Shadow’s Redemption

At the elite training academy, Felix "Flick" Shadow was always the hardest-working and most dedicated student, yet he consistently ranked dead last in every assessment. Faced with a trainee like him, even the instructors would shake their heads and sigh; they truly couldn’t bear to send this cautious, wide-eyed kid—who always looked like he was silently begging—back home. But how could a boy who lacked real passion, awareness, outstanding talent, and who only trained mechanically out of fear of elimination and the disappointed looks on his family’s faces, possibly survive in an elite academy filled with prodigies? It was just a coincidence. An absolute, impossible coincidence… The instructor had ordered him to stand in a corner of the campus and reflect on his mistakes, then disappeared for two full days because of a last-minute assignment. When he finally returned, he was genuinely stunned. In that forgotten corner of the campus stood that small, stubborn, aggrieved figure. A boy who hadn’t eaten or drunk anything for two entire days, teetering on the edge of collapse, yet still holding himself upright with an almost defiant, unyielding presence. In that moment, the instructor finally saw it—a brilliant spark in the hardest-working, lowest-ranked student in the entire school. He saw a style that could only belong to Felix Shadow, and a path that could only be walked by him. … It was 1993, a sweltering, ordinary summer. An apparently ordinary night. Back then, air conditioning was still considered an extravagant luxury for average people. Even with the electric fan roaring at full speed, the heat was unbearable. TV channels were limited to the same handful of stations, all simultaneously broadcasting the same tear-soaked, melodramatic, suicidal romance serials that made you want to scream. That’s why, even at 10 p.m., the city streets were still alive with pedestrians in loose, comfortable clothing, enjoying the slightly cooler night air. Under the streetlights at every corner, people set up folding tables for chess, the sharp “clack-clack” of pieces striking the wooden board carrying the tension of clashing armies. After finishing his homework, Felix wandered aimlessly and happened to pass beneath the famous seven-story Neon Lotus Lounge when he suddenly heard the unmistakable sound of wind tearing overhead. Before he could even look up, a man with golden-retriever-blond dyed hair, twelve or thirteen tiny earrings studding his left ear alone, and completely naked, made violent, intimate contact with the pavement. God knows how high he’d fallen from. The impact produced a sickening series of cracks—like a dozen wooden sticks being snapped at once, or water balloons bursting. Blood sprayed two or three feet straight into the air. Staring at the scene—which was absolutely not suitable for children—eight-year-old Felix Shadow froze completely. Heaven knows whether he was paralyzed by fear or whether his childish curiosity simply overpowered everything else. Amid the women’s screams (the kind of hormonal, drama-hungry shrieks that could start riots), standing less than five meters from the body and nearly splattered with blood, Felix was actually thinking: In TV dramas, people who jump off buildings usually cough up blood from their mouths and roll their eyes back. So why was this guy bleeding from his butt? As the saying goes, nine out of ten rich people are fat, but the fat ones usually don’t have much of an ass. This fat guy did have an ass—and right in the center of it was a very prominent knife wound. From that wound, blood jetted three feet high, spraying a three-to-four-meter radius in a vivid, shocking arc that made most people scream. At that moment, the plaza in front of the Neon Lotus Lounge descended into pure chaos. Well-dressed men fled in panic, abandoning their bejeweled companions who shrieked like cornered rats. Meanwhile, bored passersby—who seemed to live for this kind of sudden drama—now stood at a safe distance, eyes wide and gleaming with excitement. Out of the pandemonium strode a boy who looked about fifteen or sixteen years old, a plastic water-cooler jug balanced casually on his shoulder, flanked by several security guards. The sharp smell of gasoline hit Felix like a slap, making him wrinkle his nose. Unless his sense of smell had gone haywire, the half-full jug of pale yellow liquid sloshing with every step was unmistakably gasoline—highly flammable, explosive at the slightest spark. And in this life-or-death situation, the boy was still idly flicking a lighter between his fingers. Anyone watching the casual dance of his five fingers couldn’t help but suck in a terrified breath. He crouched beside the corpse, even nudging the dead man’s chin with the toe of his sneaker until he was absolutely certain the nearly 200-pound young man was beyond saving. Only then did he lift his slightly surprised gaze to Felix. He bent down, reached out, and pinched the smaller boy’s cheek—hard. “You’ve got guts, huh?” he said with a low chuckle. “Watching someone die right in front of you and you don’t scream or run. Heh… kinda like me.” At that moment, Felix was truly on the verge of tears but couldn’t speak. It wasn’t bravery. Heaven help him—he was simply too terrified. His whole body felt cold, limbs stiff and useless. Though he looked strangely composed for his age, in reality he didn’t even have the strength to cry, let alone run. **BANG!** Right in front of Felix, the teenager—who had the face of a young Tommy Lee Jones mixed with the cocky swagger of a 90s bad boy—slammed the heavy plastic jug of gasoline onto the ground. He strode to the nearby payphone and casually punched in 911. “Hello, police?” His voice was slightly hoarse, which only made it more magnetic—and strangely out of place for someone his age. His tone was as casual as if he were inviting a girlfriend out for milk tea. “Yeah, I’d like to report a crime. I just killed someone.” But because his attitude was so relaxed, and his still-childish voice undercut the gravity, the dispatcher clearly didn’t believe him at first. The boy’s eyes widened in mock outrage. “Hey, hey, hey—ma’am, I’m not joking! The guy I killed is apparently the deputy mayor’s precious son. Name’s Liam Yates. Oh, you remember the name? Perfect! Send officers quickly, please!” “By the way, ma’am,” he continued earnestly, “I’m only fifteen and a half. Not an adult yet. Please tell the officers ahead of time not to tie me up like some medieval torture just because it’s the deputy mayor’s kid. I’m still a delicate flower—weak and underdeveloped. You might hurt me.” Felix, standing silently to the side, had to admit he was completely dumbfounded. In his entire short life, he had never heard anyone report a murder so… unconventionally. Never seen a killer smile so calmly while confessing. **Murderer.** The word struck like lightning through endless darkness, making stars explode behind Felix’s eyes. His rational mind screamed: *Danger! Get away from this guy right now!* But after witnessing a real death-by-falling-from-a-building at point-blank range, after inhaling the thick, nauseating mix of blood and gasoline, all his strength seemed concentrated in his hammering heart. His hands and feet felt like cotton candy. How could Felix possibly run? Having just made what could be considered a voluntary surrender (which might reduce his sentence), the boy hung up the payphone, walked back, and sat cross-legged right on the blood-splattered ground. He studied Felix—who stood like a wooden post—and finally seemed to realize something. “Hey, kid,” he said with a grin. “Scared stiff?” Felix gave a tiny, obedient nod. The teenager laughed softly again. He pulled a pack of Marlboro Reds from his pocket, slipped one between his own lips, then—without asking—placed another between Felix’s. **Click.** The lighter flared. Blue flame danced in the night breeze. Felix’s eyes widened in disbelief. Seriously—less than a meter away sat an open jug of gasoline ready to turn them both into a fireball. This guy had just committed murder and was about to commit arson—a crime that could earn him the death penalty. Why, in his final moments, would he drag an innocent stranger down with him? “Inhale deeply,” the boy ordered. Reflexively, Felix obeyed. The harsh, unfamiliar burn flooded his mouth and invaded his lungs. His face instantly turned bright red as he fought a cough he couldn’t release, tears pooling in his eyes, cigarette dangling pitifully from his lips. Seeing the sight—the terrified eight-year-old with surprising lung capacity—the teenager burst out laughing. Even Felix, half-dead with fear, was momentarily stunned by that laugh. Setting aside the murderer label, the blood-soaked pavement, the corpse behind them—this boy had an inexplicable sunny warmth in his smile. Sharp cheekbones already forming, lazy confidence and sly cunning radiating from him, cigarette hanging carelessly from his lips—he looked effortlessly, dangerously cool. The boy seemed to have taken a slight interest in Felix. He raised an eyebrow. “Kid. How old are you?” No matter how scared he was, Felix had been raised to always answer questions. “Eight.” “Eight?” The boy’s eyes widened. He waved his cigarette dramatically. “You’ve never smoked at eight years old? By that math, you won’t be sleeping with a woman till you’re past thirty?” What did “sleeping with a woman” even mean? To an eight-year-old Felix—late bloomer, raised in an extremely strict household—it was some vague, abstract concept. But for some reason, his face still burned red. “Heh. Blushing already. There’s still hope for you.” The boy nodded in satisfaction, then asked suddenly, “Never smoked, so you’ve never drunk alcohol either?” Felix shook his head honestly. “No.” “You really are a model student, huh? Hold on.” He walked to a nearby roadside stall, patted his pockets—found nothing—then pointed at the corpse. “See that? I killed him.” Ignoring the stall owner’s pale face, he grabbed several bottles of Heineken and two paper cups. Before leaving, he turned back politely. “Sorry, looks like I won’t get the chance to pay in this life. But I’ll settle the beer debt in my next one.” He handed Felix a cup of still-foaming beer. “Drink.” Felix took one sip and frowned. He glanced at the teenager, who had already thrown back a whole bottle with practiced ease. “It’s… too bitter. Doesn’t taste good.” “Bitter?!” The boy’s eyes widened in disbelief. He almost said something sarcastic, then stopped himself. Instead he went back to the stall, grabbed a bottle of Chobani yogurt, poured the remaining beer and yogurt together in the cup, stirred it carelessly with a gasoline-scented finger, and presented the bizarre mixture to Felix with the coaxing tone of the Big Bad Wolf. “Drink. I promise it’ll taste good this time. If you want to change your tragic fate of not getting laid until you’re thirty, you’ve gotta hang in there.” And… honestly? Beer mixed with yogurt tasted sour, sweet, and bitter all at once. It was… actually pretty good. Felix—who rarely got snacks or yogurt at home—finished the entire cup in one go. He licked his lips and stared longin gly at the half-empty yogurt bottle beside the older boy. With just one bottle of yogurt… Felix Shadow had officially been bribed by a murderer.