ACT I: Prologue
Originally published in Chinese as: 白天鹅之链
by J. M. Pang
Translated by Garrison Hsing
Content Warning: Psychological Overload
This book contains deep emotional conflict, complex psychological portraits, and intense sensory descriptions, exploring themes of marital crisis, human struggle, and moral dilemmas that may trigger significant emotional fluctuations or psychological discomfort. The characters face difficult choices of betrayal, self-denial, and redemption within a high-stakes, suspenseful narrative. If you are sensitive to high-intensity emotional content or narratives with a heavy psychological toll, please proceed with caution and pause when necessary to protect your emotional well-being. May you find resonance and insight as you explore the depths of this story.
Chain of the White Swan
The night turns black, lights shatter on the stream,
Her sighs entwine with a fading dream.
A whispering heartbeat hides yesterday’s glow,
Cracking with regret in the dark undertow.
White swan, slumbering deep in the abyss,
Bound in chains, trapped by a lingering kiss.
A necklace falls where love and agony meet—
Whispers in the dark, a past that can’t repeat.
Footsteps fading, chasing shattered illusions,
Her shadow blurred in neon confusions.
Tears flicker, piercing the hollow night,
A sinking heart, burning love’s remaining light.
White swan, slumbering deep in the abyss,
Bound in chains, trapped by a lingering kiss.
A necklace falls where love and agony meet—
Whispers in the dark, a past that can’t repeat.
The wind blows cold, sighs drifting astray,
Her tears falling for a sorrow hidden away.
Trembling heartbeats, secrets buried in the deep,
The embers of love leave a torment we keep.
White swan, wings folded in the night’s decay,
Love like a tide, sweeping the hopes away.
Pain in the soul, an unsolved mystery,
Who can see through this boundless destiny?
ACT I
Prologue
In the beginning of the story, there was a serpent in the garden. It drew close to the woman and asked if Yahweh had truly forbidden them from eating the fruit of any tree in the garden. The woman replied that they could eat from all the others—all except the tree in the middle. Yahweh had said they must neither eat of it nor touch it, lest they die. The serpent smiled. It told her they would not die; instead, their eyes would be opened wide, and they would become like Yahweh, knowing good from evil. Hearing this, her heart stirred. She stared at the fruit—it looked pleasing, seductive, and promised wisdom. So she plucked it and ate, then shared it with her husband. Without a second thought, he ate it too.
And so their eyes were indeed opened, though nothing good came of it. Realizing they were naked, they felt a surge of shame and hurriedly sewed fig leaves together to cover themselves. When the cool of the day came and Yahweh walked through the garden, they heard the sound and hid among the trees in terror. Yahweh called out to the man, asking where he was. The man answered that he had heard Yahweh’s voice and was afraid, so he hid because he was naked. Yahweh pressed him: who told him he was naked? Had he eaten the forbidden fruit? The man shifted the blame, saying it was the woman—the woman Yahweh had given him—who handed him the fruit, and so he ate. When Yahweh asked the woman what she had done, she said the serpent had deceived her into eating it.
Yahweh’s wrath descended. First, He cursed the serpent for what it had done, condemning it to crawl on its belly forever and eat dust for all generations, placing bitter enmity between the serpent and the woman, and between their offspring, doomed to strike at one another. Next, to the woman, He declared that her pregnancies would bring agonizing pain, that she would bear children in torment, and that her desire would bind her to her husband, who would rule over her. To the man, Yahweh said that because he had listened to the woman and eaten the fruit, the ground itself would turn against him. It would yield thorns and thistles, forcing him to toil in sweat and exhaustion just to eat, until the day he died and returned to dust.
With just a few words, the serpent dragged humanity into the abyss, and without hesitation, the woman and the man leaped right in. Their choice seemed simple, yet it ruined everything. Shame, agony, and endless toil—all for a single bite of the fruit that promised the knowledge of good and evil. Is the human heart really so easily provoked? We know the danger full well, yet we plunge headlong into it. The serpent was merely a catalyst; with the slightest nudge, humanity shattered into pieces.
I feel as though I, too, am standing before that very tree, clutching a piece of fruit in my hand, torn over whether to take a bite. Reason tells me I must not, yet desire whispers in my ear—saying it’s fine, saying one bite will give me all the answers.
It reminds me of myself, of how many times I have wavered on the brink of a choice, terrified of making the wrong move yet unable to resist trying. The people in the story lost to curiosity and temptation. What about me? Have I, too, stepped too close to that tree? It terrifies me, yet it consumes me, as if warning me that with certain fruits, once you take a bite, there is absolutely no turning back.
