering scandal for the Bai family. That very night, Judy died, and that prison friend, a few days after being released, vanished into the crowd.
Some speculated that this inquisitive cellmate was actually sent by the Bai family.
That secret, surely, was of staggering magnitude.
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Strangely, the mainstream media never uttered a word about it. Whenever related topics began to heat up online, they quickly fizzled out, just like Judy’s inexplicable death.
Over time, an unspoken consensus emerged: Wang Rong’s background was a taboo subject, never to be touched.
Only clandestine whispers among the people remained—and today, these whispers finally reached Wang Rong’s ears.
Although Bai Shikun had vanished, his eldest son Bai Shaozu inherited his father’s cunning. Under his leadership, the Bai family’s influence rose to new heights; in some ways, Bai Shaozu even surpassed his father.
In short, whether in the open or in the shadows, this family possessed boundless energy—a public secret at the heart of the city.
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Wang Rong thought to herself that JUDY was a fool. How could someone as ordinary as her hope to bargain with a colossal family like the Bais? Without an understanding of the deep workings of society, she could only bring about her own destruction.
Yet, this ghost trapped in the statue for half a century did not realize that she herself had never truly grasped these hidden rules in her lifetime—otherwise, how could she have suffered defeat at the hands of the Bai family?
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No matter what, her confidence and fighting spirit returned.
After the restoration of the Holy Mother Chapel and the statue of Saint Wang Rong, she was sure the site would become a tourist attraction.
She believed she could slowly amass followers, for people always need something to worship.
Yet she forgot that, when the Holy Mother resealed her, she had already been stripped of the ability to absorb fortune. Wang Rong was a shrewd woman, but she always had a bad habit of forgetting important facts.
Unfortunately, she would never live to see that day.
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The restoration work, initially progressing fervently, was repeatedly delayed by a string of unexplained industrial accidents. Before long, key members of the project—including several engineers and university scholars—suffered mental breakdowns or even committed suicide.
The conservation project was forced to a halt. Only the public housing estate built on the site of the Holy Mother Primary School was completed as scheduled.
A new “Wang Rong Urban Legend” quickly emerged: the failed restoration was caused by a vengeful spirit. The so-called Saint Wang Rong was in fact a resentful ghost, abandoned by her husband because she was infertile, dying with hatred in her heart. Both her marriages had involved her as the third party in someone else’s relationship, so she was believed to especially favor mistresses who destroyed families.
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Yet, an even more sensational rumor circulated: some involved in the restoration had discussed the mystery of Wang Rong’s origins, even investigating the “other relationship” between Bai Shikun and Wang Rong, and were punished by the Bai family’s “house god.”
Indeed, the chapel’s Holy Mother had long become the Bai family’s patron deity.
No wonder the Bai family’s fortunes remained so stable for so many years.
Thus, within half a year, the chapel restoration project was shelved indefinitely.
The garden where the statue stood returned to its long-standing desolation and silence.
The government fenced off the area, strictly forbidding entry.
It became the city’s famous mysterious boundary, but no ghost hunter, however bold, dared come near.
For it was said that a “brave soul” who once ventured in soon made headlines for going mad and jumping off a building.
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“It’s the Holy Mother… She won’t let me go…
I can’t win… I can’t win…
Earthly power… Divine power… When they combine…
There’s no way to win…”
Inside the statue, Wang Rong muttered in despair.
She knew she had no hope left, no chance for redemption.
So, she fell back into her dreams, reliving countless lives—each so different, yet exactly the same.
One night, she awoke from her dreams, only to find herself caught in a violent storm—a once-in-a-century typhoon battering the little town.
The pavilion that had sheltered her was blown apart; the rusted roses encircling her were swept away, and even the statue itself was toppled.
It turned out that, to make the statue more lifelike, the sculptor had used a lighter plaster mix instead of real marble, for ease of carving.
Back then, Bai Shikun only had the statue made to satisfy the Holy Mother, without considering material quality.
As a result, “Saint Wang Rong” could not withstand the typhoon’s test.
After the storm, the already bleak garden was left in ruins.
The statue tumbled across the ground, finally wedging against the chapel steps, as if kneeling before the Holy Mother’s sanctuary.
Wang Rong was beside herself with grief—her situation had become even more wretched.
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Now, whenever she was “awake,” she knelt aimlessly before the chapel, exposed to sun and rain, battered by wind and storm.
Strangely, perhaps due to Long’er’s sealing magic, the statue’s surface remained unscathed after all these years, though it was caked with dirt and mud—waiting for the next rain to wash it clean.
This was far from a pleasant experience; thus, Wang Rong longed more and more for her next descent into dreams.
But the more she craved it, the harder it became to enter her dreamworld. It was like the torment of insomnia—the more anxious one is, the harder it is to sleep.
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Moreover, perhaps because the “external environment” was now less secure, each dream seemed shorter than the last.
Yes, she had lost her sense of time; only her own mind determined how she perceived its passage.
In happiness, time flies; in suffering, every day is a year.
What she did not know was that as her soul’s energy waned, so too did the memories of her past life.
Eventually, even her dreams deserted her.
No one knew that, in this forgotten wilderness, a ghost had been imprisoned for more than half a century. No one could imagine her feelings, or understand her pain and loneliness in the void.
In fact, no one knew she existed at all.
Days and months passed in endless cycles—another half-century slipped by.
A hundred years in a flash; the eastern little town changed hands many times.
After more than a century, Wang Rong’s will had been worn away, leaving only her obsession.
Each day, she waited—waited for someone to come and worship her.
She no longer dreamt, for she had forgotten how.
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Fang Ming, Fang Zheng and his son, Xing Jun, Bai Shikun, Long’er—all those who had shaped her fate in her lifetime—she had forgotten them all. She had even forgotten her own name, and why she was here.
Without memories of her past life, she had no material from which to create new dreamworlds.
She had also forgotten what the Holy Mother once told her: that only by repenting could the seal be lifted, and she could reincarnate. Absorbing fortune would do her no good.
She simply believed, without reason, that someone would eventually come to worship her, and then she would unleash her divine power and drive the world mad for her.
Because she was a goddess.
One could truly say that Wang Rong had lost her mind.
Perhaps, strictly speaking, “Wang Rong” was truly “dead.”
But on this day, someone really did come. That person slowly approached her.
Wang Rong was full of anticipation, thinking the visitor would kneel and worship her—never realizing she herself was already kneeling on the ground.
It was a homeless man, evicted from the city center, wandering with his few belongings into this forbidden place after spotting a hole in the fence.
He walked up to the statue of Saint Wang Rong.
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Standing above her, he stared blankly for a long while. Wang Rong felt indignant: “How rude this mortal is!” Then suddenly felt a warm, foul-smelling sensation on her face.
A stream of yellow, cloudy liquid splashed onto her face.
If Wang Rong still had a body, the wilderness would have echoed with her screams.
But she did not.
Instead, some dust on her face was washed away—leaving streaks that resembled tear tracks.
At this moment, Wang Rong finally got a good look at the intruder. The homeless man was about forty, his head and face covered in festering sores, hands and feet raw and blackened.
His clothes were tattered, but what horrified Wang Rong most were his small, grayish-yellow eyes, rolling wildly apart—exuding a chilling malice.
Clearly, he was a mentally ill vagrant. Yes, madmen can also be evil.
Now, the madman gazed lecherously at the kneeling saint before him.
He had no idea whose statue this was.
These days, unless one researched the city’s religious history, few even knew the Holy Mother Society once existed. The “Wang Rong Urban Legend” was like the old Bermuda Triangle mystery—something people had heard of, but long since lost interest in.
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Once a household name, both in life and after death, Wang Rong had scant official records to her name—no doubt the work of the Bai family.
So, the current generation had no idea who Wang Rong was, let alone this deranged vagrant. To him, she was just a beautiful woman.
Grinning to reveal a few yellow teeth, he leered maliciously: “Pretty girl? Why are you kneeling here? Waiting for your husband to take care of you? Heh heh.”
He reached out and stroked Wang Rong’s face.
You! What are you doing! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!
Inside, Wang Rong screamed, nearly insane. But the vagrant heard nothing—he only saw the gentle, silent smile of the statue.
He stepped back, looked up at the ruined chapel, and was momentarily dazed by the moonlit, dreamlike scene.
Suddenly, he cackled, “What luck! I get to live in a palace! And there’s a pretty wife waiting at the door!”
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Then, his tone shifted, his eyes filling with venomous hate: “Hmph! Xiao Hong, you bitch, you left me for that neighbor Chen! Bet you never thought I’d be rich one day! Hahaha!”
Inside the chapel, the scattered candlelight flickered like ghostly flames. Wang Rong recoiled at the ugly face drawing near, making her want to retch.
“You’re great, never speak a word. I love quiet girls. Not like that old hag, always complaining! Heh! If she saw me marry a hundred-times prettier wife, she’d die of rage!” The vagrant hugged the statue, muttering in a lovesick daze.
Years ago, the vagrant had killed his wife’s lover in a jealous rage, served ten years, and lost his mind after release, drifting on the streets.
Wandering here, he found a hidden refuge, moving his few belongings and the statue into the chapel.
When he dragged Wang Rong away, she screamed, “No! Don’t do this! You dare! I… I am a saint! I am a goddess!”
Her voice echoed in endless space, but no one outside heard a thing.
“Hehehe! Pretty girl! Your husband will treat you well from now on!” The vagrant’s twisted, hoarse voice was crystal clear to Wang Rong.
From then on, Saint Wang Rong kept the vagrant company day and night, and several years passed.
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Wang Rong longed for death, though she had already died once.
But now, she couldn’t even destroy herself.
Had she retained any memory of her past, she would have bitterly regretted not allowing the Holy Mother to utterly annihilate her soul—rather than suffer such degradation today.
But with no memory left, perhaps that was a small mercy amid great misfortune.
The vagrant placed the statue on his filthy bedding.
Wang Rong was numb—she no longer felt disgust or revulsion.
From this vantage, she could see the giant mural: a winged youth flying towards the sun.
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Sometimes, when the vagrant went out “foraging,” she would gaze at the mural in the shaft of light from the high window, racking her brain. She always felt that this painting was connected to her past.
Until one day, a sudden flash of insight struck her.
Holy Mother...
Wang Rong abruptly recalled that name.
The great doors slammed open—the vagrant returned.
Ah... Ming-ge... Where are you...? Save me...
She remembered: Fang Ming was her husband. All her memories with him surged back.
That terrifying, rotting man was crawling towards her.
Yes... I remember now...
I remember everything... I once...
Wanted to soar high... I wanted to fly higher and higher...
But in the end...
In Wang Rong’s vision, there was only the mural of Icarus.
And that festering, pus-covered hand touched her chest.
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Holy Mother... save me...
Save me... Holy Mother... save me...
Ah... that eye...!!
The last thing Wang Rong saw was a huge, blood-red, demonic eye.
She remembered seeing it twice before.
Once, after killing the Holy Mother, it appeared above the chapel; once, after being defeated by the Holy Mother in the hospital.
Now, that monstrous eye’s crimson glow dimmed, its pupil turned gray, and a tear fell from it.
That eye was filled with despair and sorrow, as if telling her—it was dying.
I understand... this eye...
Actually... is...
Wang Rong could think no further.
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The vagrant never noticed the faint shimmer dispersing from the statue. The light floated awhile in the darkness, then slowly faded away.
Yes, this lonely soul, after a century, at last dissipated.
All love, passion, hatred, and obsession returned to nothingness.
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At the far ends of the earth, on the other side of the globe, a girl with long wavy black hair, dressed in a black gown, sat on the porch of a seaside cabin.
Her hair danced in the cold sea wind.
Waves crashed into the cliffs, sending spray high into the air.
Layers of dark clouds surged across the sky like waves.
The girl said nothing. She simply extended her hand and slowly opened her palm.
There lay a small, dried, dark-red flower. A gust of wind swept it up into the sky.
The girl watched with calm indifference as the flower fluttered a few times in the wind, and vanished between sea and sky.
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Copyright Notice:
"Wang Rong: Epilogue – A Revenge Journey Through Inverted Dreams"
(Bilibili Title: Wang Rong Epilogue: Revenge Dream)
Wang Rong Epilogue: Chapter 14: Flying Petals
Original work by Jing Xixian (King Heyin) (Vampire L). All rights reserved. Do not reproduce, print, adapt, distribute, translate, or use for commercial purposes in any form without the author’s written permission.
© Jing Xixian (King Heyin) (Vampire L), All rights reserved
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