Chapter 167.1

Chapter 167.1

The entire family gathered to celebrate his eighth birthday.

Since his parents, both doctors, often traveled to medically underserved areas in Russia, it had been months since they had all been together like this.

Being apart from his parents sometimes felt unbearably lonely. However, during the time they spent together, they showered him with kisses until his cheeks were sore, held him tightly through the night, and laughed while rubbing their cheeks against his.

The boy loved his parents more than anything in the world. Even though he had perfectly adapted to the strict discipline of a private school, being cradled in their arms made his loneliness melt away like snow.

“Yuri, remember this: even if you can’t see it, there is always a path.”

When he asked what that meant, his parents would only smile vaguely and never explained it clearly.

They would kiss his cheek, sip orange juice, and dance as if they were drunk, despite it being just juice.

As he tried to stifle a yawn while opening a book by Machiavelli, he thought they would surely be making nonsensical remarks again, just like when they told him to read fairy tales instead of such thick books.

Yet, sometimes, they would cast a sympathetic glance at him.

“Our son… he must not resemble the biting cold of Russia.”

His parents always made such earnest pleas.

For reasons unknown to him, they never left their young son in the care of Winter Castle, even when they went on distant trips. They would rather leave him in someone else’s hands than send him to his grandparents’ house.

“Dad, I like Winter Castle. There’s even a lake named after me there!”

His father would only pat his head in silence, often changing the subject with a vague promise of, “When you grow a little older.”

The boy looked around at the family gathered around the outdoor table after finishing the grand feast.

The most noticeable figure was, of course, his grandfather, Maxim.

Although he was well over sixty, he had no gray hair; instead, he sported dark brown hair as thick as an eagle’s feathers, a prominent nose, and broad, sturdy shoulders that made him look like a soldier.

He touched his grandmother’s glass and called for a servant to bring a warmed teacup.

Soon, he poured black tea into his parents’ cups and asked in his usual low, soothing voice, “Ivan, I hear you’ve been quite busy lately.”

“Yes, Father. Doctors are needed everywhere. Fortunately, the corporation is also running well.”

“It seems so,” Maxim replied, nodding gruffly.

At that moment, the boy, shifting his gaze under the table, noticed his parents holding hands tightly, trembling slightly. An inexplicable fear washed over him.

It was strange.

His grandfather was not a frightening person.

Whenever the elders of the family cast disdainful looks at them, his grandfather never held back.

Though he rarely expressed emotions, he would sharply cut down anyone who dared to disrespect them, ensuring they would never show their faces again. Thus, Maxim Solzhenitsyn was a reliable and formidable shield for them.

Yet, Ivan and Yani turned pale every time the family gathered.

“Last time I was in Africa, I bought a rare ornament made of elephant ivory. They said it would bring good luck, so I spent nearly a year’s worth of operating expenses to bring it back, but it turned out to be just cheap pottery instead. I was completely scammed, and now there’s a hole in our finances.”

And they continued to make such nonsensical remarks, undermining their own standing. Even through the eyes of a young boy, his parents seemed incredibly immature and foolish. He couldn’t understand why they would deliberately prolong such conversations.

Yes, until that day, it had certainly been like that.

“Cough!”

Clang! In an instant, his father dropped the teacup, and it fell under the chair.

Gag, gag! Ivan suddenly clutched his throat and vomited bright red blood.

As he pulled the tablecloth, the expensive tea set crashed to the ground with a loud clatter, and a short scream echoed through the air.

“…Dad?”

Yuri gasped in disbelief. His mother, who had been about to sip her black tea, froze in place, while his grandmother turned pale with fear.

Gulping and choking on blood, his father suddenly glared at his grandfather.

The expression that had seemed somewhat awkward vanished, replaced by bloodshot eyes twisted with sorrow and betrayal.

Yet, amidst the horror, only Maxim Solzhenitsyn remained seated, casually sipping his tea with his long legs crossed.

Ivan, with eyes wide and bloodshot, shouted as he struck his wife’s cup of tea violently.

“Run, Yani! Take Yuri and get away!”

Red liquid splattered onto her skirt. The boy watched the unfolding scene with a sense of unreality.

What on earth was happening to his father? Just that morning, he had been unable to resist his parents’ playful antics and had gotten up to skate freely on the lake.

It had been such a peaceful time…

“I-Ivan…!”

His mother swallowed her sobs and sprang to her feet. Although she was pale, her lips were pressed tightly together, as if she had anticipated this moment. A fierce determination and solemnity filled her face, reflecting her struggle against fear.

Without hesitation, Yani grabbed her son’s arm. It was the moment when his mother desperately tried to flee, dragging the young boy along with her.

Bang!

His mother’s body lurched forward like a stiff wooden barrel. Yuri learned for the first time that when a person’s head is pierced, blood sprays like a fountain.