The cool beauty forcibly bids for top A: Chapter 60

That year in Kowloon Walled City, a Boeing 747 would roar past overhead every few minutes. Its massive shadow covered this lawless “no man’s land” where daylight never reached.

Black water that would never dry flowed on the ground. The air was permeated with a stench of dead rats, sour swill, and cheap drug powder mixed together.

That day, a big shot came to the walled city.

Several pitch black shiny sedans squeezed into the narrow alleyways. Two rows of bodyguards in suits and sunglasses got out, rudely driving away all the street vendors and beggars on the roadside, clearing out a slightly cleaner path.

The young Fu Sizhou, who at that time was still a nameless stray dog, was hiding behind a pillar covered in psoriasis advertisements.

He had just fought with a stray dog from the next street over for half a moldy bread roll. His face was black and blue. Blood from his forehead mixed with dirt, plastering over half an eye.

That oversized T-shirt he had picked up from god knows which garbage pile had long turned dark gray, emitting a foul smell.

He had originally wanted to spit out a mouthful of saliva and curse “where did this loser come from.”

Until he saw that little boy getting out of the car.

He looked to be only about ten or so years old.

He wore a delicate, snow-white little shirt, a dark blue bow tie, and a well-tailored little vest over it.

Those little black leather shoes on his feet were so shiny they could reflect a person’s shadow, without a speck of dust.

His skin was white and glowing, like a little milk dumpling, tender and pink, as if touching it would make it bounce back with a “boing.”

Among a crowd of dark, gray adults, he was clean like an angel, or like a moon that had accidentally fallen into a filthy ditch.

The stray dog was stunned. That half bread roll he had fought so hard for in his hand, “plop,” fell into the muddy water on the ground.

But he couldn’t be bothered to pick it up.

In that moment, he even forgot hunger.

Those wolf cub eyes of his that were always filled with vigilance and ferocity, opened round and wide, staring dead at that refined little young master. He even forgot to breathe.

So there really were people in this world who could be this clean.

So not everyone was like him, born rolling in the mud.

That beautiful little young master didn’t seem to like the smell here. He slightly furrowed his brows, pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief embroidered with gold thread from his pocket, and lightly covered his nose and mouth.

Even that piece of cloth was white.

Perhaps sensing that overly burning gaze, little Yanzhou turned his head. Those silver-gray eyes accurately cut through the noisy crowd, looking toward the shadow behind the pillar.

Four eyes met.

The stray dog’s heart suddenly contracted. In that instant, he actually felt an unprecedented panic.

He subconsciously wanted to walk out, wanted to see more clearly that moon-like person, but he stopped.

He lowered his head and saw his bare feet covered in frostbite and mud. Then looked at his own blackened hands with dirt packed in the nail crevices.

Dirty. Too dirty.

He was like a rat that had lived in the sewer all year round, suddenly seeing light. His first reaction wasn’t to embrace it, but to shrink back in shame.

If he walked over, even just getting a little closer, that lower-class sour stench would definitely make the little young master sick, right? If he accidentally touched the little young master, he would definitely dirty his snow-white clothes, right?

That perfect moon shouldn’t be splattered with mud spots.

So this wild, untamed stray dog who dared to fight adults to the death in the walled city, retreated for the first time.

He put those dirty hands behind his back. In this deep winter month, he scrunched his entire body into an even darker, even filthier shadow.

Didn’t dare to step forward. Didn’t even dare to breathe heavily.

He could only be like a humble believer, hiding in the dark, greedily yet despairingly tracing that person’s outline with his gaze.

“Young master, it’s dirty here. Watch your step.” The old butler protected him as they walked inward. Little Yanzhou withdrew his gaze and followed his father into that tallest building.

Until that white figure completely disappeared into the building corridor, the stray dog slowly inched out from behind the pillar.

He stood in the place where Shen Yanzhou had just stood. There seemed to still linger a trace of extremely faint, pleasant fragrance, like some kind of expensive floral scent, completely out of place with the surrounding rot.

He squatted down, looking at that clean patch of cement floor, where the little young master’s leather shoes had just stepped.

He stretched out his dirty finger, wanting to touch that footprint, but at the instant his fingertip was about to make contact, he shrank back as if burned.

He rubbed his hand hard on his tattered T-shirt, rubbing until the skin turned red, rubbing until it hurt, until he thought he had rubbed it a little clean, before he dared to carefully, lightly tap that spot in the air.

“Clouds and mud, worlds apart.”

At that time he couldn’t read, didn’t understand this phrase. But in that moment, these four words were like a burning hot branding iron, fiercely searing into his young soul.

From that day on, the stray dog in the walled city had a secret.

He wanted to pluck the moon from the sky, but he also swore that in this lifetime, he absolutely wouldn’t let the moon get even a speck of mud from his body.

After that breathtaking glimpse, the stray dog didn’t leave. He was like a man possessed.

“Will he come again?”

This question was like a thorny vine, entangled in his completely empty stomach, actually even more heart scratching and liver clawing than hunger.

So in this mud pond where everyone was busy fighting for food, stealing, and barely surviving, a bizarre scene appeared: that normally most ferocious wolf cub who would bite people bloody for half a steamed bun, actually didn’t go grab food for several days straight.

He was like a loyal guard. Before dawn every day he would crouch in the shadow of that alley entrance. It had the best view, could see at the first moment whether any black sedans drove in.

His stomach growling with hunger, he would grab a handful of rainwater on the ground to drink. Sleepy, he would lean against the moldy wall and squint for a while, but his ears stood up like antennae, alert to any sound of engines.

He was waiting for his angel to descend again.

Perhaps the heavens heard the stray dog’s humble prayer. The next day, that motorcade really did come again. The third day, it came too.

Because the Shen family’s business negotiations had become deadlocked, that young master of the Shen family had no choice but to follow his father to this dirty place every day.

The stray dog got smarter. He didn’t dare approach, afraid his own stench would scare away the moon. He climbed onto the rooftop, through the tangled wires and gaps in signs, greedily peeping at that white figure downstairs.

He watched him kicking little pebbles at his feet out of boredom. Watched him furrowing his brows, disgustedly avoiding dirty water splashing from the roadside. Watched him standing among a crowd of fierce-looking adults, straightening his spine.

Every time he stole a glance, the stray dog’s heartbeat would race like it was about to leap out of his throat. He felt like a thief, stealing the most expensive treasure in the world. Even just a touch of gazes made him feel like he was committing a crime, yet excited him into trembling all over.

Until the ninth day.

The negotiations seemed to have ended. That imposing middle-aged man walked out of the building, a satisfied smile on his face. He waved toward the little boy waiting by the car.

“Yanzhou, let’s go.” In that moment, the stray dog hiding on the iron frame held his breath.

The wind carried those two words to his ears.

“Yan… zhou…” He clumsily imitated that pronunciation in his heart.

Not the “kitty cat puppy dog” that adults shouted in their mouths, nor any “loser” or “scumbag.” These two words sounded so nice, like lyrics sung out in a grand theater, or like that airplane passing over the walled city at this very moment, expensive, unreachable.

So his name was Yanzhou.

“Yanzhou… Yanzhou…” The stray dog curled up on the rusty iron frame, his lips silently opening and closing, chewing over this name again and again. Every time he said it, his heart went numb.

The motorcade slowly started up, leaving the walled city, only leaving behind cold exhaust for the walled city.

The stray dog watched the direction the motorcade disappeared in, not moving for a very long time. He pulled out a piece of bread from his chest that had long hardened like a rock. That was his food ration for these past few days. He bit down hard. His teeth ached from the hardness, but he smiled.

He didn’t know what love was, nor what the future was. He only knew that in this rotten world, he suddenly had a secret.

He had not only seen the moon, he also knew the moon’s name.

This name became the only spell that could keep him alive in the countless days and nights of struggling in hell afterward. Even later when he was covered in blood and thrown into a fighting cage, even when he had to fight people with knives to survive, as long as he silently recited these three words in his heart, he felt like he wasn’t that rotten after all.

Because in his heart, he held a clean, clean moon.

Since knowing that name, the stray dog no longer lived just to survive. He began to have a crazy habit, collecting “his fragments.”

In that walled city without internet, with blocked information, he was like a beggar picking through trash, rummaging through piles of old newspapers, expired gossip magazines.

As long as it had “Shen family” printed on it, as long as it had the three words “Shen Yanzhou,” even if it was just a blurry profile photo, he would treasure it like a priceless gem.

In countless deep nights permeated with mold and rot, using the faint moonlight filtering through the window, with that hand that only knew how to throw punches, clumsily, stroke by stroke, he recorded everything about him on paper.

“1998, winter. The newspaper says the Shen family’s young master won a piano prize in Vienna. He likes piano.”

“1999, summer. Gossip magazine photographed him at the horse ranch. He looks really good in white riding clothes. He doesn’t eat cilantro. The magazine says he picked the cilantro out.”

“2000… He seems to have grown taller. His legs are very straight, like that… like that model thing.”

“Heard he likes to drink that red wine called ‘Pinot Noir.’ What does that taste like? When I have money later, I’ll buy some to taste too, see what flavor it is.”

That dirty little notebook became his Bible. Every page, every line, was his reason for survival.

He carefully wrapped the notebook in plastic sheeting, hiding it close against the warmest place in his chest, more important than life itself.

But wanting to get close to the moon, just thinking about it wasn’t enough. Wanting to walk out, wanting to have the qualification to stand before that person dressed in designer brands, he had to become strong. Strong enough that no one dared step on his head. Strong enough that he could wash away this stench all over his body.

So, the fifteen-year-old youth walked into the underground fighting cage.

That was a true killing field.

No rules, life and death didn’t matter, only the last person standing could take the money.

The first time he entered the ring, he had several ribs broken. His left eye swelled up like a walnut. Blood plastered over his vision. His opponent was a two-hundred-pound butcher, choking his neck and grinding him against the iron net. The feeling of suffocation surged like tidal waves.

“Die! Rat in the gutter!”

The moment his consciousness scattered, what flashed through his mind wasn’t fear, but that somewhat blurry face cut out from the newspaper. That little young master wearing a white shirt, untainted by dust.

“Can’t die.”

“If I die, I’ll never see him again.”

“I haven’t smelled his scent yet, haven’t heard him call my name with his own mouth… I’m not willing.”

“Shen… Yan… Zhou…” He let out a deathly low roar from his throat. These three words were like some kind of ancient and powerful spell, instantly igniting his already dried up body.

The youth opened his bloodshot eyes, like an enraged lone wolf, biting off the butcher’s finger in one bite, then making a comeback from the dead, using the most primitive, most cruel methods to beat his opponent to the ground.

He won.

He lay in a pool of blood, his hand tightly gripping the spot on his chest, where his notebook was hidden. He cracked open his mouth, revealing teeth covered in blood, looking at the glaring white light overhead, and smiled.

From that day on, the walled city had one more madman who didn’t fear death. He fought the fiercest, struck the darkest, yet was the most law-abiding. As long as there was money, any dirty job he would do, except touching illegal substances and touching men or women.

Someone laughed at him: “Earning so much money and not going to play around, are you not capable?” He only coldly wiped the blood off his fists, not speaking. Those mediocre vulgar powders weren’t even fit to tie that person’s shoes. His body, he only wanted to leave for that person.

One year, two years, five years. He stepped on countless people’s shoulders, climbing up step by step. The scars on his body stacked layer upon layer.

Finally, in his twenty-fifth year, that stray dog who had once been chased and beaten by the bakery owner, sat on that mahogany chair symbolizing the highest power in Kowloon Walled City.

Kneeling at his feet were once untouchable big shots. Outside the window was still the dirty, chaotic street. But this time, no one dared call him stray dog anymore.

Until one day…

“Boss, there’s a deal. The Shen family’s eldest young master wants to buy a top-tier Alpha, to use as a tool for bearing his children.” His subordinate Jiang Xu said with a headache.

“Shen Yanzhou?” The man spoke his name, his eyes surging with obsession and madness. He stood up.

“Yes.” Jiang Xu replied.

“Put mine up for sale.” His voice was low, carrying a tremor of finally getting his wish.

“How much?” the subordinate asked.

“Whatever. Only sell to him alone.”

He used twenty years, climbing from the mud to the mountaintop. Not to see the scenery, nor to be some godfather.

Everything he did was only to polish himself into the sharpest blade.

Then, personally hand the handle of the blade into that person’s hand.

“Whether he wants me to warm his bed, or wants my life.”

“I will forever only be his alone.”