In the darkness, someone was speaking.
"It's really cold out. Huh? There's a kid here."
"Oh, and the clothes aren't bad either. Doesn't look like a beggar. How'd he end up passed out here?"
Pat, pat. Squeeze, squeeze.
"What are you doing, Number Nine? Don't tell me you're a pedophile."
"Whatever. Look at this kid's bone structure, Number Seven. We need to find one anyway—better to carry him back than let him die here for nothing."
More patting and squeezing.
"He's on the weak side, but it doesn't matter if we take him back. He looks about ready to starve to death anyway. Pick him up and let's go."
"Okay."
What does that mean?
What do they mean?
What did they mean by that...
All at once, he opened his eyes.
Instincts honed over long years took over, and his gaze landed first on the pistol grip at the man's waist. The man was bending down over him; his hand shot out and snatched the gun into his own grasp.
For a moment, all three of them froze.
The child lying on the ground gripped the pistol with both hands. The man bending over him instinctively raised both arms. The other man, the one in black, instinctively reached to draw. The killing intent that burst out in that instant almost convinced them they had walked into an ambush—but a heartbeat later the two men exchanged a startled look and a smile of disbelief.
Because the child on the ground was simply too young, and looked so thin and frail. The safety was still on, and even getting his finger to the trigger was a stretch.
"Well, Number Nine, your first lost-weapon record just got written by this kid. Haha."
"Anyway... what sharp reflexes. Like a wild animal. He must be constantly on guard. We've struck gold."
"Hey, kid, that's not how you hold a gu—"
Before Number Seven could finish, a hard light flashed in the child's eyes. The instant his finger flicked off the safety, the gun went off.
Bang—the bullet punched straight through Number Nine's chest, and blood sprayed out of his back. The recoil kicked the child's hands upward. Number Seven had already drawn by reflex, but even as he leveled his gun at the child, he still could not believe it.
It can't be this child. Who's ambushing us...
That thought bought him a moment's hesitation. Then the shots rang out at the same time. A hole opened in the middle of Number Seven's forehead and he toppled onto his back, while the child took a hit in the right shoulder; blood instantly soaked half his body. Trembling in the pool of blood, the child actually struggled to his feet.
The same place I was hit not long ago—only this time... why does it hurt so much...
Yet the pain wasn't the biggest problem he faced. The biggest problem was where he was, and...
"Such a small hand..."
Staring at his left hand wrapped around the gun, he muttered to himself. This was unmistakably a child's hand, and his height had plainly shrunk to a child's.
Night wind swept past, bitterly cold. He looked around: he was on the street of some rather backward little town, hopelessly old-fashioned buildings and dim yellow streetlamps. He could feel the energy draining out of his body. A frail shell like this, and he'd probably kick the bucket before long...
Scenes from before flickered through his mind, and Fire Phoenix's words: "Then you'll get your chance at freedom."
A chance at freedom...
There was far too much he had no time to sort out now. In the distance, sirens came wailing his way. By force of habit he wiped the fingerprints off the pistol and pressed it back into Number Nine's hand, then, clutching his shoulder, he took a few steps—and the whole world began to spin...
In a haze, he thought of when he was small.
In fact, what memories he had of himself began at age ten, because Pei Luojia normally started training its assassins at ten. Of anything before that, he had neither impression nor clue.
Later he learned, of course, that every child Pei Luojia took in had their prior memories washed clean. If that brainwashing had been lifted back then, some memories might have been salvaged—but by the time he knew about it, it no longer meant anything. All it had done was harden his resolve to defect.
From the age of ten, every day he watched various animals slaughter one another, with the basics of an assassin's trade taught in between. Then came the blade: life-and-death fights with beasts, culling, and after that, competition among the children themselves. He had never been the best of them, and yet he had somehow lived. A miracle, really. Though perhaps even then his future defection was already sealed, because his heart had never once been at peace.
He had not touched that stretch of memory in a long time, yet now it surfaced vividly: in the darkness, a girl struggling with all her might, a small, slightly puffy face.
"Please, don't kill me. Please, don't kill me..."
Suddenly, he opened his eyes.
He instinctively reached for his waist, and his right hand answered with a stab of pain. Then he held out his left hand and looked it over and over.
"I really have turned into a kid..."
He ran a hand over his waist. The knife scar that a moment of soft-heartedness had once left there was gone—the scar from the first killing of his life, and the first wound he had ever taken. Now it wasn't there at all.
He looked around. It was a sickroom that struck him as thoroughly old-fashioned. Evening was coming on; past the window the setting sun was a deep red, and everything in sight was old-style buildings. On the white wall not far away hung a small tear-off daily calendar, its pages still fresh: November 3, 1991.
He wasn't much surprised. He only frowned, then gave a faint smile; a moment later the smile widened, and with his lips pressed shut his whole body began to shake with laughter.
Freedom. A new life...
In that moment, he felt it beyond any doubt.
Looking back now, his memory also began in November 1991—that was when he had just started his training at Pei Luojia. The two men called Number Seven and Number Nine that night must have been the assassins who delivered him to Pei Luojia. Only in his last life he had known nothing at all, and in this one his early awakening had changed everything.
His shoulder was still wrapped in gauze, sending up a dull throb, but to him now that was nothing at all. He worked at the cabinet beside the bed, trying to find something that would confirm who he was now, but inside there were only two sets of clothes, a thermal lunch box, and a few pieces of fruit. He thought for a moment, then crawled to the foot of the bed. Sure enough, a patient chart was hanging there.
Gu Jiaming.
What a perfectly well-behaved name. The corner of his mouth curved into a smile.
Still, he finally had a name of his own, and a faint warmth rose in his heart. Just as he was getting sentimental, the ward door creaked open, and in came a little girl with a schoolbag on her back—two small braids, a dainty oval face, very cute.
"Oh! Jiaming, you're awake?" The moment she saw him, the little girl ran laughing to the bedside and set down her bag. He instinctively pulled the blanket around his bare body; then the girl reached out and touched him—thankfully it was only a light touch on the bandage. "Does it still hurt? Are you better? Oh, wait here, I'll go get the nurse."
As she spoke she ran out of the ward like the wind. The child in the bed smiled faintly, his eyes resting on the girl's big schoolbag.
Four big characters were stitched on it in red thread: Red Star Elementary School.
Below them were three smaller characters, evidently the girl's name: Ye Lingjing.