He actually has a girlfriend?
Dean and Rust temporarily put aside the troubles at home and rode their bikes to school.
On the way, they encountered students who had heard of Dean’s heroic deeds the previous day; all looked at him with newfound respect, whispering amongst themselves.
A petite Asian boy even stood at attention and saluted Dean with three fingers in a humorous gesture.
Truth be told, that hasty brawl yesterday had unintentionally redeemed Dean’s “bad” reputation.
In this country, being a sports hero was far more popular than being a genius.
“Hey, amazing Dean, those punches you threw in the cafeteria yesterday were beautiful—absolutely satisfying, just like Muhammad Ali’s final victory… I admire you. I’d like to share something good with you. Interested in trying it?”
A dark-skinned Mexican boy in a black leather jacket and ripped jeans stopped them at the street corner, a mysterious smile curving his lips.
“I promise, my stuff is stronger and lasts longer than the usual. With it, you’ll punch even harder. You can try a sample for free!”
“Get lost, we’re not interested!” Rust shouted at him, stiffening his neck, and shot Dean a look. Ignoring the leather-clad boy’s loud attempts to persuade them, the two of them hurried away.
“What was he trying to sell?”
Dean had a suspicion, but it seemed unlikely.
“‘Herbs’… Grace has warned me sternly: once you get involved with those things, your life is finished.” Rust’s face grew tense, voice grave as steel. “We have bright futures ahead—never touch that stuff!”
“Buddy, I hate it as much as you do! Anyone dealing in that garbage deserves to go to hell!” Dean cursed with real feeling, then asked curiously,
“He’s just selling it out here in the open? No one reports him?”
“So what if they do? Anyone who reports him will inevitably face retaliation from the powerful local gang behind him. And even if the school expels him, someone else will take his place immediately.”
Rust shook his head, worry clouding his face.
“As far as I know, the business has never stopped in recent years.”
“Who are the buyers?”
“Mostly rich kids,” Rust drawled, glancing at the luxury cars in the parking lot. “They’ve got the money—and a deadly sense of curiosity.”
Dean nodded.
“You know quite a lot. Just like your father.”
Rust smirked, a touch of pride on his face. “I usually keep quiet and observe. But you knew all this before you lost your memory!”
…
After that little episode, the two passed by the baseball field.
A familiar figure was already waiting there.
Seeing Dean unharmed, Bob’s eyes flashed with surprise.
Lucky, he muttered to himself, then went back to joking with his black companion as if nothing had happened, until Dean walked past. Suddenly, he called out,
“Kid, are you ready with your apology and your written guarantee?”
“You’re going to apologize to me?” Dean shot a sideways glance at the round-faced Bob, retorting, “Even if you kneeled down in front of everyone right now, I wouldn’t forgive what you did last night.”
“Last night? I don’t know what you mean!” Bob’s eyes flared with anger, then lit up, as if he could smell Dean’s fury; the smile on his not-quite-healed face grew even brighter.
Onlookers, sensing the tense atmosphere between the two, started to gather, eager for a repeat of yesterday’s chaos.
“But I’m in a good mood today, so I’ve decided to let you off for now… Go ahead and be your nerdy self. You won’t have much time left to enjoy it.”
…
“Bob’s just letting it go like that?” Rust looked incredulous—he’d steeled himself to get beaten up with his friend.
“We just called the cops. He’ll lay low for a couple of days.” Dean glanced back at Bob’s two cronies: a wiry black kid and a burly white one.
At the moment, he couldn’t deal with Bob directly—confrontation would be pointless, just the complaints of the weak.
This wasn’t the time for a desperate fight.
Better to wait for the right moment, gather strength, and land a fatal blow.
“But we have to take the initiative… Start by breaking the weakest link.”
Once inside the teaching building, Dean headed to the principal’s office, where Ulysses lectured him at length… urging him to apologize, not to provoke wealthy kids like Bob, and to focus on studying for college.
Dean could tell that the principal was a decent man—if it weren’t for his protection, in a less scrupulous school, Dean would have been made a scapegoat to please a wealthy donor.
…
But deep down, he could only apologize.
…
On the baseball field, the thick-necked coach blew his whistle, and the baseball players gathered on the sidelines to rest and drink water.
“Boss Bob, that guy dared lay a hand on you—he’s got a problem with the whole Desert Team!” said a freckled, broad-chested player, wiping sweat from his brow. “This afternoon, we’ll help you teach him a lesson.”
“Make that little pigtail kneel and call you daddy!”
“Drag him into the bathroom and make him eat shit!”
“I’ll use the pitching machine to blow up his pretty little face.”
The dozen or so burly baseball players grew red in the face, itching to rush in and tear the Chinese kid apart.
“Calm down, boys. Don’t go looking for trouble and get yourselves kicked off the team—you’d regret it! After this weekend’s party, I’ll deal with him myself.”
Bob nodded in satisfaction, touching the bruise near his nose. His panda eyes glinted with malice.
“For now, let’s just get ready for the weekend party—bring the girls, there’ll be plenty of booze!”
“You keep chatting—I need to take a leak!”
Bob’s black sidekick, Wazel, called out and left the field, heading to the bathroom at the edge of the baseball field.
He hummed a little tune contentedly.
His mind drifted over the past two years…
He was a black kid from the slums; his father peddled drugs, his mother worked the streets… They never cared about him. Scrawny and timid, he couldn’t even get into a gang if he wanted to.
He’d always been an outsider, with no friends, often beaten up by both blacks and whites.
But since he’d latched onto the rich kid Bob, his fortunes had reversed overnight. He became a “respectable person.” Those who used to bully him now cowered at his feet, beaten until they didn’t dare utter a word.
He’d lost his innocence—he’d had several girlfriends over the past two years.
Every few days, it was some party with booze, riding in fancy cars, seeing the world.
Life was looking up.
…
The more he thought of it, the more he resented that Dean guy.
A yellow-skinned monkey, daring to strike out at Boss Bob.
He should be groveling and begging for forgiveness!
No, not even that!
He wasn’t worthy to beg Bob directly—what if Bob softened and forgave him? No, he had to kneel to Wazel first!
Tap, tap, tap.
Suddenly, hurried footsteps echoed in the restroom.
Wazel turned.
Whoosh—
A dark figure charged at him.
A fist the size of a sandbag grew rapidly in his vision.
Motherf—! You dare ambush me?!
His second baseman’s instincts kicked in—he barely dodged to the side, retreating and putting distance between them.
The fist grazed past him.
Now they faced each other from less than two meters away.
Wazel finally saw his attacker’s face: short black hair, bruised features, eyes cold as ice. Wasn’t this the Asian he’d been cursing just moments ago?
Jerk, What’s wrong with you?
Furious, Wazel lunged forward, swinging his left fist straight at his opponent’s head.
Blind with rage, he was fast and fierce.
Dean never expected this wiry black kid to react so quickly, dodging the ambush and counterattacking.
That left hook, dark as lightning, shot right at him.
He could feel the rush of air.
Dean’s mind went blank; everything he’d practiced yesterday—so-called boxing techniques—vanished without a trace!
Training was nothing like real combat!
But his fighting instinct took over. His body moved on its own: left shoulder raised, chin tucked, like a panicked rookie lifting half a shield to block a bayonet.
Bang!
The powerful punch struck Dean’s left deltoid, which was protecting his chin.
His shoulder jerked back.
His body spun half a circle to the right.
In that moment, Wazel’s body was off-balance, exposed after his all-out punch.
Crack!
Using the momentum, Dean’s right hand whipped out, landing a savage blow to the black kid’s cheek.
A streak of crimson bloomed.
Wazel staggered back.
Dean slid forward, crouched low, and landed a flurry of blows to his jaw.
Proficiency +1, Fighting lv0 (19/100)
Wazel’s head snapped back, his vision blacking out. He collapsed, dizzy, his brain buzzing as he whimpered weakly.
…
Dean took a deep breath, wiped sweat from his brow, and locked Wazel’s neck in the crook of his right arm, dragging him to the bathroom door like a dead dog.
“Get in here!”
Rust, wearing a hoodie and clutching a brand new Nikon F3, tiptoed in after him.
He shut the bathroom door.
“Buddy, time to show off your photography skills—let’s get some masterpieces!” Dean beckoned.
“Isn’t this a bit much?” Rust hesitated, nervous.
“They’ve done worse to us. If I hadn’t been alert last night, I’d be in intensive care right now—when dealing with bullies, you have to hit harder and faster. Hurry up!”
Click, click!
A faint flash went off in the bathroom.
Dazed, Wazel felt someone stripping off his pants, a cold draft on his lower half.
What’s going on?
Are they taking pictures?
Why are they taking off my pants?!
He was too weak to move, his mind a fog.
“Come here, give him a good beating!” Dean issued his second command.
“He’s not fighting back now. We should make the most of it!” Rust looked at the pathetic figure before him and shook his head.
“Have you forgotten what they did to you? Hanging you on the baseball field fence as an exhibit, cursing and humiliating you in front of everyone—don’t you hate him? Don’t you want revenge?”
Rust’s face suddenly flushed red, his fists clenched.
Dean stared into his friend’s eyes, his tone nearly commanding,
“I once heard: the only way to conquer fear is to face it head-on!”
“Stop hesitating—be a man and hit him!”
The little guy gritted his teeth and launched himself at the defenseless Wazel, unleashing a flurry of punches and kicks.
Thud!
Thud!
“Not the face!”
Thud!
“Motherf—! You’re dead!”
“Kill you!”
“Stop… Stop, please… no more!”
Bloodied and nearly suffocated, Wazel’s defiance gave way to pleading.
“Let go! I can’t breathe! I’m dying!”
“I ask, you answer!” Dean’s voice was cold and unyielding as he loosened his grip just a little.
“Otherwise, your photos will be everywhere—your teammates, your girlfriend, your exes, everyone will see your… little thing, barely enough to pick a dog’s teeth…” Dean sneered. “Will you ever be able to hold your head up again?”
Wazel’s face turned white as a sheet—was this really the same idiot as before?
These tactics were nastier than a casino enforcer’s! He was starting to regret ever provoking this lunatic.
“I’ll talk!”
“Yesterday—no, the evening before—you and Bob drove off with me. What exactly did you do? Not one word left out!”
“You already know, don’t you?” Wazel was puzzled why Dean was asking about something he’d been there for.
“Cut the crap—talk!”
“We took you to the riverside park nearby.”
Wazel’s poorly equipped brain raced—how to answer without offending Boss Bob.
“We pushed you into the river.”
Dean’s heart skipped a beat. No wonder his clothes were soaked the night he crossed over; he must have taken a swim in the river. But was that humiliation enough to drive someone to suicide?
“And then?” he pressed.
“We just drove off,” Wazel hesitated.
Dean laughed coldly. “So you think the photos aren’t shocking enough yet? Let’s fix that!”
He hauled Wazel over to a stall, where someone had left a fresh pile unflushed.
Dean forced his head over the toilet, close enough to breathe in the stench.
“How do you think your teammates will like pictures of you with your mouth full of crap?”
“God! Please, no! I’ll talk, I’ll tell you everything!”
Wazel’s face turned green, nearly in tears. He’d rather take another ten beatings than eat that vile stuff.
“Boss Bob mocked you. He said that cowgirl dumped you and went to Los Angeles on her own. You were so heartbroken you just sat in the river, motionless, like you’d lost your soul.”
Wait—what woman?
Dean’s mouth hung open in shock.
His former self, such a coward, actually had a complicated thing with a girl? And got dumped?
He glanced at Rust, who frowned in thought.
“That’s right, there was a girl in a denim jacket who came looking for you once. Just once—she seemed unfamiliar, not from around here. I didn’t know you had a crush on her.”
“If you didn’t know, how did Bob find out?” Dean turned to Wazel. “Who was this cowgirl?”
Wazel was even more puzzled—how could this guy not remember his own woman?
“I think her name was Mona…”
Mona…
Thump!
Thump!
Dean’s heart thudded erratically, as if it would leap out of his chest. His face flushed, a mix of excitement and unspeakable rage rising within him.
When he first arrived, he’d found a scrap of envelope in the wastebasket in his bedroom, half a name visible: MO…
It matched the beginning of Mona.
The system shuddered, and his investigation progress leapt from twenty-five percent to forty percent.
So, the key to his predecessor’s suicide wasn’t just bullying by rich kid Bob, but something to do with Mona?
What exactly had happened between them to drive Dean to the brink?
If he could piece together the whole story, the investigation would be complete!
…
“Spare me, bro, I’ve told you everything! Even if you make me eat it, I’ve got nothing left to say!”
With blood dripping from his nose, Wazel managed a pitiful, determined look.
“Wash your face. Remember—today never happened. Don’t bully Rust again… or those photos… And you know what’ll happen if Bob finds out you sold him out.”
Wazel nodded in resignation.