On every New Year's Eve, every household blazes with light, and wanderers, no matter how busy, hurry back from all corners of the world to reunite with their kin. At such times, the family sits together in harmony and joy, awaiting the chime of the midnight bell to offer their sincere blessings to their dearest ones the moment it rings.

Should a small life enter the world on this day, the entire clan would be bustling with excitement, for it is an occasion of double happiness—a new life, a new beginning, a fresh aura, all portending good fortune for the coming year.

However, one particular family stood out in stark, oppressive silence. No one could say how many years this household had endured, nor how many generations it spanned; the family genealogy merely depicted a crude, branching structure, where the same few names repeatedly appeared along the limbs of the tree.

On this very Eve, while others gathered warmly around the hearth, savoring their sumptuous reunion dinners, within a cold, shadowed room of this house, a woman, smeared with blood, lay upon the [bed/couch], groaning helplessly, occasionally letting out a ragged, bone-chilling scream. Exhausting every reserve of strength, she finally managed the difficult birth of twin brothers. Yet, one of them cried, but possessed no heartbeat.

For any other family, this event would be considered a miracle of the ages, prompting an immediate rush to the hospital, summoning experts, scholars, and reporters for a massive media frenzy. If the child without a heartbeat had grown to adulthood, he might well have stormed the entertainment world, leveraging his otherworldly origins to become the focus of relentless media adoration, mastering the thirty-six secret arts of supreme wealth generation to their absolute peak.

Yet, this family maintained an extraordinary low profile. They had not sent the mother to a hospital for the delivery, nor had they summoned a doctor for aid. They had only called upon an aged midwife to deliver the babies simply, far, far away from the clamor of the city, within the confines of an ancient villa.

When the first child emerged, the midwife uttered not a word. She silently placed the newborn into a cradle tucked against the corner wall, offering neither swaddling cloth nor garment, as if the infant required no human care, surviving solely on the breath of air. The small baby lay curled in the cradle, crying loudly for a time. Seeing that no one paid him heed, he fell silent, using his half-open eyes to quietly observe this murky, spectral world.

The second child was born. Everyone fluttered like ants on a hot plate, anxiously awaiting the first cry of a living infant, but silence persisted. The father grew anxious, urging the midwife to take action. With practiced ease, the midwife grasped the baby's ankle with her left hand and sharply slapped the sole of the foot with her right. A few seconds later, the little one let out a sudden, robust wail, shattering the tense, heavy atmosphere of the room.

Only then did the father move from the doorway, silently taking the infant from the midwife's hands. He did not lift the swaddling to check the sex of his flesh and blood; instead, he gently pressed his ear against the baby’s chest, closing his eyes, clearing his mind of all distractions, and listening intently to the small heart beating beneath the ribs. A faint smile of relief touched his face.

“Have you decided on a name?” the mother asked weakly from the [bed/couch].

“I have. It will be Li Xiaoshu,” the father replied, smiling toward the infant, not sparing a glance for the mother lying there.

“And the other one?” the mother persisted, weakly pushing herself up on the [bed/couch], looking toward the cradle in the corner, a faint glimmer of tears shining in her eyes.

“Li Xiaohao.” With that, the father took the receiving blanket from the midwife and personally wrapped Li Xiaoshu into a tight little bundle, holding him as he departed the room without looking back.

Three days later, someone discovered the midwife lying rigid upon her own [bed/couch], her life having departed long ago.

[Author’s Note]: Seeing this, perhaps readers will wonder about Ming Xiaoyu—where is Ming Xiaoyu? Ming Xiaoyu, at this point, may not yet have been born, or perhaps he is already nestled in his mother’s arms, enjoying the simple bliss of family life like any other good baby. In truth, the author misses Xiaoyu as well; he is a genuine person of flesh and blood, possessing strengths and flaws, capable of selfishness, yet also capable of bravery. It is precisely because he was so real that he blamed himself for his last-minute retreat and, at the final moment, unhesitatingly offered himself up for sacrifice. Since time has now reverted to the very moment of their birth, let us bless this preceding segment and hope that Xiaoyu’s soul may transcend the mundane and find true redemption.