23. Experiment

In the early morning, a golden ray of sunlight streamed through the window.

“A beautiful Sunday.”

Dean rose from the sofa and stretched, feeling refreshed; the fatigue from the night before had vanished. He checked the wound on his left shoulder—it had stopped bleeding completely, but for the next three or four days, he wouldn’t be able to do any combat training, or the wound would split open again.

He entered the kitchen, toasted some bread, fried eggs, and prepared milk before calling Rust down.

“How did you sleep last night?”

“Hmm… not bad… I had a wonderful dream. I dreamed that we both got into the University of Arizona, into the astronomy department…” Rust munched on a steamed bun. Compared to his bruised and swollen face the previous night, he looked much better today, though still a bit puffy.

“Why the astronomy department at Arizona? Shouldn’t we be going to a police academy to continue the glory of our detective duo?” Dean joked as he sipped his milk, picking up the remote to turn on the television. The old CRT had been smashed by those intruders, but Uncle Pacquiao had gone to the city and bought a secondhand one.

Rust managed a faint smile, thinking, You even killed a psychopath—go to the police academy and walk right into a trap?

“You forget… Back in the Alaskan countryside, I loved to gaze at the stars… Who knows, maybe I’ll become an astronaut one day.”

“May your dreams come true.”

…

“Breaking news! Last night, a homicide occurred in the southern district of Vegas, atop Monte Carlo Hill!”

A magnetic female voice from the TV interrupted their conversation. Both of them glanced over.

On the screen appeared the gate of a luxurious villa.

A line of police SUVs blocked the entrance, Las Vegas police with LVPD badges flashing across their chests were stretching crime scene tape to seal off the building.

Several news crews waited outside, camera flashes popping incessantly.

Soon, a broad-shouldered female reporter appeared at the center of the frame.

“The victim, Bob Lowe, owner of the villa, had just turned twenty-two.”

“According to young partygoers, Bob was known for being warm and friendly, adored by his baseball teammates and students and teachers from the neighboring high school. Last night, Bob Lowe held a birthday party with over a hundred guests. With so many people involved, the LVPD has deployed significant manpower and is conducting an urgent investigation.”

“Nonsense!” Rust chewed his bacon with disdain, as if biting into Bob’s flesh.

“Bob’s father is the renowned Vegas hotel tycoon James Lowe, with vast holdings not only in Las Vegas hotels and theaters, but also on the West Coast.”

The reporter’s eyes sparkled as she pursed her full lips. “James Lowe has only one son—Bob Lowe.”

“Dude, you’ve made a serious mess,” Rust muttered curiously. “The only son is dead. Who’s going to inherit all that wealth?”

“Maybe the tycoon has an illegitimate child somewhere?” Dean guessed.

“The tycoon has just received the news and, unable to bear the grief of losing his son, is flying back from the East Coast to Vegas,” the reporter continued.

“Sources say the killer’s methods were extremely brutal, possibly involving some sort of mysterious religious ritual… If you have any leads… please call 432… Contact the news station for a generous reward.”

“Morning News reporter Catherine Medici reporting for Vegas. Stay tuned for more updates…”

…

Click.

Dean switched the channel.

Marine Life Documentary—

Seagulls called out in song.

A dolphin arced gracefully out of the water, the smooth blue sea reflecting the rising red sun on the horizon, creating a breathtaking scene.

Whoosh—a strange chill swept through.

Rust shivered all over, an inexplicable discomfort creeping over him, as if a pair of unknown eyes were fixed intently upon him.

What’s happening to me?

He gulped some milk to steady himself and looked across the table at Dean.

“When something happens to a rich family, the cops move as fast as if their own fathers died! But I’m really curious—how did you get rid of Bob? Why did the busty newswoman call it especially brutal?”

“He suffered less than Mona did.”

Dean’s expression remained calm, glancing at the empty space above the table between them.

The summoned Shadow of the Past was sitting cross-legged there, gazing blankly at Mona’s portrait on the wall.

The sunlight streaming through the window fell upon it, only to be swallowed completely, as if into a black hole.

Rust was entirely unaware.

Dean nodded to himself.

Test complete—ordinary people couldn’t see the Shadow of the Past, and it didn’t fear sunlight.

He had it return to his body.

…

“Man… Grace should be finishing her night shift. I’d better go home so she doesn’t worry.”

“Let’s go over our statements one more time. I’ll play the cop.”

The two of them rehearsed three more times, smoother than the night before.

“Oh right, Rust, bring your Nikon to school the day after tomorrow.”

Dean pondered—if the naked eye couldn’t see the shadow, what about other imaging devices?

He needed further proof.

Rust gave him an OK sign.

“Remember, we’re on the same side,” Dean said, throwing an arm around his shoulder, drawing him in. “Also, what happened yesterday made me realize some of my past mistakes. I can’t let anyone bully you anymore. Want to learn something new?”

“What is it?”

“How do you think I took down the brute Bob?” Dean crouched, arms spread like a wrestler, then delivered a crisp right straight, the force of the punch making Rust blink. “My uncle taught me some new moves. Want to learn?”

Rust’s eyes lit up with joy, excitement barely contained.

“How about starting the day after tomorrow at school?”

…

Rust left.

Dean gathered his lighter, a kitchen knife, a tape measure… and his Colt M1911A1 with two bullets left, and set out.

He didn’t return to the crime scene.

There’s a theory in criminal psychology that the culprit always returns to the scene, but he had done all he needed—he wouldn’t risk exposing himself.

Dean decided to pay a visit to the neighbor across the street.

The bearded, heavyset Jacob was trimming his garden with a pair of shears.

“Morning, Uncle Jacob. I’m planning a weekend hike, but I’m afraid I’ll lose track of time. Could I borrow your watch?”

“A sunny weekend is perfect for a stroll,” Jacob said, setting down the shears and fetching an old quartz watch from inside.

“Here you go, kid… Tanya said you were wild yesterday? Didn’t see you all night, and her apple pie went to waste.”

Jacob ruffled Dean’s hair with a furry paw, winking as Dean tried hard not to bristle at being treated like a child.

“I came home around five in the afternoon. Went straight to bed and only woke up at midnight, hungry.”

Dean emphasized the five o’clock.

“Oh, five. You missed quite a feast.”

“How about tonight you show me what you and Tanya can do in the kitchen?”

…

He had skillfully aligned his alibi with the neighbor.

Dean left the neighborhood, following a quiet path into the woods behind, walking for about half an hour.

He found a remote, deserted grove.

In the clearing he began his experiment.

A cloak of black smoke drifted from Dean’s back, settling before him and taking the shape of a constantly shifting, blurry human figure.

“To avoid confusion, from today on, you’ll be called Shadow,” Dean said inwardly.

He glanced at his watch, noting the moment he summoned it.

“As you wish.”

Its voice echoed in Dean’s mind.

It couldn’t speak normally—only communicate telepathically with Dean.

“How much do you remember from before?” Dean asked.

It returned a muddled, incomprehensible emotion, basking dully in the sunlight filtering through the trees, crouched on the ground.

“Becoming a ghost dulls the mind, makes it hard to grasp complex questions,” Dean mused, feeling a pang of sympathy for its former self.

But for him, this wasn’t a bad thing.

After all, if a normal person’s soul resided in his body, he’d always feel watched, with no privacy.

…

Dean then issued a series of commands, testing Shadow’s strength and speed.

The results astonished him.

Though it was a low-intelligence ghost, its combat power was formidable.

Its strength was roughly double Dean’s; in a grapple, it could easily overpower him, its insubstantial arms lifting him overhead with ease. And it didn’t tire or risk injury like a living being.

It had no concept of endurance—as long as it was summoned, it could exert maximum force continuously, carrying Dean through the forest at a run.

…

Dean used the tape measure and watch to run some rough tests.

Its top speed was about 20 meters per second, also about twice Dean’s own. But at this speed, it no longer ran—it hovered, a dark cloud flying through the air.

Dean rubbed his temples, tracking it as best he could—it appeared as a blur, like a black ribbon fluttering among the poplars.

Astonishingly fast.

But if Shadow moved more than ten meters from Dean, it was as if it hit a wall—unable to go further.

“So, Shadow can only operate within a ten-meter radius of me.”

A restriction imposed by the system? Significant, but already monstrous—such power and speed, plus invisibility.

Shadow could easily kill a group of ordinary people in close combat.

“Next, its resistance to attack.”

Dean steadied his mind, gripping the Colt M1911A1.

His shooting skill activated; knowledge surfaced naturally.

This pistol was a modernized version of the M1911 still widely used by police, Browning’s masterpiece.

Semi-automatic, effective up to 50 meters.

It fired .45 caliber rounds, with a 7-round single-stack magazine—high stopping power, less penetration, ideal for close-quarters lethality.

The M1911A1’s recoil and power were considerable—a shot to the torso could easily be fatal.

Bob had already chambered a round last night, so there was no need to repeat the process.

Dean gripped the textured, curved handle with his right hand, thumbed off the safety, index finger on the trigger, aiming at Shadow seven or eight meters away.

His shooting wasn’t great—the distance made a miss likely, let alone hitting a specific body part.

Bang!

A sharp report echoed through the woods.

The cartridge flew.

The instant the bullet struck Shadow, Dean’s wrists jerked; his eyes widened.

Shadow’s entire form shifted bizarrely, losing its human shape, collapsing inward, condensing into a mass of irregular black.

The bullet entered, as if absorbed by resilient sponge, its force sapped, falling harmlessly to the ground.

A second later, Shadow resumed human form, unscathed.

“Condensing its body to resist physical blows—enough to withstand firearms.”

“The M1911A1 is more powerful than most pistols. If it can stop that, knives and clubs are no problem.”

So, in a desperate situation—

Dean’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

“I can summon Shadow as a shield against bullets, or even have it form full-body armor.”

No sooner thought than done. He ordered Shadow to wrap itself around him, leaving air holes for nose and mouth—Dean was now clad in an invisible suit of “armor.”

This armor was almost weightless, not hindering movement; his hand felt a cool, gaseous layer, like reaching into cotton.

Dean gripped a sharp Swiss knife, the blade flashing as he jabbed at his left forearm.

But the blade met tough resistance, bouncing off as if striking thick leather, not even scratching the skin.

“Impressive defense. Since Shadow is a ghost, I’ll call this move ‘Ghost Armor.’”

“So far, Shadow can fight invisibly, manipulate weapons, act as shield and armor—truly a superpower.”

And there were more uses yet to discover.

Dean was exhilarated, inspiration surging in his mind.

“If it can solidify its body, what about the opposite?”

Bang!

Dean pulled the trigger again.

This time, Shadow’s form changed completely, vaporizing into gray mist.

The bullet passed straight through, striking a poplar trunk behind.

“Shifting between tangible and intangible—this is as good as invisibility.”

“Now, blur your features; don’t look like me anymore.”

Dean issued another command.

Obediently, Shadow’s face flattened, becoming a featureless black mask.

“Keep this look from now on.”

That way, even if others with special abilities—those rumored spirit-sight folk—saw Shadow, they couldn’t immediately link it to Dean by its appearance.

Dean drew a deep breath.

His temples throbbed, pain stabbing sharply.

But the tests weren’t done.

After the physical attacks, it was time for energy attacks.

He put the pistol away—out of bullets and not wise to buy more so soon after Bob’s death. He’d have to wait.

He lit a dead twig from the forest floor with his lighter and thrust the burning branch at Shadow.

Within two seconds of exposure to flame, Shadow collapsed into gray mist, writhing in the air as if alive, and in Dean’s mind came piercing shrieks of agony.

Dean extinguished the flame.

The mist reformed into a translucent human shape, crumpled on the ground, fading as if about to vanish.

“Sorry, man.”

Dean crouched, hugging Shadow’s shoulders, making a solemn promise.

“I swear I’ll never hurt you again. But this pain wasn’t in vain—now we know your weakness and can prepare.”

Dean summed it up.

So, Shadow had formidable melee and defensive power.

But its weakness was obvious—fear of fire.

Dean didn’t mind. Every strength comes with a weakness.

“Take a good rest now.”

Shadow dissolved, returning to his body.

Dean, exhausted, glanced at the quartz watch—five minutes exactly. His vision darkened, as if he hadn’t slept in days, waves of needle-like pain stabbing his brain, his mind wandering.

Any longer and he’d pass out on the spot.

“So with my current twelve points of mental strength, I can only summon Shadow for five minutes—just enough as a trump card, not for regular use.”

And adding last night’s time with Bob, Shadow of the Past was still level 0 (0/100), not even a single point of proficiency gained.

As a superpower, it was much harder to level up than fighting or shooting.

“Improving Shadow will be a long process—I need a plan to train it without affecting my daily routine.”

Dean laced his hands behind his head, lay in the forest, basked in the breeze, and gazed up at the faint white light between the trees.

Soon he thought of a method of extreme training.

If he summoned Shadow to the limit and collapsed from exhaustion, would his mental strength increase upon recovery?

“Alright, I’ll try extreme training tonight before bed.”

Recognizing the power of his new ability, Dean felt a powerful urge, as if a devil were whispering in his ear.

Why not use this power for killing, robbery, theft, to make money?

After all, ordinary people couldn’t see Shadow.

Dean could do whatever he wanted.

A red gleam flashed in his eyes.

But he took a deep breath, suppressing the greedy thought with great willpower.

First, it violated the moral boundaries he’d developed in his previous life.

Second, and most importantly, since he had awakened a superpower, it was highly likely there were other superpowered people in this world.

What would they think of him—friend or foe? How would they judge his actions?

Dean couldn’t be sure. For now, he’d follow the superpowered version of the Dark Forest Law: keep a low profile, hide himself, never draw the gaze of other superpowered beings.

Observe from the shadows.

Unless absolutely necessary, avoid using Shadow in public or crowded places.

And never use it for evil.

Train every day.

With his resolve set, Dean breathed a long sigh of relief.

“Next, once the storm over Bob’s death passes, I need to find a way to earn enough to buy guns and ammo, and get myself a car. I can’t keep hitching rides with Rust.”