26. Blood Must Not Be Shed in Vain

10:00 p.m.

The Last residence.

A swirl of gray mist hovered three meters above the floor, circling the bright yellow crystal chandelier, weaving through the lamp’s leaves as nimbly as a gray bat.

Suddenly, it plunged downward, trailing a cloak of ashen vapor, landing without a sound and transforming into a human silhouette, its features blurred and indistinct.

Whoosh—

The “Shadow” swept a light breeze around the center of the apartment’s hall, circling Last.

Last’s left fist was extended, right fist pulled back, his heel slightly raised in an attempt at a boxing stance. But his chest was collapsed, his abdomen sucked in awkwardly, the posture sloppy and more reminiscent of a zombie doing a mechanical dance.

Bang! Bang!

He threw his left jab again and again, striking at air—slow, feeble, and lacking all force.

At the dining table, Dean was dealing with a steak, offering the occasional instruction. Since his combat skills had reached Level 1, Dean had acquired several months’ worth of comprehensive martial arts training—enough theoretical knowledge to coach a total novice in the basics of boxing.

Although his injured left arm prevented him from improving his own proficiency, guiding Last let Dean reinforce his own fundamentals.

“Don’t just stand there like a fool when you punch—lean your body a little to the right.”

“How many times do I have to say it? Straighten your arm! Don’t let it flop around like a rubber band!”

“Keep your palm down, your fist at a right angle to the target!”

In… out…

“Buddy, is it actually useful to practice just this one move to death?” Last planted his hands on his hips, panting heavily. Sweat soaked his white T-shirt, dripping from his chin.

“Can’t I try something new? A hook, an uppercut, a knee strike?”

“You want to run before you can walk? Keep at it. A hundred more jabs—once you’ve got your left straight down, you’ll be able to protect yourself.”

…

Dean finished the last bite of his steak and glanced over Last’s shoulder.

The “Shadow” was standing there, moving through the martial arts techniques Dean had shared with it—its punches and kicks so fast they blurred, slicing the air with a whistling wind.

Unlike Last, it wasn’t limited to boxing, nor confined by the rules of any one discipline. It performed everything Dean’s Level 1 combat knowledge encompassed: wrestling, boxing, sanda, and more—using elbows and knees as weapons, each movement swift and vicious, every strike aimed at the vital points of an imaginary foe.

If they were outside, somewhere with more space, Dean would have had the “Shadow” use knives or other sharp weapons for lethal combat training—and, once he’d bought a gun, he’d train it as an invisible marksman.

After thirty seconds, the Shadow flew back into Dean’s body, waiting for his mind to rest ten minutes before manifesting again.

This cycle repeated endlessly.

It was a method Dean had developed after much practice. Having the Shadow materialize for a full five minutes at once consumed a massive amount of mental energy, requiring at least five hours of rest to recover. But if he summoned it in short bursts—less than half a minute at a time—he needed only a quarter-hour to shake off the fatigue.

He’d done the math: with this approach, his total daily summoning time multiplied several times over, transforming training from a one-off event into a sustainable routine, greatly increasing efficiency.

Of course, he always reserved one session before sleep for an all-out, limit-pushing trial.

Dean had become addicted to the sensation of collapsing into unconsciousness from sheer exhaustion.

…

Whoosh whoosh—

The Shadow threw a punch, its wind brushing Last’s cheek.

Last yelped, as if jolted by a strong current.

A small smile touched Dean’s lips as a captivating message shimmered before his eyes—

Your persistent summoning and training have brought a trace of progress to your Shadow.

Proficiency +1.

Shadow of the Past lv0 (1/100)

…

In the days that followed, during school hours, Dean periodically drilled the Shadow.

After class, he coached Last in boxing, reinforcing his own combat foundations in the process.

Before sleep, he summoned the Shadow for a bout of limit testing.

Once, he accompanied Grace to her friend’s photo studio.

As it turned out, even cameras couldn’t detect the existence of the Shadow.

Relieved, Dean considered borrowing a thermal imaging device for further verification next time.

He also made several trips to the club district searching for Taim, but it was as if the man had vanished into thin air—he was never seen again.

Dean could only abide by Taim’s instructions and his own instincts, lying low like an ordinary person.

He watched and waited, hoping to glimpse the true nature of this so-called “darkness.”

Everything developed steadily.

The only slight regret was that five days had passed since Mona’s disappearance, and the system had yet to trigger a new event—perhaps the school was simply too peaceful, without any fresh trouble or danger cropping up.

…

Thursday.

Lunch break.

After a hearty meal, Dean wandered out to the school’s front lawn and suddenly noticed a commotion near a white-painted bench.

…

A lunchbox rolled at Britney’s feet, her dress splattered with yellow curry. Last stood in front of her, playing the protector—but as he was half a head shorter than her, the scene was rather comical.

Across from them, a streetwise girl in a leather jacket, black fishnet stockings, a nose ring, and heavy black eye makeup was chewing gum with a challenging tilt of her chin, her arm looped around a white boy in a baseball jacket.

“Why are you picking on Britney? Apologize!” Last bristled like a furious cat.

“I’m fine, Last, let’s just go,” Britney tugged at his shirt from behind, but he wouldn’t budge.

The street girl spat her gum at their feet and exchanged a glance with her boyfriend.

The baseball boy stepped forward, grabbing Last by the collar and nearly spitting in his face.

Bang!

Without hesitation, Last threw a punch.

The boy yelped and let go, a bruise already blossoming on his left cheek.

Last drew back his left fist, chest caved, arms guarding his front, bouncing on his toes like a kangaroo.

“Freak!” the girl screeched, lunging with a slap.

But her platform shoes tripped on empty air, as if snagged by something unseen—she toppled face-first, mouthful of grass and mud.

The baseball boy roared and aimed a kick at Last’s stomach, but Last dodged nimbly, firing off another crisp left jab into the boy’s eye socket.

The boy, now sporting a black eye, staggered, then clutched his throat—mouth gaping, nostrils flaring as he fought for breath.

He couldn’t inhale; his face contorted in terror, turning purple.

He was suffocating!

Bang bang.

Last’s left fist rained down on the boy’s face, beating him black and blue until he collapsed backward.

His chest heaved, and finally he sucked in a gasp of fresh air, his taut cheeks relaxing.

Pointing in horror at Last, the boy shouted,

“Witchcraft! He used some kind of sorcery—I couldn’t breathe!”

Then, grabbing the streetwise girl, he fled in a panic.

The onlookers murmured in amazement.

“Cool, when did the little guy get so good at fighting?”

“He’s always hanging out with that Chinatown brute—must’ve picked up some Chinese kung fu!”

…

“You alright? Are you hurt anywhere?” Britney examined Last’s face with concern.

Last shook his head, a trace of confusion in his eyes—why hadn’t that guy dodged the punch?

“Don’t get all lovey-dovey, time to go,” Dean finally stepped over, clapping his friend on the shoulder and replaying his recent experiment in his mind.

After turning intangible, the “Shadow” had slipped into the man’s nose and mouth, blocking his airway and nearly suffocating him.

But when Dean had ordered the Shadow to press further into the man’s head and body through the nasal passages and mouth, it was stopped by an invisible, impenetrable barrier—it couldn’t go any deeper.

Why was that?

“Is it that a ghost can never fully enter a living body? What exactly is that invisible barrier?”

He couldn’t puzzle it out for now.

“In any case, using the Shadow to block the nose and mouth leaves no trace behind—a silent, invisible kill. I’ll call this move the Phantom Choke.”

…

After this brief episode, the three stopped at the school gates.

A crowd had gathered outside.

Over twenty members of the baseball team, as well as the bald, slightly overweight Coach Tom and Principal Ulysses, clustered around a tall, straight-backed man in a black overcoat.

The man radiated the poise and steadiness of a business elite.

His round face was tinged with sorrow; deep lines flanked his hooked nose, and bloodshot eyes gave him a look of utter exhaustion.

The baseball players jostled to get close to him, their eyes brimming with respect and eager flattery.

“Who’s the big shot? Those guys look about ready to kneel,” Dean whispered.

“That’s James Law,” Last took a deep breath, inexplicably tense. “Bob Law’s father!”

…

“Coach Tom, Principal Ulysses, and all you young men of the baseball team—finally, on behalf of Bob, let me say thank you. I’ll never forget how you looked after him, and I’ll repay it however I can. Of course, I hope you’ll all come to church this Sunday morning to see him off one last time.”

“They haven’t caught the killer yet, and they’re already burying Bob?” Dean muttered quietly to Last.

“They can’t just leave the body out forever,” Last replied instinctively. “Vegas is too hot, and even in a freezer, a corpse can’t be kept long before it starts to smell.”

…

“On the team, Bob was like an older brother—he took care of all of us. Now he’s gone, everyone’s heartbroken. If there’s anything we can do to help catch the killer, just say the word,” vowed Wazell, the Black player, spittle flying.

James squeezed his shoulder gratefully.

Turning, the principal clasped his right hand in both of his own, eyes red-rimmed, looking more bereaved than if he’d lost his own son.

“Bob was always the team’s star, our pride—a rising star, gone too soon… No one ever expected such a tragedy… Mr. Law, you must take care of yourself as you keep vigil for him. Don’t let grief get the better of you.”

James sighed, his sorrow deepening.

“Please excuse me, I must go handle the arrangements. See you on Sunday.”

He turned toward the gates, but after a few steps, caught sight of Dean and the others watching from afar. He paused, then walked straight over to them.

His tall shadow fell across the trio.

“Last?”

“It’s me, Mr. Law,” Last stiffened, instinctively reaching out to shake the man’s hand.

He’d never been so close to someone so imposing.

The man’s hand was cold and solid, its pressure almost painful on his knuckles.

Five full seconds.

James Law’s gaze was complicated; he managed a self-mocking smile.

“I’ve heard all about the party. Every criticism you made of Bob, I accept. I’m sorry for what he did to you, for all the harm he caused. Please, I hope you’ll forgive Bob—don’t let him leave this world burdened by guilt.”

“I was always busy with work. Even on his birthday last Saturday, I was in Los Angeles, handling business. I failed to discipline him, which is why he turned out so badly.”

“Last, I apologize on his behalf.”

“It’s all in the past,” Last replied automatically. “I forgave him long ago.”

“Thank you for your kindness… May God bless you.”

James Law smiled gratefully and walked away.

…

“Did I hear that right? A casino tycoon worth hundreds of millions apologized to a regular high school kid like me?” Last seemed dazed, unable to believe it.

He could boast about this for the next ten years.

“If he was really sincere, why didn’t he invite you to Bob’s funeral at the church? I think you should be wary—he’s not what he seems, very cunning,” Dean muttered, eyes fixed on the man’s retreating figure.

Whispering to himself: Phantom Choke, silent death, James…

For a moment, his eyes flashed coldly, as if murder was on his mind.

Britney let out a startled gasp.

But Last just shook his head dismissively.

“Don’t overthink it, man. Why would a billionaire waste his time on us nobodies? Just because he’s related to Bob doesn’t mean you should treat him like a villain.”

“Alright, maybe you’re right.”

…

James Law left Nevada High alive, three armed men in black suits escorting him to a Cadillac in the parking lot.

He leaned back into the leather seat, closed his eyes, chest heaving.

As the car pulled onto the road, the driver—wearing a flat cap and speaking in a thick Italian accent—spoke up.

“Boss, the men are ready. Out-of-towners, all ex-military, fought in the last war. Disabled, suffering PTSD, can’t hold a regular job, families need money. As long as you pay, they’ll do anything.”

“You’re sure you want to go through with this?”

James Law clenched his fists suddenly, opening his eyes. His face was dark as storm clouds, fury boiling in his gaze—a volcano on the verge of eruption.

“I’ve had nightmares for days.”

“There’s a party outside the villa—music, dancing, drinking…”

“But Bob lies in a cold pool of blood, unable to close his eyes, and not a single hand reaches out to help him.”

“My only son is gone—his blood can’t be spilled for nothing!”

“Understood. On Memorial Day, you’ll get the result you want.”

…