Fujita Kiyono took out Xie Chi’s small box again, examining the contents.

He didn’t recognize any of the people in these photos—from Xie Zhaoting to Xiao Wangyun to Xie Ying. Only one group photo contained Xie Jiaxing and Xie Yao, whom he had met recently.

If she had kept these photos, they must have been important people to her, yet in all their time together, Xie Chi had never mentioned them. He had previously thought that her world contained only A’Ru, Guoqiang, and himself.

Fujita Kiyono picked up the purple pearl. It didn’t seem particularly special—he had seen many more beautiful ones. Perhaps it was a gift from someone special to her.

He rolled the pearl from left to right, then from right to left.

Could it be from He Feng?

At this thought, Fujita Kiyono stopped rolling the pearl, picked up an iron stand nearby, and crushed it to powder.

He looked at the small fragments of pearl dust and blew them away gently.

“Sir.” His master’s mood had been unstable recently, so Yamashita always spoke with a weak breath, afraid of accidentally provoking him, “The car is ready.”

Fujita Kiyono stood up. Yamashita took down the hanging coat, draped it over him, and followed with lowered head.

Just at the door, they encountered Luo Lingshu coming to find them. Fujita Kiyono didn’t take his anger out on her—son was son, mother was mother. He wouldn’t blame this woman for He Feng’s sins, only responding coldly that they hadn’t retrieved the body.

He hurriedly got in the car and left, no longer paying attention to the woman standing at the door.

Yamashita handed the photograph to Fujita Kiyono. He pulled it out for a glance, then stuffed it back expressionlessly. He needed to reach the port before four o’clock. Closing his eyes and leaning against the car seat, he told Yamashita, “Drive faster.”

Fujita Kiyono arrived ten minutes early—time was sufficient. He walked unhurriedly toward the lower ship cabin. Yamashita held a light to illuminate the path ahead. Fujita Kiyono took the flashlight from him, “You can wait outside.”

“Yes.”

The cabin reeked faintly of blood and the rotting wood smell of long-term damp conditions.

The light fell on a man with chained hands and feet. He turned his head away, raising his hand to block his eyes, sensing a dark shadow crouching in front.

Fujita Kiyono moved the light beam away, shining it on his bloody wrists and ankles, “If you keep struggling, your hands and feet will be useless.”

He Feng lunged toward him, but the chain length was limited, holding him fast.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Fujita Kiyono looked at his close, sinister expression and smiled, turning the flashlight, “This is a ship to America.” After speaking, he shone the light on He Feng’s face again, “I forgot to tell you—I sold you. Death would be too much of a release for you, and you’re not afraid of punishment, so I chose a more interesting path for you.” He turned off the flashlight, waited two seconds then turned it on again, then off again, then on, admiring the subtle changes in light and expression on He Feng’s face, “It’s an underground black boxing ring, very suitable for you. The contract clearly states in black and white—win a thousand fights and you’re free.”

Fujita Kiyono patted his shoulder, “Your body is sturdy. You should be able to fight well, right? So what do you think your odds are against those white boxers? I guess winning one out of three would be good. Based on this probability, fighting three thousand matches non-stop would still take eight years. You should know that this kind of extreme violent sport can’t have daily matches, not to mention countless deaths and injuries on such stages. Even if you survive, your body will definitely be ruined long ago. Let’s say ten years—we’ll make a bet. Ten years from now, when you reappear, will she go with a useless you?”

The iron chains were taut, the connecting points creaking under his pulling.

Fujita Kiyono shone the light on the lock behind him, “Protect your hands and feet. Don’t get killed in the first match—I have high expectations for you.” He pulled out a photograph from his chest, illuminating it for him to see, “This is for you, something to remember her by. Thanks to you, the brain damage from suffocation—she hasn’t woken up yet, but the doctor says it’ll be soon. Unfortunately your child is gone, but she and I will have more children.” Fujita Kiyono blew on the photograph, wanting to provoke him on a whim, deliberately saying, “Do you know how big that little bastard was?” He held up his index finger, “This long. Throw it to the dogs, and it’d be gone in one bite.”

He Feng looked at Xie Chi in the photograph—she lay on a hospital bed wearing an oxygen mask, “I’ll kill you.”

Fujita Kiyono laughed twice, “Kill me? First survive and get out, though by the time you regain your freedom, my children with her will probably be up to your waist.” He threw the photograph in front of He Feng and stood up, “Actually, even if you hadn’t brought people to rescue her from execution that day, I wouldn’t have let her die. This outcome is perfect—I’ll completely conquer her and your country. You can leave with peace of mind.” He turned to leave the dark, cold cabin, “Fight well. Maybe you can get out early. We’ll wait for you.”

…

Jiang Shouyue was still in Shanghai, staying at an underground contact point, anxiously waiting for news.

The door lock opened—Danggui had returned.

She hurriedly approached, supporting herself against the wall, “How is it?”

Danggui shook his head, “Let’s talk inside.”

Jiang Shouyue followed him in and closed the door, “What does shaking your head mean?”

“The comrade at the hospital said Fujita Kiyono wants to take her back to Japan for treatment, but unconscious for so long—unless a miracle occurs.” Danggui sighed, “There’s almost no hope.”

Jiang Shouyue clenched her fists, “Even if she’ll die sooner or later, she can’t die in Japan.”

“After all these incidents, the guard is too tight. Rescue is impossible.”

“So we just watch her being taken away? Let even her corpse be defiled by devils?”

“We can’t risk so much for someone who’s dying. Shanghai’s underground groups have already suffered heavy losses—we can’t sacrifice more.”

“I should be the one dying!” Jiang Shouyue clutched her head in anguish, “Why not me!”

…

To deceive the outside world, Fujita Kiyono killed Keiko, who had impersonated Xie Chi at the execution ground last time. This time, she would truly die as a body double.

About ten hours flying back to Tokyo, he brought a Japanese doctor along for the journey.

Madam Fujita and Fujita Michi had no way to deal with their deranged brother. His mind was entirely focused on this unconscious woman—he hadn’t even visited their deceased father once.

Xie Chi was sent to Tokyo’s best hospital. Fujita Kiyono barely left her side.

No one could force him anymore. He picked up his pen again, returning to the field he loved. But his state of mind had changed—he couldn’t return to that pure state from before. He would always look at Xie Chi, write two strokes, then look at her for a while. When his gaze returned to the notebook, he would tear off the previous page, crumple it, and throw it on the floor.

The hospital room floor was always covered with paper balls.

Fujita Kiyono spoke to her every day. He would turn off the lights, light two candles, read her scripts he had written before, and read Chinese and foreign novels aloud.

He hadn’t eaten for a day. His lips were cracked and dry, the peeling skin torn bit by bit, bleeding continuously.

At night, he finally received good news.

Fujita Kiyono took the residence permit and series of identity documents his friend had brought and lay beside Xie Chi, showing them to her one by one. He gave her his surname and a new name: Fujita Wanzhi.

“You’re a Japanese citizen now. When you wake up, you’ll live with a new identity.” He gripped Xie Chi’s cold hand, “I’ll still call you Wanzhi. I prefer those two characters.”

“Are you cold?” He brought two more blankets to cover her, lying beside her and hugging the thick bedding tightly, “Now you won’t be cold.”

The hospital room was frighteningly quiet.

Fujita Kiyono leaned by her head, listening to her weak breathing, “I know you can hear me talking. Wake up quickly, and I’ll take you to see the plays I’ve directed.”

“If I weren’t Japanese, would you like me?”

“But that doesn’t matter anymore, because now you’re the same as me.”

“We’re the most suitable match.”

“I’ll make you forget him.”

…

The fifth day back in Japan.

This was Fujita Michi’s first time visiting them. When she was thrown from the car that day, she wasn’t seriously injured, but rolling had hurt her face, leaving a three-centimeter scar on her forehead.

Fujita Kiyono had placed Xie Chi in front of a mirror and was combing her hair.

Fujita Michi stood in the doorway, looking at her mentally disturbed brother, “Brother, don’t do this. I’m scared.”

Fujita Kiyono looked over at her and smiled, “Come here, see if your sister-in-law is beautiful?”

Fujita Michi stepped back.

“What are you afraid of?” He walked over and gripped Fujita Michi’s wrist, “Come look at your sister-in-law, come over.”

Fujita Michi struggled desperately, not wanting to get close. Fujita Kiyono looked at her for a few seconds, then suddenly dragged her over forcefully and pressed her hard in front of the mirror, “Call her! Call her sister-in-law!”

“I won’t call a dead person!” Fujita Michi punched and kicked him, “Brother, wake up! She’s been dead for ages! She died two days ago!”

Fujita Kiyono lifted her up, grabbing her throat, “What did you say?”

“She’s dead, she’s dead! Her bones are cold through! If you don’t cremate her, she’ll start to stink!”

Fujita Kiyono slapped her across the face and pushed her against the wall, “Get out, get out!”

Fujita Michi sat pitifully on the floor, her back aching from the impact, “You madman.”

Fujita Kiyono picked her up and threw her out, locking the door heavily. Xie Chi’s face drooped, her body tilting to the right. Fujita Kiyono quickly straightened her up, took the comb and continued brushing her hair, “I know you like quiet. I won’t let her in anymore, alright?”

His hand fell on her chin, looking at the pale face in the mirror, smiling obsessively, “My Wanzhi is so beautiful.”

…

While Fujita Kiyono was in the bathroom, Fujita Michi had people who were lying in wait downstairs come up and carry away Xie Chi’s corpse.

When he came out and saw the empty bed, he ran frantically around the room. Seeing Fujita Michi sitting downstairs, he pounced on her and pinned her down, “Was it you? Where did you hide her?”

“I won’t tell you! She harmed you, harmed Brother Ryuji, harmed me, harmed Father, harmed our family!” Fujita Michi glared at him viciously, “She doesn’t deserve to be buried in Japanese soil. I’m going to throw her in the sea to feed the fish!”

Fujita Kiyono stared wide-eyed at her, gripping her throat tightly, “Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!”

Fujita Kiyono drove after them, nearly strangling his own sister.

At the last moment, she gave in.

Fortunately those people weren’t driving fast. Fujita Kiyono saw the vehicle from afar. He had reached the point of recklessness, crashing into them frantically. The car ahead was forced to stop. He violently rushed over, smashed open the rear door, and dragged his beloved out.

He was injured from the collision, blood flowing from his forehead, “Don’t be afraid, I’m here. I won’t let them take you away again.” He held Xie Chi tightly, weeping bitterly, “Wanzhi, I won’t let you leave. Even as a ghost you have to stay with me.” This sentence seemed to awaken him, “Yes, ghost, spirit medium, ghost, ghost.”

He staggered to his feet, brought her back to his car, and sped off in another direction.

…

Madam Fujita had been busy with funeral arrangements lately. After seeing off friends who came to offer condolences, she came to check on Fujita Kiyono’s room.

She saw the lights were off inside, with a candle lit on the table. As the door opened letting wind in, the candle flame flickered slightly. The entire room was eerie, hung and filled with various strange banners and objects.

Fujita Kiyono sat curled in a corner of the room, holding a wooden box bound with cloth strips dyed red with his blood and bizarre talismans, crisscrossing to seal the box tight.

Madam Fujita was both terrified and heartbroken. She slowly approached, kneeling in front of him, looking at his wrists wrapped in bloody gauze, “Kiyono, what’s wrong with you? Let Mother take you to the hospital.”

Fujita Kiyono looked up at her. His eyes were bloodshot, with dark purple circles, looking neither human nor ghost as he stared eerily at his mother, “Shh—my Wanzhi is sleeping.” He smiled and pointed at the box, “Don’t wake her, don’t make noise.”

…

One month later.

Before leaving, Fujita Michi came to see her brother. His room was dark all day, filled with strange incense smells. She searched around and finally found her brother curled in a closet gap, writing.

She stood before him, looking down numbly, “Brother Kiyono.”

Fujita Kiyono looked up and suddenly crawled toward her, “Wanzhi, how did you come out? Do you miss me, so you came to see me?”

Fujita Michi pushed away his hand, “Look clearly at who I am.”

Fujita Kiyono pulled out a candy from his chest, “Look, the candy you gave me. I never had the heart to eat it.”

Fujita Michi snatched the candy and threw it aside, “Enough! Can’t you wake up!”

Fujita Kiyono crawled over to pick up the candy, placed it in his palm and blew on it gently, treasuring it against his chest, mumbling to himself, “I know, I’m special to you. In Nanjing, other patients had no candy, but you only gave it to me.” He crawled back to his position, continuing to write scripts by the dim candlelight, “Wait for me, our story will be finished soon, it won’t take long. Then I’ll have my actors perform it, perform it all over the world, all over the world…”

“Brother, just slowly decay here.” Fujita Michi straightened her clothes and stood upright, “The Fujita family needs someone to support it. Uncle Kudo will take me to learn intelligence work. I’ll get revenge for this.”

…

Along with He Feng, two other Chinese were sold here, one of whom died on the platform yesterday.

Every day here, they planned to escape, but failed repeatedly. The underground boxing venue was heavily guarded with three layers of iron bars inside and out. Whenever they were caught back, they inevitably got tied up and beaten by several big men.

Although meals were rich and living conditions decent, with dedicated people caring for their daily needs and regular health checkups, no one wanted to lose their freedom. Except for fighting on stage and practicing kicks against iron poles, they wore shackles for everything, locked in the closed underground like livestock, never seeing daylight.

The boxers here had no names, only code names. He Feng was initially called “Black Dragon,” but after one match where he was beaten bloody and couldn’t get up, at the brink of death he locked his opponent’s throat with one move, turning defeat to victory and causing the entire venue to boil. Blood dyed the dragon tattoo on his body crimson, so his code name was changed to “Red Dragon.”

Over a year, this code name gradually became the boxing ring’s prized attraction. Matches with him always brought more betting money to the venue. In regulars’ eyes, this was a desperate, bloodthirsty dark horse, ruthless and fierce with an outstanding record. Few could defeat him, but prolonged violence had left his body severely damaged.

He Feng collapsed.

This collapse lasted a full six months of recovery.

His next appearance was his 261st match.

Underground black boxing was known to be bloody, crazy, with no rules to speak of, full of souls who met their end here. Regardless of technique, regardless of life or death, nothing mattered except victory.

The venue was dark and oppressive, with only a few piercing white lights shining on the ring, illuminating two bodies with surging blood.

This opponent was Chinese.

This was the scenario He Feng least wanted to face. He could fight boxers from any country, but facing his own countrymen, he couldn’t bring himself to strike.

Seemingly casual moves were extremely brutal, even though he had already held back much strength.

The audience below shouted incessantly:

“Fight! What are you dodging!”

“Beat the shit out of that little bastard!”

“Kill him!”

He Feng chose failure through constant retreat. But the opponent didn’t know he was a compatriot. Even after the result was announced, he continued punching him on the ground.

Among countless curses, he heard familiar, intimate, warm Mandarin.

“Little Japanese, I’ll kill you!”

The first match out of recovery and he was beaten like this.

He Feng was patched up and thrown back into the small dark room.

His whole body ached as if falling apart.

His head seemed to contain a radio, constantly surrounded by long radio waves.

He turned over, picked up a water cup from the table, and drank with difficulty.

He lay flat, looking at the numbers recorded on the wall.

Still needed to win 787 more matches.

He immediately became irritable and restless. Even if he won every match, his body would be ruined by then.

Faint music came from the distance again.

That violinist always played at this time. Whenever he heard the music, it could gradually calm his agitated emotions.

He Feng closed his eyes, his breathing gradually becoming steady.

He didn’t know what piece it was, whether played by an old or young person, man or woman.

Xie Chi’s image always appeared in his mind. He recalled the two of them walking hand in hand through quiet Nanjing streets at night, boating on the Qinhuai River, listening to folk songs from the shore and beautiful pingtan opera.

He picked up that photograph, looking at her by the faint light seeping through the small window crack in the iron door.

“Wait for me.”

…