The captain gave the order, but not a single officer moved.
In this sleepy municipal precinct, life was usually uneventful; chasing bicycle thieves all day was tedious enough. So, when a massive double-homicide case dropped into their laps, every available detective had piled into squad cars -- only to charge headfirst into the most surreal scene of their careers.
The detectives stared at their leader with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Finally, a rookie officer ventured cautiously, "Captain... which one are we hauling in? Who’s the primary person in charge?"
The captain’s expression contorted with irritation. "How the fuck should I know?!"
The team continued to blink in silence. Bolstered by the encouraging nods of his peers, the young officer pressed on, "Captain, can you tell what kind of establishment this is? What are they actually doing in here?"
The captain’s jaw twitched. "How the fuck am I supposed to know?!"
The rookie looked ready to despair. "Captain, could you at least tell us whether this is a legitimate entertainment venue or an armed underworld syndicate?"
The captain swallowed the mounting bitterness in his throat, barking under his breath, "What the fuck am I supposed to tell you?!"
The luxury club was an utter enigma. Striding into the gilded grand foyer, the captain had instinctively brandished his badge with bureaucratic ferocity, demanding that the general manager step forward.
The row of receptionists stared back blankly. Suddenly, one of the security guards looked as if he had suffered an acute seizure; turning ghostly pale, he spun on his heel and sprinted into the inner corridors.
Assuming the man was the fleeing murderer, the captain roared, "Halt!"
With their leader in full pursuit, the rest of the squad surged forward.
This sudden charge triggered a herd effect. The lingering staff and bouncers, having no idea why their colleague had bolted, instinctively initiated an emergency strategic retreat of their own.
In the blink of an eye, a dozen broad-shouldered security bruisers were fleeing like startled hares.
All that remained in the lobby was a line of hostesses huddled together in trembling, paralyzed terror.
The point runner barreled straight into the lobby manager doing his mid-level rounds. The manager -- a seasoned, hardened fighter who had clawed his way up -- assumed a rival gang had arrived for an armed turf war. Reaching under his jacket, he drew a pistol -- a privilege granted to very few.
He was just about to strike the panicking guard when the breathless man shrieked, "Cops! A whole army of cops!"
The manager froze. "Bullshit!"
Behind him, several other bouncers scrambled around the corner, howling in panic: "Fuck, it’s a full police raid!"
The manager hesitated for two agonizing seconds. Caught between "engaging in a gunfight with the state" and "beating a tactical retreat," he chose to flee.
The chaotic chain reaction blew the entire operation wide open.
At the root of the disaster was Chao Lao-9. The man was a ruthless thug through and through -- Fourth Master Hu’s top executioner, capable of executing any depraved, illegal enterprise imaginable.
Yet precisely because his crew operated in the deep criminal underworld, their immediate reflex upon spotting a badge was that their operations had been compromised.
Fleeing even faster than the staff were the high-rolling VIPs. Whether crooked tycoons or corrupt officials, none wished to be dragged into an armed raid; at the first scent of danger, they vanished into the alleys like grease on water.
Chao Lao-9 was equally bewildered: Holy shit, why the hell are the police here?
Yet he had to hold the floor together. Wiping cold sweat from his neck, he racked his brain -- no leaks had been flagged by his informants. What the hell were the authorities after? Had someone failed to pay the municipal utility bills?!
Grabbing a trusted lieutenant by the collar, Chao Lao-9 hissed, "Evacuate the personnel! Cut the fighters loose -- the guests are seasoned slippery eels who bolted five minutes ago! Strip the venue of everyone except the waitstaff... Get our commercial licenses on the counter. If I have to ride down to the station for questioning, I'll handle it. Scrub the floor immediately -- especially the betting ledgers and the 'medicine.' If pressed, claim the bouts were exhibition performances with hired models. And notify Fourth Master Hu immediately!"
Dazed by the chaos, the lieutenant whispered, "And... what if things go south?"
Chao Lao-9 glared murderously. "Shut your fucking mouth and move!"
Sweating through his shirt, the subordinate turned and ran to carry out the orders.
Amidst the mass evacuation, Wei Chain slipped out unnoticed.
When the storm is large enough, only the microscopic plankton can drift cleanly through the cracks without drawing a single eye.
Leaving the arena behind, Wei Chain made a beeline for the central railway station.
The moment he cleared the main ticket hall, a small body collided into his chest.
Fatty San and Wei Zhi Yuan had been pacing the concourse all afternoon.
Earlier that day, Fatty San had collected Wei Zhi Yuan under the scorching noon sun, his face flushed with sweat and fury. "Where’s your brother?! What the hell was that address you sent me?! What kind of mess is he mixed up in?!"
Wei Zhi Yuan had answered flatly, "Underground black boxing."
Fatty San’s voice had spiked an octave. "What?! Holy mother of God! Are you two trying to put me in an early grave?!"
The boy had simply stared at him in silence.
"Don't give me that puppy-dog look!" Fatty San had fumed. "Why aren't you leading me over there to drag him out?!"
Wei Zhi Yuan had replied with eerie calm, "Brother forbade it."
Fatty San had snapped his mouth shut, realizing the trap: every communication and police maneuver had to remain entirely in the shadows. Wei Chain needed the raid to look like a chaotic stroke of terrible luck so he could slip away clean. If Fatty San appeared on the scene, a single thread of suspicion would be enough to cost them their lives.
"Then where the hell are we supposed to wait for him?!"
Wei Zhi Yuan had raised his palm, showing the charcoal turtle drawn on the back of his hand.
Fatty San had sighed, patting the boy's head. "Well, it’s a nice drawing -- looks just like your brother... But what kind of idiot draws turtles on his hand during a crisis?"
The boy had pointed to the shell. "Brother drew this, Third Brother. Look closely: the markings on the carapace form an inverted railway insignia. We're going to the train station."
And so, the two had camped in the waiting hall from midday until dusk, their nerves stretched to the breaking point, until Wei Chain finally walked through the crowd.
Wei Zhi Yuan clung to his brother's arm with an iron hold. With his free hand, the boy pulled a thick book from his waistband -- the weathered mathematics textbook covered in turtle doodles, its paper covers soaked through with the child's nervous sweat.
Wei Chain took the book, his chest tightening.
Fatty San, having recovered from his initial relief, transformed into a human pressure cooker, showering Wei Chain with a torrential spray of profanities and moral lectures. Moving seamlessly between cold logic and colorful ancestral curses, he fought as if channeling an entire army of indignant matriarchs.
In the end, Fatty San delivered his rigorous scientific conclusion: "Wei Chain, I'm going to share a monumental breakthrough in modern medicine with you -- you are an absolute, certified dumbass!"
Soundly roasted by "science," Wei Chain could only lower his head and take the beating without a word.
Having arrived on punishing hard seats, the trio returned north in the relative luxury of a sleeper car.
Unfortunately, the berth was scarcely more comfortable: Fatty San’s thunderous snoring rattled the carriage walls, threatening to shake the train right off the tracks. Unbothered by self-awareness, the fat man fell asleep instantly and remained unconscious until noon.
The surrounding passengers glared at him like a public menace, eventually burying their heads under pillows in postures resembling civilians ducking an air raid.
Unable to sleep, Wei Chain lay on his back tallying his finances. Having spent almost nothing on the trip, factoring in the remittance sent home and his meager savings, he now possessed thirty thousand yuan in liquid cash.
For a family of four, five to six hundred yuan a month afforded a comfortable living. An entire year of living expenses and school tuition wouldn't exceed six thousand yuan. If he picked up odd jobs during winter and summer breaks, he could easily generate extra income to support Pocky’s disabled mother.
The crushing financial boulder had finally been lifted.
As he balanced the ledger in his mind, the upper bunk creaked. A small head appeared upside down in the dark, staring down at him with burning, unblinking eyes.
Startled by the glowing gaze, Wei Chain scolded softly, "Wei Zhi Yuan, stop haunting the ceiling. Go to sleep!"
Unfazed by the reprimand, the boy pulled his head back with visible satisfaction.
Wei Chain closed his eyes, the deep exhaustion of the past month slowly catching up to him. Just as he drifted toward unconsciousness, the small head poked out from the upper berth once more.
Propping himself up on one elbow, Wei Chain climbed a rung up the metal ladder. "Have you lost your mind? Why do you keep staring at me?"
The boy immediately ducked back onto his mattress.
Assuming the child was simply excited by his first sleeper train, Wei Chain pulled the blanket over his shoulders, softening his voice. "Plug your ears if you can't sleep. If that doesn't work, kick the fat man."
"Mm," Wei Zhi Yuan murmured, his eyes still locked on his brother.
Wei Chain climbed down, stuffed his ears with cotton, and burrowed under his pillow.
Moments later, the realization struck him in the dark: Wei Zhi Yuan wasn't playing around. The boy was checking over and over again to ensure his big brother was still breathing.
Scared the poor brat half to death, Wei Chain thought with a quiet sigh. I never should have brought him along.
Upon returning to the shantytown, the two brothers were met with a furious interrogation from Old Mrs. Song. Wei Zhi Yuan played dumb, directing the old woman's full artillery squarely onto Wei Chain: "Where did you get that much money?! Where the hell have you been?! Did you commit a crime?! Speak up!"
She buzzed around his ears like a giant horsefly. Unable to take it, Wei Chain slipped out to deposit the remaining twenty-five thousand yuan into a bank account, keeping the passbook hidden to spare himself another lecture.
Returning home only to find the old woman still waiting at the door like a relentless prosecutor, Wei Chain’s patience snapped. "I went south to sell blood! Happy now?!"
Old Mrs. Song’s jaw dropped. "Sold... sold what?!"
"Sold two pounds of blood and a kidney!" Wei Chain snapped irritably. "You've asked your questions, old woman -- can you let me have some peace now?!"
It was obvious hyperbole, but Old Mrs. Song took it as gospel. Illiterate and ignorant of modern medicine, she had heard of rural blood-selling rings but had no concept that human blood couldn't be weighed out by the pound like watermelons. Taking in Wei Chain’s gaunt, pale face and hollow eyes, she instantly believed the worst.
Wei Chain had intended to shut her up; he hadn't anticipated the catastrophic theatrical fallout.
Old Mrs. Song unleashed a piercing, mournful wail that could be heard across three villages. Beating her chest and stomping her feet, she put on a performance worthy of a woman preparing to hang herself from the rafters.
Little Bao and Wei Zhi Yuan exchanged terrified glances before turning to their big brother. Wei Chain stood frozen in utter bewilderment.
Squatting beside her, Wei Chain tentatively reached out a finger -- as cautiously as if testing a live electric wire -- poked her shoulder, and quickly retracted his hand. "Uh... erh... don't cry."
Snot and tears smeared across the old woman's face. "I'm a useless wretch! A worthless old village hag... I can't do anything right! All I do is bring ruin to this house! Forcing a child to sell his blood and kidneys... is that something a human being does?! Why haven't the heavens taken me yet... What am I living for?!"
Wei Chain felt caught between sheer absurdity and unexpected warmth. Thank the heavens he hadn't told her about the underground fight rings; the truth would have frightened the old woman into an early grave.
Yet amidst the melodrama, the words "forcing a child to sell his blood" struck a tender chord in his chest.
Since early childhood, scarcely anyone had ever referred to him as a "child."
To Wei Chain, the term wasn't merely an objective descriptor of youth; it represented the unique privilege of being shielded, indulged, and protected by an elder.
...A privilege he had never once known.
Feeling thoroughly awkward, Wei Chain waited until her sobs quieted before pulling a roll of toilet paper from the table, tearing off a strip, and pressing it into her hands. "Alright, stop wailing. I was just talking nonsense to mess with you."
Old Mrs. Song sniffled loudly, glaring at him. "You little bastard! What the hell were you actually doing down there?!"
Wei Chain fabricated smoothly without blinking: "A friend had connections with a freight fleet. He brought me on as a partner to run long-haul cargo trucks to the south..."
"Bullshit! Take a look in the mirror -- look at that ghostly face!"
"Do you have any idea how grueling long-haul driving is?!" Wei Chain countered with practiced indignation. "Over ten hours a day on the highways, eating in the cab, sleeping in the cab, battered by wind and sun... Who could possibly look fresh? I'm not an immortal."
The old woman eyed him suspiciously.
"It’s the truth," Wei Chain pressed on. "Third Brother was with me the whole time -- ask him if you don't believe me. We hauled manufactured goods from factories in Guangdong straight up north, flipping them for several times the price. Earning a few thousand yuan for that kind of sweat is completely standard."
He knew Fatty San would back up the lie.
Old Mrs. Song’s skepticism began to waver. After a long beat, she demanded, "Then... lift your shirt and let me see. People say kidney harvesters leave a long scar across the flank."
She reached out to yank at his waistband.
Wei Chain leaped backward like a startled cat. "What the hell are you doing?! Men and women don't touch! You're an old woman -- show some decency, will you?!"
Hearing him revert to his insolent street tongue, Old Mrs. Song rolled up a workbook and began thrashing his shoulders. "I'll teach you to talk nonsense! I'll beat the lies out of you...!"
Under the flurry of blows, she forgot all about checking for scars, and the crisis finally passed.
The remainder of the summer vacation flew by. Song Lee Lee engaged in her annual tradition of frantically copying homework at the eleventh hour, while Fatty San dropped by regularly to share gossip. During the day, Old Mrs. Song roamed the streets selling snacks and recycling scrap; the three siblings occupied separate corners of the flat, heads buried in their books. The once-rowdy shantytown flat had transformed into a quiet study hall, steeped in scholarly focus.
Sometimes, Fatty San would sit on the sofa for hours, feeling entirely out of place in the studious atmosphere.
Wei Chain changed into a crisp white T-shirt, his hair trimmed neatly. Without the weight of survival clouding his thoughts, the fierce hostility between his brows dissipated, leaving him looking like an ordinary, diligent high school student.
In September, he finally returned to the classroom he had abandoned three years prior, slipping into the structured, rigorous routine of high school life.
Every morning, he pedaled his bicycle to ferry Old Mrs. Song to her street corner, scooping an ear of corn and a tea egg from her pot to eat on the ride to school. After eight packed class periods, he sprinted out the school gates at dusk, biked the old woman back home, wolfed down whatever leftovers were on the stove, and rushed back for mandatory evening self-study.
With a capable elder managing the household, more than half the burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Deep in his heart, he felt immense gratitude toward the old woman.
Because he had missed the entire freshman curriculum, Wei Chain had transferred directly into the sophomore class managed by Teacher Lee. Despite a summer of self-study, his first monthly exam scores were mediocre, placing him near the bottom half of the grade.
Yet Wei Chain was unfazed. Not being at the absolute bottom meant he was within striking distance. By the midterms, he had climbed from the lower ranks into the upper-middle tier.
He attacked his coursework with the same ruthless, disciplined focus he had once brought to street fights. The so-called "scholarly grind" -- waking at five in the morning, studying past midnight, solving more practice sets than anyone else -- was nothing compared to the brutality he had survived.
To Wei Chain, academic labor was no hardship at all.
By the end-of-term examinations, Wei Chain had vaulted into the top academic tier, establishing himself as a quiet, handsome, and remarkably composed honor student -- an identity that would have been utterly unimaginable six months earlier.
At home, however, he remained the stoic family patriarch. Old Mrs. Song was busy working from dawn till dusk, while the two younger cubs didn't dare pry into his academic standing. Wei Chain felt that flaunting his report card would undermine his parental authority, so he kept his mouth firmly shut.
He held it in all the way until the Lunar New Year.
Over a steaming dinner of handmade dumplings, Old Mrs. Song distributed red envelopes before finally remembering to ask, "Big brother... how are your studies going? How did you do on those big exams?"
Accepting the first New Year red envelope of his life, Wei Chain squirmed slightly before muttering, "None of your business."
Old Mrs. Song beamed, swatting his arm playfully. "You little brat, speak like a human being!"
Feigning utter indifference, Wei Chain rattled off his grades and class rankings as if reporting minor, inconsequential trivia.
Old Mrs. Song’s hand, stirring the pot of boiling water, froze mid-motion. After a long silence, she asked in a trembling, hesitant whisper, "So... those marks are enough to get into a university, right?"
Students at top key high schools rarely obsessed over simply "getting into college" -- their sights were set on tier-one national universities.
Yet the old woman’s exposure to educated society had been limited to the office workers who bought her snacks -- people belonging to a distant, unreachable class. She had never imagined that someone from her own impoverished roof could cross into that world.
To her, going to university was a sacred, unattainable dream.
Wei Chain gave a careless, casual grunt. "Mm."
A fire roared in Old Mrs. Song’s chest, her joy overflowing beyond words. Weeks later, as the spring term approached, Wei Chain rode his bicycle to pick her up from her afternoon odd-job shift. As he approached the curb, he overheard her boasting proudly to her fellow laborers:
"My eldest grandson attends the top key high school in the city! The teachers told us he won't have any trouble getting into university!"
Hearing the proclamation from afar, Wei Chain muttered under his breath, "Old hag... always putting gold on your face. Who’s your grandson?"
Yet as he rolled the bicycle up beside her, his voice sounded as calm and natural as the spring breeze:
"Grandma, let's go home."
At the far end of suffering and endurance lie the peaceful clouds of time.