The boys scattered immediately, like rats fleeing from the light. Miles barely had time to react before Boss Tang, his expression twisted in disdain, towered over him. “What’s wrong with you, huh?” Boss Tang spat. He was a bulky man, his presence filling the room with oppressive energy. “A loser like you, getting bullied like a child. Can’t you stand up for yourself?” Miles’s heart hammered in his chest, but he didn’t move. He knew better than to speak. His throat tightened as Boss Tang slapped him across the back of the head, the force enough to send his neck snapping forward. The sting burned more than the boys' mockery. This was different. This was his boss at work, the man who controlled his life. “You want to keep getting treated like this, huh?” Boss Tang sneered, leaning close, his face inches from Miles’s. “You can’t even fight back. You’re just a weak cockroach. Worthless. Pathetic.” He spat on the floor in front of him, his words laced with venom. Miles didn’t look up.

The dining hall was unsurprisingly large. It was a huge warehouse with worn-out wooden cafeteria benches arranged in rows and columns. The boys scurried to the counter, grabbed their plates, and rushed to the serving point where women, all lightly clad in grease-stained aprons, served them the usual. A cold, rubbery steamed bun slapped onto each plate with a dull thud. The over-salted cabbage strips floated lifeless in a ladle of cloudy water—called soup, but it smelled more like boiled rags. A scoop of gray rice followed, clumped and dry, with the occasional black dot that could’ve been burnt grain—or a weevil. No one cared to ask anymore. Some got a sliver of the pink “meatball,” but everyone knew it was mostly flour and old soy. They shuffled to their seats, boots scraping the dusty concrete, and sat in silence. No talking. Not during meals. The benches creaked under the weight of exhaustion, not hunger. Because most of them weren’t hungry—they were just empty, tired, depress

Miles’ heartbeat reduced drastically as soon as the car drove past the gate. For the first time in his life, he was seated in Master Long’s car. Master fucking Long!!! How?! As they drove out, all the other boys looked at Miles from afar with so much contempt and hatred, like they would rip his gut out in a jiffy, especially the Black Snake cult. Of course, they could and they would. Miles killed… killed Chen Bao, their leader. And instead of punishing him, Master Long only slapped him and took him into his office, a place no one could enter. And now, there the húndàn was, sitting comfortably in Master Long’s car. The boys literally reeked of anger, disgust, and revenge. As long as they were alive, they would kill Miles in vengeance for their leader. Mike was able to read their minds from a distance, and he was scared. But for now, he took his mind off the potential threats and focused on the interior of the car. He had not been in a car since he was 8 years old, 10 years ago. Wh

Gary walked gently toward the scene. He had promised himself—no interference. No risks. He was just here to eat, recover, and move on to the biggest feat of his life. Nothing more. But then he saw it. A sudden slap. A boy flying across the room like a leaf in the wind. Another slap coming—violence that made the walls of the restaurant tremble, even the soy sauce on the tables seemed to shake. He paused. Oh. That was him. The man from the files. The ghost in global intelligence reports. The devil in black. The man known to control the underworld arms of Hong Kong and parts of Southeast Asia. They called him Master Long. Gary narrowed his eyes. He had only seen pictures, heard whispers in the deepest circles of information brokers. But now, here he was, flesh and blood and as cruel as the stories said. Gary could feel the weight in the room—the kind of weight that came with fear. No one dared to breathe loudly. And yet… here was this boy, maybe seventeen, bloody and still standi

…that damn candle. There it was, in the center of the room. Just like the stories. Waxless. Smokeless. Burning like it had a purpose, like it wanted to be there. The flame danced without flickering, as if it had never known wind. Tales about the candle traeveled among the boys. Those who lived long enough to survive shared the stories of the hell, the candle. It had been mysteriously burning for over 40 years, according to stories which Miles never truly believed. According to those sources, even science could not decipher what was keeping the candle burning for years. It could not be the wax, well simply because the wax was a normal soy wax. It could also not be the wick. They said the man who made the candle mysteriously disappeared and was never found. Well, here was Miles, staring right at some mysterious shit. He was not so impressed because hell awaited him. Miles crawled backward till his spine hit the wall. Rats scattered. Something slimy slithered past his leg. He didn