Future Masters in Modern Times

Chapter 29: Good and Evil

Asim was awakened by the sound of footsteps. Waves of pain coursing through his body made it unmistakably clear that he was still alive. “I’m still alive,” Asim murmured. Memories of that day kept surfacing in his mind; all he could recall was that frenzied attack at the very last moment, and then nothing. He forced his eyes open; the bright light stung his eyes, causing a dull ache. After a moment, his eyes adjusted to the surrounding light, and he began to take in his surroundings. The room was bright and spotless, clean and refreshing. Asim twisted his stiff neck and saw a vase of fresh flowers on the windowsill, still glistening with morning dew, now crystal clear in the sunlight. Asim sniffed the air deeply; the delicate fragrance of the flowers washed over him, soothing his soul. “It smells so good.” Asim couldn’t remember the last time he’d truly taken the time to appreciate the scent of even a single flower. Most of his life had been a chaotic whirlwind of busyness. The bed was so soft—he had never slept on a bed this soft in his entire life. Hanging above the bed was an IV bag; more than half of the solution inside remained. This was a hospital, Asim realized. Asim knew his boss well enough to know that there was no way he would have sent him to the hospital—so someone else must have brought him here. Asim felt that there were still good people in this world. The ward door suddenly swung open, and a blond-haired, blue-eyed doctor walked in with a team of nurses. As soon as they entered the room, the nurses sprang into action—some took his blood pressure, while others took notes. The doctor stood to one side, closely examining Asim’s injuries. “Doctor, please take a look,” said one of the nurses as she handed the doctor the data she was holding. The doctor took it, studied the records carefully, and nodded from time to time. Asim felt a little awkward; he had never been treated this way in his life. Back in his hometown, people didn’t see doctors like this. In his memory, there was always a long line of people waiting to see a doctor, and it often took half a day just to wait in line for a consultation. How could it be like this now—lying here while the doctor came to his home to treat him? “Okay, you’re basically in good health now. All that’s left is to take it easy and recover gradually,” the doctor said to Asim as he tucked his pen into his jacket pocket and closed the medical record. As if remembering something, the doctor took out a large envelope and handed it to Asim. “The gentleman who brought you to the hospital asked me to give this to you this morning,” the doctor said as he watched Asim take the large envelope. Asim could hardly believe it. “Is this… for me?” “That’s right.” Asim extended his bandaged hands, tore open the envelope, and pulled out a check, which fell onto the bed. “What’s this?” Asim’s hands trembled slightly. The amount on the check was more than he could ever have imagined—in his own country, this money would be more than enough to ensure his younger sister lived a comfortable and healthy life. He picked up the envelope, and a small piece of paper fluttered out, with writing on it. Asim leaned in closely, trying to make out the handwriting. A single line in Chinese. “Go home.” But the Chinese text had been crossed out. Beneath it was another line—this time in English. “GO BACK HOME.” It meant the same thing: go home. Asim was completely stunned; he seemed to have fallen into a strange state from which he couldn’t extricate himself. Suddenly, he threw off the blanket covering him, frantically yanked the IV needle from his hand, and struggled to get out of bed. His actions startled the doctors and nurses present. They rushed forward, trying to restrain him, but they were no match for his strength—even though he was injured. Pushing all the nurses aside, Asim fell to his knees with a thud. What happened next was a scene that everyone present would never forget for the rest of their lives. It was a shock that came from the depths of the soul. Kneeling on the floor, facing the brilliant sunlight streaming through the window, Asim raised his hands high. In the sunlight, his fingers—still wrapped in bandages—appeared incredibly rough, with fine traces of dirt still clinging between them. Yet it was with these very hands that he devoutly pressed his palms together in prayer. Asim murmured words that others could not understand. These words seemed to possess a magical power, with a peculiar rhythm that, upon hearing them, brought an immense sense of tranquility—as if one were returning to the womb, returning to the purity of the very beginning. Then, facing the sun-drenched sky, Asim bowed deeply and remained prostrate on the ground for a long time, refusing to rise. Who was he worshiping? Zhao Wuji? The gods and Buddhas? Or all things in the world? All of the above! A person beneath the windowsill, a vase of gently swaying flowers on the windowsill, and sunlight streaming through the window to bathe the world. One person, one flower, eternal sunlight—in perfect harmony. It was as if they alone constituted all things in the world. Watching the sunlight cast a golden glow around Asim’s silhouette, everyone felt an urge to pay homage. At that moment, Asim no longer seemed like a boxer struggling on the brink of life and death; his faith and conviction were infecting everyone present. Many days later, Asim packed his bags and set off on his journey home. He took off the simple boxer’s outfit he had worn for so long and changed into a crisp white shirt, looking neat and tidy. “I’m going back,” said Asim with a pure smile on his face, showing no trace of the madness he had once displayed in the underground boxing ring; at that moment, he looked just like an ordinary teenager. In fact, he was always just an ordinary teenager. In this world, someone who kills one or two people is called a villain, but someone who kills tens of thousands is hailed as a great hero and a great philanthropist. Perhaps, many years from now, Zhao Wuji would discover that he, having killed so many people, had unwittingly come to be regarded as a great hero and a great benefactor. He would never be able to figure out why. Wasn’t he a great villain? He had always thought of himself as a villain—from beginning to end…… Inside the cockpit, the roar of the engines constantly pounded against his eardrums. Outside the small window in the cabin wall lay an endless expanse of thick clouds. This was a transport plane flying above the clouds. The Duchy of Limes had no direct civilian flights to Siberia, so Zhao Wuji had no choice but to board a military cargo plane bound for Siberia. It was an old-model J-series transport aircraft; its performance was nothing to write home about, and the only thing worth mentioning was its astonishing cargo capacity. However, this stood in stark contrast to its clunky appearance and the harsh conditions inside the cabin. Every aspect of this transport plane’s design was geared toward maximizing its cargo capacity. Zhao Wuji was now aboard this transport aircraft bound for Siberia. The day after returning to his hotel room, Zhao Wuji received a call instructing him to leave the Duchy of Limes. Before leaving, he did one thing. He borrowed $100,000 from Amanda, the housekeeper, and left the entire sum with Asim. He didn’t need the money, because given enough time, he could make much more—without lifting a finger… Amanda had made it clear that Zhao Wuji didn’t need to repay the money at all, and Zhao Wuji didn’t make a fuss about it. Zhao Wuji didn’t need the money, and Amanda certainly didn’t make a big deal out of it. Not to mention that Zhao Wuji had even stepped in to save Adelaide and her brother while he was in prison. Zhao Wuji left without a second thought, departing the Duchy of Limes. Amanda’s butler did not accompany him—he had more important matters to attend to—so Zhao Wuji was accompanied by only one bodyguard. This bodyguard was named Sikov, a Russian-American who had lived in Siberia for a long time and was very familiar with the area, so he also served as a guide. The reason no one else was sent was that Amanda understood that, when dealing with someone like Zhao Wuji, no number of people would make a difference. If Zhao Wuji were truly determined to escape at all costs, who could stop him? Therefore, she decided to send just one person to accompany him, to avoid provoking him. As a result, the entire journey was rather quiet; aside from the crew on the transport plane, it was just the two of them. This setting was exactly what Zhao Wuji had hoped for, and he was quite satisfied with Amanda’s arrangements. The cargo plane’s cabin was divided into two sections: the rear, which took up the majority of the space, was filled with supplies, while the small forward compartment was reserved for passengers to rest. Inside the cabin were two long rows of soft couches, where Zhao Wuji and Sikov were seated. The other crew members were either in the cockpit or in the cargo hold, keeping watch over the cargo. Zhao Wuji had his legs up on the couch and was leaning back against the cabin wall, which vibrated in waves due to the immense horsepower of the aircraft’s engines. Sikov, on the other hand, sat upright on the bench, looking somewhat tense. Like most Russians, Sikov had a rugged appearance and was as strong as a Polar Bear. His black suit didn’t seem to fit him very well; it was stretched tight across his burly frame. They had been sitting there like this for quite some time. Sikov’s temperament didn’t seem as calm and aloof as that of other bodyguards; his heritage from Russia made him naturally outgoing and passionate. A large bag was placed beside him; as lunchtime approached, Sikov rummaged through it for a while before pulling out two bottles of liquor. “Authentic vodka. Care for a bottle, Zhao?” Sikov said in his accent from Russia, grinning broadly as he handed over a bottle. Zhao Wuji looked over at him; his blue eyes were filled with goodwill and a hint of subtle anticipation. “Thanks,” Zhao Wuji said as he took the vodka. With a flick of his index finger, he sent the cap flying off the bottle, and it clattered and rolled a good distance down the ground. Sikov watched Zhao Wuji’s move with a touch of envy, silently marveling at it, while he himself busied himself searching his bag for a bottle opener. “Don’t bother looking—I’ll do it!” Zhao Wuji said, seeing how hard Sikov was struggling. “Thanks.” Sikov eagerly handed the vodka to Zhao Wuji, his eyes brimming with anticipation as he watched Zhao Wuji pull off another impressive trick. After opening the bottle for Sikov, the two of them held it with the bottom facing upward and began chugging it down with a “gulp, gulp.” Once the vodka went down, Zhao Wuji found it too weak, but it was better than nothing. Sikov downed half the bottle in one go, let out a long sigh, and his nose turned red. “We’re not allowed to drink when we’re on a mission, so I’m finally getting my fill this time.” Sikov belched and glanced at Zhao Wuji’s bottle. “Uh…” His eyes widened—he’d downed half the bottle in one go, yet Zhao Wuji’s bottle was already completely empty. In his heart, Sikov’s admiration for Zhao Wuji deepened even further; Russia loves its drink, and it has always had a deep respect for those with a high tolerance. “Zhao, in all my life, I’ve never met anyone quite like you,” Sikov exclaimed. “You’re such a skilled fighter, and you can hold your liquor so well—it seems there’s nothing you can’t do,” Sikov said, gesturing with his hands, his eyes sparkling with excitement. Seeing Sikov acting like a child, Zhao Wuji simply smiled it off. “Our drill instructor is also a master, but I’m afraid he’s not even half as good as you.” “Far more than half,” Zhao Wuji thought to himself with a chuckle, simply listening as Sikov rambled on. Toward the end of his rambling, Sikov suddenly asked curiously, “Zhao, can you tell me—how exactly did you become so skilled?” Zhao Wuji chuckled inwardly. Was he really going to tell Sikov about his secret technique for devouring living souls? “Sikov, you have to understand—in our country, there are plenty of masters like me. I’ve been drinking leopard blood since I was a child, started training at age three, and haven’t stopped for over a decade. How could I not be skilled?” Sikov’s eyes widened, his mouth gaping wider and wider as he watched Zhao Wuji spout this nonsense—yet his gaze betrayed his complete belief in every word. It was no wonder Sikov didn’t doubt a word of it—the strength Zhao Wuji had displayed was simply too mind-boggling. In comparison, Zhao Wuji’s made-up story about training since childhood and drinking leopard blood wasn’t all that hard to believe. As they talked more, the two gradually became much more familiar with each other. During that time, the two of them had a light meal. As time went on, they gradually drew closer to Siberia.