last edited on ZLT: 31.01.20


Translator’s Note:

Yo friends, this has been collecting dust in my drafts, as you can see from the last updated date (2020), this is a very ancient piece of translation; i’d been planning to main this TL project after THMYO (this was the shorter project that i mentioned if you guys have been following THMYO) back in the days, but i realised that translations for this novel actually exist after i started stockpiling, my goodness… and the reason i didn’t manage to locate it was because the original TLer made a typo when they indexed the raw title on NU…

well since i’ve got some old chapters out since a long while ago, it’s a waste to discard ’em, so i’ll just go ahead with posting these here on ZHANLANN, but i won’t index these on NU

TOOL is currently translated by Webnovelover (chapters 1-54) and Whimsical Reads (chapters 54-current), do check them out~



Buried under a pile of documents, I calculated the investment stock accumulation of revenue upon maturity, stressed.

The desk vibrated. I dug out my phone from the pile of scrap paper used for workings. It’s a call from my mother.

“The report for your dad’s out. They said about two-thirds of his stomach has to be cut.”

I stopped writing: “My law accounting prof only had to cut half his stomach cuz of his cancer, why does prof Lin need two-thirds of his gone?” Though my brain’s completely fried from the endless numbers from this question, my brain could still clearly register the new numbers that’s emerged.

“Surgery’s on Monday. Come home tomorrow first, I’ll text you the things you need to bring along. Your dad’s workplace is sending a ride, you take that.”

As my belated reply sounded, my mom ended the call crisply. ♢ THE OATH OF LOVE, CHAPTER 01 is hosted at ZHAN LANN♢

Donned in a down coat, gaze coated in grief and indignation, and topped with a dazed expression, I was but the another fourth year in university, editing their final thesis for graduation.

Prof Lin is my dad. He’s a senior politics prof; his forte is working over-time. He’s had a 25-year medical history of gastric troubles. During New Year when he started eating less, and even started to shy away from eating even, my mom brought him to X city for a checkup. From the few times I’ve heard from her, the info I received was that his stomach ulcer had worsened and he had a rupture.

For some reason, humans could somehow always be able to figure something was off when something bad happened. The two-thirds my mom mentioned was a needle that ripped through my memories; it elicited the many moments where my parents had been acting strange back then.


When the car stopped outside the tumour department of the hospital, my head felt as though it’s encased in a glass bubble. Seven years ago, after my junior high exams, I’d been brought here too, my maternal grandma had terminal nose and throat cancer.

My uncle came out to pick me up. He hugged my shoulders: “Your dad’s entering the surgery room at eight. Your mom wanted to hide this from you, I didn’t let her. You’ll need to know this anyway. Cry now if you’re sad, don’t let your mom see later.”

I nodded and wiped my tears away quickly.

The family members were waiting at the last row in the waiting area.

I cleared my throat and placed my bag down: “Comrade, you hid this well huh. How long have you been keeping this from me?”

“What’s up with you?” She evidently found it hard to accept my calmness.

“Didn’t finish my breakfast.” After the many years of ups and downs, my mind and heart were now very much strengthened and settled, “want one?”

My mom observed my expression: “So you know.”

“If the car stopped outside the military HQ then perhaps this lie would’ve continued on for a little while more.”

She sighed, her eyes red.

I patted her back: “What did prof Lin say? Females usually are a lot less calm when it comes to this.”

She turned away: “You won’t be able to imagine how much such an opening on your dad’s stomach would hurt.”

I gave her a chocolate bar: “Didn’t your stomach spilt open too when you gave birth to me, aren’t you doing perfectly fine now.”

Before we finished the two pieces of bread, someone shouted from the outside: “Surgery bed number 39, LinXX.” I ran out.

At the hallway of the operation room, a doctor in white held a stainless steel tray: “This is the part that’s cut out.”

When mother came over and that what was on the try, she made a choking sound before closing her eyes and quickly turning away.

Meanwhile I observed the white-red piece that’s cut off from Prof Lin’s body; it was the size of my palm. All of a sudden, my heart panged, and I felt closer to that body of red-white. I moved forward to give it a sniff; it didn’t stink as I’d thought it would, it only had a faint smell of disinfectant.

“The tumour was situated a little high, so the part we cut off was higher than planned; there’s about 20% left to his stomach.”

I nodded. The person turned to leave.

That was the first time doc and I met. Forgive my lack of impression—he’d been wrapped up really tightly.

12pm, prof was pushed into the ward. When he had to be lifted onto the bed, the nurse stopped my mother and me: “Let’s get two guys, he’s too heavy.” I exchanged a glance with my mother. There’s the two of us ladies here, uncle has work so he’s left, where are we supposed to get guys to help?”

The nurse looked at us in exasperation: “I’ll help, you find another person, such the son of the patient next door or something.” Optionless when up against such a firm and picky nurse, I head out to look for help.

Coincidently, a doctor headed back from the operation room; he still had his surgical mask on. Just as he was about to head out to change out and have some lunch, he walked past the entrance of the room and bumped into me. He looked at the room number: “Bed 39, what’s wrong?”

I said: “Doc, can you lend us a hand?”

According to doc, this was where our doomed relationship began.

Doc’s notes: why in the world would you sniff it? I’d almost thought that you’d want to poke it with your finger even.




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