22. Aftermath

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Night. The bright moon hung high in the sky.

Outside the gates of the villa atop Mount Moncarlo.

“Fuck you, you son of a bitch! If you dare lay a finger on Grace, I’ll fight you to the death!”

Lying weakly in the bushes, Rust cursed at the heavy iron gates.

“What happened to your face? Did the baseball team beat you up?”

A voice came from behind.

Rust shuddered and turned around. The moonlight revealed a familiar face—so pale it looked as if he’d just recovered from a grave illness.

It was Dean, who had just escaped from the villa.

“Man, can’t you make a sound when you walk? You almost scared me to death. I’m fine. It’s Bob who was humiliated. You should have seen his face—it was sour as a rock in a public toilet! Damn, it felt good to curse him out.”

Rust rubbed his chest, grimacing in pain.

“By the way, did you find any leads on Mona?”

Dean nodded, grunting as he clutched his arm.

“Wait, you’re hurt too?” Rust finally noticed the vivid red on Dean’s left arm and his heart skipped a beat. “Was that bastard Bob behind this?”

“Let’s get out of here first. We’ll talk at my place.”

...

Taking advantage of the night, they descended the mountain on foot. Dean, wary of leaving clues or witnesses, didn’t hail a cab.

On their way back, several police cars sped past them, racing up the mountain—clearly, something urgent had happened up there.

“Man, you didn’t set the villa on fire, did you?”

“It’s complicated,” Dean diverted the topic.

The journey was long.

After the fierce struggle at the villa, Dean had felt drained—his mind splitting with pain, strength ebbing from his body. But as they walked, his ironman gift of resilience began to take effect. Except for hunger, he felt better and better, and his wounds soon stopped bleeding.

Two hours later.

They left the city, entering a secluded, quiet suburb. Dean discreetly tossed the shell casings he’d picked up at the villa, along with the surveillance tapes he’d crushed underfoot, into the wild in several batches.

At eleven that night, the two returned home noiselessly. Dean first treated both their wounds with medical alcohol and cold compresses.

Fortunately, the bullet graze on his arm was not serious; only a patch of skin the size of a fingernail had been scraped away by the shell casing.

Rust was covered in bruises, but his injuries were only skin-deep and would heal in a few days.

After tending to their wounds, Dean took out a pile of food from the fridge, heated it up, and brought it out to the backyard.

As Rust ate canned meat, he boasted about his experiences and worries at the villa—especially Bob’s threats against his mother, Grace.

Dean listened quietly while devouring two steaks, three pieces of bread, and two cartons of milk, his hunger finally abating.

He changed out of all his clothes, mask, and shoes, throwing them all into a metal basin. Under Rust’s astonished gaze, he set them alight.

“Why are you burning your clothes?” Rust stopped chewing, a bad feeling creeping over him. Was this destroying evidence?

Dean looked him in the eyes but didn’t answer directly.

“Thank you for speaking up for me at the party. You stood in front of all those people, under immense pressure, and spoke for me—confronted Bob. That’s what a true brother does.”

Rust’s bruised face flushed with embarrassment. He scratched the back of his head and shook it.

“We’re detectives—brothers! No need for polite words. In fact, I should be thanking you. Dean, you helped me find my courage. Without you, I’d still be the coward everyone could push around. This week, I feel like I’ve been... changing. Even Grace says I’m more confident now. It’s all thanks to you.”

Dean nodded, taking a deep breath, having come to a decision.

“Rust, can you be trusted? Can you keep my secret? Even if it’s a terrible secret—one that breaks the iron laws of Las Vegas?”

“I, Rust, if I ever betray Dean, then... then...” Rust, not really understanding why he was being asked this, gritted his teeth and swore, “I’ll go straight to hell!”

Dean thought for a moment. Even if he didn’t tell Rust the truth, given his intelligence, Rust would figure it out once the police questioned him.

Rather than hide and deceive, it would be better to be honest, win his trust, and face the investigation together—avoiding a panicked response when interrogated.

At worst, Dean could simply flee Las Vegas.

Ever since gaining supernatural powers, Dean’s thinking had changed. He was no longer rigidly law-abiding—he now had more confidence.

But if he could keep his identity hidden and walk away from this “accident,” all the better.

“Listen... you don’t need to worry about Bob hurting Grace anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Rust was confused.

“Bob is dead.”

Thud.

Rust’s mouth fell open, the empty can he’d been holding clattered to the ground.

An eerie silence settled over the backyard.

The cold night wind howled.

Their hearts pounded.

Sparks crackled in the fire, illuminating their very different faces.

Half a minute passed.

Rust, on the verge of suffocation, clutched his chest and drew a shaky breath, his voice trembling.

“You... you killed Bob?”

“Yes.” Dean’s eyes flashed with deep-seated hatred, then he closed them. “Do you know what that animal did to Mona? He used chemicals—acid or alkali—to dissolve her.”

“I have no regrets about killing him. My only regret is that he died too easily.”

“Don’t you hate him? Remember what he did to you—how he humiliated you in front of everyone at the villa?”

“Yes, I hate him. I wanted him to be punished! But—”

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Hiss—

Rust collapsed to the ground, head hanging, temples throbbing painfully.

“Bob killed Mona, and my best friend killed Bob.”

Faced with such a shocking revelation, his mind went blank—Bob Law had always been despicable, but he’d never considered killing him.

He couldn’t accept it all at once, squirming uneasily on the couch.

Dean quietly drank his milk, patiently waiting.

After a long while, when Rust’s face had regained some color, Dean spoke.

“Rust, will you turn me in?” Dean looked calmly at him.

“Of course not!” Rust shook his head instinctively. “I swore, I’ll never betray you! But... but, why didn’t you report Bob to the LVPD?”

“He’s cunning. Most of the evidence was already destroyed—what’s left isn’t enough to convict him,” Dean explained patiently. “And with his billionaire father’s influence, even in the one-in-a-million chance we managed to get him convicted, he’d be out in a few years. That’s no real punishment.”

Dean suddenly raised his voice, “Rust, do you think Bob didn’t deserve to die?”

“He... he had it coming!”

Rust clenched his fists, convincing himself.

“Actually... you did the right thing. If Bob were still alive, sooner or later there would’ve been more innocent victims because of him.”

“Yes...” Rust looked up at his friend and said loudly, as if to bolster his spirits, “You saved people—it was an act of justice.”

“Rust, my good brother, I’m glad you understand.” Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, we need to plan carefully.”

“Tomorrow, or at the latest by Monday, COP will definitely come to question you. No one at the party will escape.”

“When that happens, just tell the truth—you and I went drinking during the day, got a bit out of control, so you cursed Bob out at the party. No need to hide your bad relationship with Bob.”

Dean stroked his chin, thinking. The police would never believe that a scrawny high school kid like Rust could have broken Bob’s limbs.

Plus, Rust had never been to the third floor of the villa; by the time Dean attacked Bob, Rust had already been thrown out, with no chance to commit the crime.

From every angle, Rust was innocent.

“But there’s one thing you must remember—if they ask about me, say that after we split up in the morning, I refused to go to Bob’s birthday party because I hated him, and went straight home. You didn’t see me at the party at all.”

“But after you got kicked out, you came to my place. I was already asleep—you woke me up and we talked for a long time...”

...

“Remember to ask COP if any accidents happened at the villa. When they tell you Bob died, show the proper amount of shock—that’s only natural.”

...

Dean and Rust rehearsed their story for a long time, even doing a crude run-through. Dean played the cop—a role inspired by countless future crime thrillers—and Rust played the suspect.

Rust was flustered at first, but under Dean’s intense “training,” he regained his composure. After all, most of it was the truth.

Dean was satisfied.

This guy’s nerves were tougher than his looks or age suggested.

...

Time ticked past two in the morning.

“Go sleep in the bedroom at the end of the second floor. I’ll wake you up in the morning for more practice.”

“What about you?” Rust yawned. After all he’d been through and the beating he’d taken, his eyelids were drooping.

“I need to think some more.”

“Get some rest.” Rust climbed the stairs.

Dean leaned back on the sofa, rubbing his temples, his mind racing through the events of the day.

Flaws.

Flaws.

He’d done his best to erase all traces, but the most likely flaw was the blood, footprints, or even stray hairs left at the villa—things he couldn’t have cleaned up at the time.

But there had been over a hundred people at the party, so many guests had been to the scene and left traces of their own—these would be huge confounding factors.

It would take the police a long time to sort everything out.

And they couldn’t just demand DNA samples from someone who hadn’t even attended the party.

Dean mulled this over, then thought of something else.

Would Bob Law’s ever-absent father pose a threat to him?

After much thought, Dean could only remind himself to stay vigilant for now.

...

Dean rubbed his temples, pulled himself together, and checked his system’s personal records.

Dean Law

Character Level: 0 (90/100)

Age: 18

Physique: 11.5

Strength: 10.5

Agility: 11.5

Perception: 9

Spirit: 12

Will: 9→11

...

Abilities (3/5):

Combat lv1 (5/200)

Shooting lv0 (10/100): The ability to attack with firearms, bows, and other ranged weapons. Each level slightly increases perception and agility.

Shadow of the Past lv0 (1/100): Summon a phantom Dean from your body to assist in attack, defense, or reconnaissance... The strength of the phantom depends on your spirit. Other features are to be discovered. Each level slightly increases spirit.

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Specialty:

Novice Ironman

Events: 0/1

Completed—

1. The Death of Young Dean.

2. Mona’s Fate.

...

“Ten more experience points and I’ll level up. Today was a day of great gain.”

Two lifetimes, first blood, so many bloody scenes—yet Dean felt little discomfort.

Eliminating a scumbag didn’t violate his principles.

He had also avenged Mona, fulfilling the wish of his former self, and completed his original promise.

It was worth celebrating.

No, I’m not sad—not at all.

So Dean thought, but found his face wet with tears.

He sat on the sofa, covering his face, shoulders shaking silently...

The moonlight outside made his silhouette look all the more forlorn.

He didn’t know how long had passed, but it felt as if all his gloom and grief had poured out with his tears.

A heaviness lifted from his chest.

“Dean, cheer up. The tragedy of the past ended today. It’s time to embrace a new life.”

He spoke to himself, took a deep breath, forcing a smile as he checked the system again:

The sudden appearance of the shooting skill was a pleasant surprise.

But now, thinking back, Dean realized something was odd about it.

He’d only fired once at Bob, yet gained a remarkable ten points of proficiency.

And his mind had instantly absorbed basic knowledge of firearms—the stances, common types, as if he’d trained for a week.

Compared to combat, the rate of improvement in shooting was abnormal—far too fast.

That could only mean one thing.

Gaining proficiency by killing in battle far outstripped ordinary training or sparring.

But that was just Dean’s guess; he’d need more opportunities to test it.

...

These gains were all within reason.

Dean’s greatest surprise was unlocking the supernatural power, Shadow of the Past—consuming his spiritual energy to summon an invisible phantom.

Judging by Bob’s bizarre behavior in the corridor, ordinary people couldn’t see the shadow at all and could only be attacked helplessly. Such an ability defied science—almost monstrous.

The thought made Dean’s heart surge. The world’s ordinary facade was just that—a facade.

There must be other supernatural things like ghosts.

But he restrained his excitement, not rushing to summon the “shadow” again.

Just a few minutes in Bob’s villa had nearly drained his spirit, leaving his head spinning—like he hadn’t slept in two days.

The power was far more exhausting than expected!

Even though he’d recovered somewhat, Dean decided to sleep well before trying again, to run tests and experiments.

...

Dean reread the Shadow of the Past’s skill description.

A mutated soul.

Lurking in an old shell.

Wailing day and night.

Affecting the successor.

“No wonder I always lost control when I thought of Mona—acting out of character, as if my hands and feet didn’t listen. I’ve always had a burden inside me.”

Dean understood now.

But after the system transformed that dead weight into a superpower, his willpower had oddly increased by two points, and his mental state had stabilized.

Dean closed his eyes and revisited the sweet memories of his former love with Mona, and her tragic end—like watching a sorrowful film.

It was strange—though he still felt waves of emotion, he had become a pure observer of the innocent, passionate love between his past self and Mona.

It was as if he’d finally shrugged off a crushing burden, his soul no longer adrift, every breath a relief.

Dean took out the poster, gently touched it, and gazed long at Mona’s pencil portrait: cowboy hat, black hair, a smile bright as the girl next door.

Dean got up and hung the Skywalker poster and Mona’s portrait together on the living room wall.

“At last, I’m back to normal. This is the real Dean!”

“A rookie now, but soon to be a private supernatural detective!”

“I can’t afford any loose ends!”

Loose ends!

Dean thought of something, looked up at the second floor, and his eyes grew complicated.

Soft snores drifted from the bedroom—Rust must have fallen asleep.

Dean listened for a long time, then smiled and, with solemnity, whispered toward the second floor:

“Rust, I owe you one. I’ll pay you back someday.”

Dean lay down on the sofa and drifted into a deep sleep.