Chapter114- remember history

Lucca pov

As I ascended to thousands of feet above, I still couldn't believe it. Just 30 hours ago, I was mourning various twists of fate at Pack University, and now I was on a plane to... Where were we going?

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"To the southern coast," Vincent replied, massaging his forehead. He had a cup of strong-smelling coffee next to him, untouched.

"The southern coast?"

"It's on your list."

"Yes, but... it's April. The southern coast is in the monsoon zone, you know what I mean?" I asked.

Vincent looked at me sharply. "There's an indoor pool."

April wasn't the best time for a vacation. It was neither too hot nor too cold, and it made people prone to allergies.

The great animal migrations I wanted to see wouldn't happen until June. The southern regions were still a bit chilly, while the northern ones weren't cold enough.

Many peak season activities weren't available yet.

"I think..." I hesitated.

"If you dare to say you don't want to go anymore, you can jump out of the plane and go back home," Vincent said.

I picked up the coffee and took a sip, trying to calm my nerves.

I ended up staying awake throughout the flight, watching Vincent rest wearily on the side. He was truly inscrutable. I wondered if he took this vacation for me or if he had wanted to rest and just brought me along. Had he done impulsive things like this before? Maybe, but it must have been many years ago.

My life had been quite peaceful and boring before I turned eighteen.

But after meeting Vincent, it felt like I had been pulled into another world, one that was both painful and marvelous.

I fell in love with studying, actively engaged in like-minded groups, enjoyed communicating with mentors, and even participated in writing a popular science book – a book that might be read by millions of students worldwide for years to come.

I did many amazing things, things I had never even imagined during my first eighteen years.

Despite the many troubles and persistent sadness, the "meaning" that suffering bestowed upon me continued to increase.

But acknowledging the "good" things was almost like compromising with Vincent, and I absolutely wouldn't say those words out loud.

I also refused to feel grateful towards him. When I reminded myself of this, I thought of Rino.

In those postcards, he was sweating profusely, always surrounded by patients, children, and the elderly.

The backgrounds were filled with the stench of garbage dumps, the chaos of train stations, and the eerie silence of hospitals.

His buzz cut and tattered jeans had never blended so perfectly with the environment.

He was actually living a meaningful life. But I didn't know if he saw it that way.

Even if he did, he wouldn't admit it, as doing so would mean acknowledging all his previous mistakes, compromising with his father, compromising with me. He wouldn't do that. However, he kept sending postcards.

These postcards showcased his community service – watching from a distance at the hospital, cleaning the hospital, singing lullabies to the children in the hospital. I could sense a change.

I deduced from this that Vincent had likely noticed changes in me.

He might even have felt a sense of accomplishment. But I wouldn't indulge in those emotions. I kept my gaze on Vincent, determined to forget everything about Pack.

For this one month, I was just a nameless, pastless free spirit. I didn't even want to think about Vincent.

"Just think of him as a local guide who happens to provide transportation," I thought.

When the plane landed, it was on a private island.

As I disembarked, I saw Pack constables patrolling the coastline in uniform. This made me somewhat uneasy.

"Just ignore them," Vincent said, glancing at the pier and pushing down my sun hat. "This is Pack territory, and Wolf Queen's constables will forever guard this place until the treaty expires."

I looked up, and in the center of the island, the Pack flag fluttered incongruously amidst the beautiful natural landscape.

The temperature on the island was around 30 degrees Celsius, and the sea was as blue as a gem, glistening under the intense white sun.

There was a garden-style building in the center, surrounded by a stone path that circled the island. It was not far from here to the nearby equatorial country, a three to five-hour yacht ride away. Less than two centuries ago, this area was still desolate, inhabited by very few natives. But then, the Pack's grand fleet rose to power and continued to expand, with pirates like David being recruited.

They successfully paved the way for Pack's overseas conquests.

This region became a colony in modern times, and the natives virtually disappeared, with rogues and mixed-bloods becoming the main population.

Although many countries had been liberated in recent times, the lycans of Pack still maintained a very bloody hold on this area.

For example, this island belonging to Vincent's family.

For example, the garden building in the center of the island—I couldn't imagine how much blood and sweat from my black-haired kin had been buried here. It was a pure white cage with an exquisite and magnificent openwork dome, Greek temple-style columns, and religious murals commonly seen in medieval churches.

The greenhouse was filled with out-of-season but exceptionally lush branches and vines.

No Pack member would believe that this "work of art" had been created by clumsy, dirty, and lowly "rogues."

"Why did you bring me here..." I stood outside the garden and didn't enter. I felt the cold wind blowing out from inside.

It was bone-chilling, carrying the scent of death, scarier than a morgue.

The servants opened the ornate black iron gate, and Vincent instructed the constables to step back as they walked through the garden and into the deeper palace.

This was a small museum, holding valuable records of the colonial plunder from the past. Instruments of torture, footage, photos, all the evidence.

"Tomorrow, this island will be returned to its rightful country. Before the constables withdraw, they will burn down the garden," Vincent led me through it all without any attempt to hide anything.

"But strictly speaking, this garden belongs to the Vincent family, and I can keep what's inside."

I passed by a photograph.

A large group of lycans had locked a black-haired little girl inside a fence, joyfully feeding her.

"You can choose something to take with you," Vincent also stopped in front of this photograph. His silver hair was purer than anyone in the picture.

His expression of disgust was more beautiful than anyone else's. But I couldn't see the difference between them.

"Why would I want to take these..." I touched the glass display. It was clean, without any dust or fingerprints, cleaned by someone every day.

Vincent's voice sounded patient, steady, and slow, with a sense of teaching, "Many years from now, you'll want someone to remember history."

Many years later, the island had been occupied by young residents.

They watched Pack's TV shows, listened to the Republic of Pack's pop music, competed to get into university to study, and lived happier day by day.

Naturally, this was good. But someone needed to remember history. The constables would burn this place down before they left, erasing the precious records.

Vincent used his ownership to preserve them. It was his gift, cruel and bloody as always, withholding nothing.

"I want to keep all the photos," I said in a low voice.

"No problem."

—"Many years from now, you'll want someone to remember history."

I couldn't believe I was hearing this wisdom from a true aggressor.

We left the small museum, and the servants came to collect the photos. Vincent showed me the pool and the terrace.

The indoor pool didn't appeal to them because I couldn't swim. Vincent was wearing two layers of clothes in this nearly 30-degree weather; I doubted he'd get heatstroke. I had changed into a colorful silk shirt and put on slippers. However, my mood was affected by the colonial museum, so I didn't eat much either.

Vincent looked at me and asked, "Would you like to go to the birdwatching tower?"

"Where is it?" I asked.

Vincent nodded and gestured for me to follow. We walked towards the edge of the garden, and after a long uphill walk, we reached a white marble platform.

There were four golden discs at the corners, supported by lifelike little angel statues. In front of us was a rolling forest, filled with the sound of birdcalls, and the air was so fresh it was intoxicating.

Servants brought some bird food and placed it on the golden trays.

Soon, various birds came to peck at it.

They had different colors, beautiful wings, and lively, wild gazes. The sound of their pecking was crisp and enchanting.

"I remember when I was a child, my father brought me pets from here," Vincent told me. "They didn't live long, like consumables, and the time and effort wasted on them started to disgust me almost instinctively."

The servants placed the remaining bird food on the ground and stepped back. I picked up some, and a large bird that resembled a swallow swooped over my head.

I reached out my hand, and the bird pecked the food from my palm, its claws briefly resting on my wrist, causing some pain but leaving no wounds.

Vincent grabbed my hand angrily and examined it. "Don't hand-feed them."

I let go of my hand, and a piece of food fell to the ground. Countless birds spread their wings and gathered at our feet.

Vincent pulled my hand forcefully and kissed it passionately.

His movements were intense, and the flapping of wings sounded like rain.

Feathers fell on our embracing shoulders, and the forest looked even greener and fresher.