Son of the Wolf King

Li Haitian's son was dead. That young master had been driving at racing speeds on the road when he collided head-on with a cargo truck. The Bugatti, worth over ten million and boasting high safety ratings, couldn’t save his life. Even if he had been driving a Volvo—touted as the safest car in the world—it might have only bought him a few extra minutes. Still, luxury cars were luxury cars—at least the reckless rich kid hadn’t been turned into mincemeat. He had died with his body intact. But whether he was in one piece or not didn’t change the fact—dead was dead. Of course, as the deceased himself, Li Yun was somewhat relieved to see his own corpse hadn’t ended up looking like the caviar he’d had for breakfast. At least standing beside his own body didn’t make him want to vomit. Hallelujah—a small mercy in an otherwise unfortunate situation. Li Yun believed his death was somewhat meaningful. First, he had vividly demonstrated the importance of traffic laws. Thanks to his shining example, the likelihood of rich kids dying in car crashes would probably plummet for at least the next three years. That had to count as easing the burden on society, right? No longer would ordinary people have to worry about some rabid dog of a driver suddenly careening out of nowhere and sending them flying with a bang. Being launched into the air wasn’t the worst outcome—at least fate played a role there. If you landed just right, you might even survive with half a life left. But if you were unlucky enough to get crushed under the wheels, especially if the driver was some stingy b*st*rd cutting corners to save a few bucks— Now that would be a real tragedy. So, all things considered, he didn’t look too bad. Even though he was dead beyond dead, the police still had to handle his corpse with the utmost care—not a single scratch allowed. Meanwhile, the truck driver—a weathered, honest-looking man—had been tied up like a criminal, guarded by two burly officers to prevent any "escape attempts." Just look at that poor driver—he was practically pissing himself in fear. From Li Yun’s perspective as the victim, the driver was truly, truly unlucky. What had he even done wrong? Driven a 20-ton truck into the city center at night to save a bit of money and effort? It wasn’t like he was the first to do it. Just like how most celebrities were essentially high-class escorts—everyone knew, but no one said it out loud. He hadn’t done anything wrong. His only mistake was that when he collided with the rich kid, he hadn’t been the one to die—he had been the one to kill the rich kid. Oh, buddy. That was your biggest mistake. If that poor truck driver had known even a second in advance, he would’ve gladly driven his own truck into a ditch just to make way for the young master. But regret was useless now. Li Yun watched with amusement as the miserable man banged his head against the police car like it wasn’t his own skull—thud, thud, thud—blood splattering everywhere, trickling down the wheels of the standard-issue patrol car. "Hey, man, what’s the point?" One of the officers, either pitying the driver or just annoyed at the damage to the car, spoke up. "Even if you hang yourself right now, it won’t bring back that precious little master." "I don’t want to go to prison," the driver muttered, dazed. "I have an eighteen-year-old son. He just got into university. If I’m locked up, how will he go to school? I can’t go to prison..." "Tch—" The officer sighed, feeling a pang of sympathy for the unlucky man. "Look, buddy, just accept it. It’s fate. Why’d you have to drive a 20-ton truck into the city to save a few bucks? A ten-million-yuan luxury car—if it hadn’t hit you, that kid could’ve crashed into a wall and walked away without a scratch. Hell, I don’t even know who’s more unlucky here—you or him." The officer couldn’t decide. Blame the rich kid? Other than speeding and running red lights, he hadn’t done anything wrong. If not for the illegal truck, he wouldn’t have died before even reaching the hospital. Blame the driver? Other than overloading, he hadn’t broken any rules—he’d been driving properly when the kid plowed straight into him. But one was dead, and the other wasn’t. And the dead one came from a powerful, wealthy family. Add in the whole "respect for the deceased" thing—who else was there to blame but the driver? The officer looked at the man with pity. You’d have been better off dying in the crash yourself. The driver kept banging his head, nearly turning it into a pulpy mess. Watching from the side, Li Yun winced in sympathy. He had always hated pain—as a kid, it took two people to hold him down for a vaccine. Maybe Heaven had taken pity, letting him die without feeling a thing. One moment he was alive, the next—his soul was floating above his body. Wait, where was he? Oh right—he’d been talking about how his death was meaningful. Yes. Li Yun nodded vigorously in midair, watching his translucent hand phase through a wall. Do humans have souls? It was one of those age-old debates where neither side could convince the other, lacking definitive proof. But today, history had been made. A breakthrough. Li Yun could now personally confirm to the world—yes, souls exist. Look at him! Living (well, dead) proof! The only question was—were there Heibai Wuchang (the Chinese underworld’s equivalent of grim reapers)? Li Yun had never had many hobbies in life—though, to be fair, he’d only lived to twenty-one, so he hadn’t had much time to develop any. He loved indulgence—fine wine, beautiful women, fast cars. He was wild, reckless, selfish, cruel, and utterly lawless. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he’d never had to lift a finger for anything. The darling of fate—if not for running into his own doom, he could’ve spent his life drinking the finest liquor, driving the fastest cars, and bedding the most stunning women. (And when he felt like men, he went for the best of those too. Speaking of which—who would end up with his man now?) His life had been set in stone. Li Yun often thought that only death could truly shake him. But if ghosts existed, did that mean Heibai Wuchang did too? Li Yun squatted on the ground, drawing circles as he waited for the legendary underworld envoys to take him to the afterlife. Maybe he’d get reincarnated. This time, he’d keep his eyes open—no way was he being born as some b*st*rd’s son again. If there were no Heibai Wuchang, he’d have to try ghostly tricks—haunting, possession, murder. Or maybe a Ghost-style romance with his man? Hell yeah. That sounded fun. Just as he was lost in thought, a black car screeched to a halt—right through the middle of where Li Yun was squatting. Literally through him. Li Yun blinked as the car, dark enough to double as a hearse, shot toward him like a bullet. Before he could even close his mouth, it passed straight through his ghostly form—and suddenly, he was face-to-face with a pair of pitch-black eyes in the back seat. What the hell?! Even as a ghost, he had rights! Didn’t they know scaring ghosts could kill them? Annoyed, Li Yun stood up (the car’s chassis had bisected him at the waist) and brushed off his non-existent clothes before plopping down beside the b*st*rd in the back seat. "Sir, they’ve retrieved the young master," the driver said. Li Yun turned to look out the window—sure enough, four or five officers were carefully extracting his mangled Bugatti, carrying his corpse out like it was some sacred relic. That b*st*rd better go collect my body. Since I died before him, I don’t mind taking his fancy grave. But he’d better commission an even more extravagant tombstone—after all, he’s my father, and I died first. He owes me this much. Yep. The b*st*rd in the car was his even bigger b*st*rd of a father. The thought of draining his old man’s wallet one last time made Li Yun chuckle—until he realized the man hadn’t moved an inch. You cheap b*st*rd! Are you seriously skimping on your own son’s funeral expenses?! Li Yun fumed. Like I give a d*mn! You’re the reason I’m dead anyway! Now that he was thoroughly deceased, Li Yun had no idea who’d killed him. The list of suspects was at least four hands long—his father had sired enough illegitimate children to form a soccer team. Counting their mothers, it was easily more than four hands’ worth. Throw in other enemies, and ten hands wouldn’t cover it. All because he was the legitimate heir. In a traditional family like the Li’s, as long as he was alive, none of those bastards could rise. Lost in thought, Li Yun glared at his motionless father. Still not going to collect my body? He swung his hand—smack!—landing an invisible slap across the man’s face. The rush of satisfaction was instant. No wonder this b*st*rd loved slapping me so much. Hitting Li Haitian gave Li Yun the euphoria of an oppressed peasant finally overthrowing his landlord. Every cell in his body sang with delight. Addictive. I’m not your son anymore, you old b*st*rd. Payback time. He slapped him again, savoring the phantom impact. The only downside was the lack of sound—some crisp smacks would’ve been perfect. Just as Li Yun was getting into it, a panicked shout cut through the air— "Someone! The master is coughing up blood!" A wet splat—Li Yun felt a sudden chill, then heat, as a spray of crimson liquid shot past his cheek, splattering across the opposite seat like a blood-red plum blossom in snow. For a fleeting moment, the metallic stench of blood filled the air.