Future Masters in Modern Times

Chapter 47: A Dark Past

This is a small village in a certain Western European country. The villagers who lived here led peaceful, contented lives. Spring has arrived, and the village children go out to play together. Among this group, one child stands out—he is a full head taller than the others and much more physically robust. “Berken, you little dummy, hurry up,” a child called out to the tall boy. It turned out that this child was Berken. Berken lowered his head, and a hint of hatred flashed in his eyes, but when he looked up again, he still wore his usual good-natured expression. “Coming!” Berken picked up his pace and caught up with the children walking ahead. Spring had brought new life to the little village. The soil beside the village was incredibly moist, and as soon as spring arrived, tufts of green grass sprouted along the path, dotted with tiny flowers—a truly beautiful sight. “We’re almost there! There’s a big tree up ahead with lots of bird nests in it,” one child exclaimed, jumping up with joy. At these words, the other children grew excited, and Berken laughed along with them. Yet his smile looked somewhat forced no matter how you looked at it; it was hard to imagine that a child could put on such a false facade. After walking for about ten minutes, a large tree came into view. The tree was so thick that several children couldn’t encircle it with their arms, and its roots jutted out of the ground, stretching far into the distance. Upon seeing the tree, the children quickened their pace, as if they could already see the baby birds in the nest. They walked to the base of the tree and looked up at its dense foliage. Upon closer inspection, they could just make out a bird’s nest high up in the branches. But it was too high—how could they reach the baby birds? “Berken, Berken, you climb up! I’ll stand on your shoulders to reach the birds—will you hold on tight?” Berken smiled with his usual good-natured expression and said, “No problem.” Berken clung to the tree roots, stepping from branch to branch, and slowly climbed up until he could go no further. Like a monkey, a child followed right behind Berken up the tree. The two stood on the same branch—it was thick enough that they didn’t have to worry about it breaking. Berken stood on the branch, hugged the tree tightly, and crouched down. The other child nimbly climbed onto Berken’s shoulders and slowly stood up, just reaching the bird’s nest. “I got it!” the child shouted excitedly. A smile spread across Berken’s face as he crouched below—after all, he was just a kid himself. The child climbed down from Berken’s shoulders, carrying the chirping little bird, and then slid down the tree himself. The group of children immediately surrounded the child who had climbed down from the tree with the bird, all eager to get a closer look at the little bird. But they had forgotten about Berken, who was still up in the tree. Left all by himself, Berken clung tightly to the tree trunk and slid down. He walked toward the children, wanting to squeeze in and take a look at the little bird himself. Berken was quite strong, and he pushed a few of the children aside. The children were taken aback and didn’t like that, so they immediately pushed Berken aside. “What are you pushing for, you clumsy bear?” Berken stammered, whispering, “But… but I helped with that little bird, too. Let me touch it!” “We’re taking turns, so you’ll have to wait!” The child turned his back on Berken and ignored him. Berken was taken aback for a moment, then clenched his fists before relaxing them. He stood silently to the side, idly kicking a pebble. Only when the children had all grown tired of playing did he step forward. “Let me play with it!” he said, looking eager. The boy holding the little bird hesitated for a moment, then handed it to him. The little bird felt soft and warm in his hand—it felt absolutely wonderful. The little bird in Berken’s palm looked especially adorable. Berken’s eyes were vacant; he didn’t know what he was thinking, but the hand holding the bird kept trembling. “Why?” he asked himself. He had always believed that everyone around him was taking advantage of him and mocking him. His mind went blank, and everything fell silent. The little bird’s voice was gone, too. Berken opened his fist, which he had clenched just a moment ago; in his palm, the little bird was already dead. “Are you done playing? Give it to me,” the boy said, approaching Berken to demand the little bird. “Heh.” Berken looked up, a strange, grimacing smile on his face. “Here, take it back!” A dark, shapeless object was flung into his face. The boy stared at it and burst into tears with a cry of “Waaah!” It was a dead bird. Berken panted heavily as he took off running. Behind him, the scene was in an uproar. Late in the evening, Berken made his way home through the city. “Thud.” A thick wooden stick came down hard on Berken’s leg, and his father—a middle-aged man with brown hair and a red nose—was giving Berken a harsh beating. Berken remained expressionless, letting the wooden stick strike him blow after blow. When he grew tired of beating him, Berken’s father flung the stick aside with a “clang” and kicked Berken in the buttocks, sending him stumbling forward several steps. “Go to bed! You’re not getting any food tonight,” Berken’s father barked angrily. Berken shuffled like a walking corpse, step by step, into his room. The next morning, when Berken’s father woke up, he let out a scream. It’s hard to imagine what it’s like to hear a grown man scream. Why did he scream? Because his room was littered with dead chickens and ducks—there were even some on his bed. The stench was nauseating. That day, nearly all the chickens and ducks in the village died. That day, Berken went missing. Eight years later, a new boxer named Berken joined King’s Club... At this club, Berken became the champion; no one ever survived a fight against him, and he was also famous for the immense power of his punches. Accompanying him was a coach named Anke. Coach Anke had been training Berken for eight years. He had initially decided to take Berken under his wing because he saw his potential—but only so he could have a tool to make money for himself. During his years at the King’s Club, Berken naturally made a great deal of money for Coach Anke. One night, three years later, a burly man left the King’s Club. His face was grim, and a hint of bloodlust still lingered in his eyes. It was Berken; he had left the King’s Club. Moreover, Coach Anke was dead—killed by his own hand. Berken could never forget the lashes Coach Anke had inflicted on him while training him. Physical pain was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. He had long ago sworn that one day, he would take revenge on Coach Anke. He finally took his revenge on Coach Anke, and Anke paid with his life. Nothing he did was wrong; the mistake lay in having trained this devil whose mind had become completely twisted. Even the slightest gesture could make him harbor deep resentment—let alone those lashes, which truly pierced his heart. In front of the King’s Club, the neon lights shone with a dazzling glow. Standing in front of the King’s Club, Berken took a step into eternal darkness. Now, at a registration desk in the Siberian Training Camp, facing so many formidable boxers, Berken’s twisted soul continued to emit a dark, eerie glow. “Clang!” The last group of boxers stepped out of the cage and closed the iron gate behind them. They had all completed their trials—except for Zhao Wuji. Max turned around and looked at Zhao Wuji with a deep, intense gaze. After a long moment, he said, “It’s your turn, No. 105.” “I hope you’ll always be Number 105. I hope you’re the real Number 105,” Max thought to himself. “No. 105, you get to choose the number of wolfhounds,” Max said slowly in a deep voice. He looked at Zhao Wuji, observing his expression, ready to hear his answer. Zhao Wuji smiled faintly, folded his arms behind his back, and said, “Send them all in!” “What?!” Allen, who was the first to enter, nearly cried out in shock—Zhao Wuji was actually demanding that all the wolfhounds be let in. What had come over him? Max buried his surprise deep within. Had this “No. 105” lost his judgment? With a sigh, Max thought to himself, “There really is only one No. 105—no one can take his place. As for this Chinese man standing before me? Ah, let him do as he pleases!” The cruelty in Berken’s eyes grew ever more intense, as expressions of malice and contempt flashed across his face. “He really is a fool. Looks like he’ll be torn to pieces by the wolfhounds very soon. Heh heh.” Berken’s lips curled into a sinister grin.