C6 Unforgivable

Xia Liang vividly recalled that fateful night when his mother collapsed mid-sentence, never to regain consciousness. Despite the frantic efforts of doctors and nurses, she teetered between life and death, remaining in a coma without uttering another word. As midnight drew near, she quietly passed away in the depths of her unbroken slumber.

In the midst of this family crisis, Xia Liang had placed an urgent call to his superior, who assured him the message would reach "that person." Yet, "that person" never came.

The following morning, after a night of tears and being cradled to sleep by a compassionate nurse, Xia Liang was abruptly awakened. On the hospital's massive LCD screen, he caught sight of "that person" for the first time since the tragedy. There he was, holding a sleeping, sickly girl, standing before a backdrop of rubble. Amidst a sea of reporters and a chorus of applause, he received the Medal of Honor for Guardians of the City from the mayor, his face a mask of stoic resolve.

From that moment, Xia Liang could no longer see "that person" as his father. To him, this man was a hero to others but the villain who shattered his own family. He was far from the ideal husband or father.

Xia Liang's memories were clear: from childhood illnesses, hospital stays, surgeries, birthdays, to parent-teacher meetings, that man was absent. He and his mother lived a life of concealment and assumed names, always in fear of criminal retaliation.

"That person" was too consumed with his duties to come home even once a month. The money he earned, often at great personal risk, mostly went to support the families of fallen comrades, disaster relief, and orphans. The little he brought home was never enough.

With no financial support, his mother resorted to grueling odd jobs, constantly moving and unable to secure steady work. Already weakened by childbirth and insufficient rest, her health deteriorated under the strain of her relentless toil.

Now, as his mother lay dead in the hospital, "that person" was absent once more, too preoccupied with public accolades to return promptly. Instead, he was on television, accepting honors, while Xia Liang grappled with a profound sense of abandonment and loss.

Xia Liang couldn't help but wonder if that man was truly his mother's husband, his own father. After her passing, he never again referred to that man as "father," nor did he speak to him.

That man went out of his way to win over Xia Liang, buying him toys and even taking unprecedented time off to bring him to the amusement park. But Xia Liang remained silent, never uttering a single word to him.

For two years, the relationship between father and son was strained. Then, out of the blue and without any forewarning, that man made the ultimate sacrifice during a mission. His final message was, "Dad's on a mission and will return in a couple of days." Instead, an urn was returned.

At the funeral, Xia Liang watched in a daze as the coffin holding that man's ashes, draped in the national flag, was slowly lowered into the grave. He tried to speak, but no sound came out—his voice lost from disuse. Tears streamed down his face uncontrollably.

Since his father's death, Xia Liang had been under the care of Uncle Yao, his father's superior. But Xia Liang resented Uncle Yao, constantly opposing him at every turn.

Uncle Yao had set him up in a cozy, clean apartment, which Xia Liang, usually a stickler for cleanliness, deliberately turned into a chaotic dump. Uncle Yao enrolled him in the best schools and classes, hoping he would apply himself. Yet Xia Liang, who was capable of good grades, chose to slack off, becoming a troublemaker and infuriating his teachers and the school principal.

Xia Liang wasn't entirely sure why he felt compelled to rebel. He just had an urge to resist, to ruin everything, and to get a kick out of watching Uncle Yao's frustration as he cleaned up the aftermath.

"Heroes? There are no real heroes in this world, and society doesn't need them. I, Xia Liang, will only rely on myself. If I face danger, even if it means death at the hands of a villain or a malevolent spirit, I won't expect a hero to save me, nor will I seek help from anyone!"

Xia Liang, seething with anger, sat up abruptly. He stripped off his school uniform, tossing it onto the sofa, then grabbed a set of shorts and a short-sleeved shirt from his closet. After slipping into a pair of sandals, he snatched his bulging wallet from the shoe rack by the door and stormed out with a slam.

...

Within ten minutes, Xia Liang was ensconced in a nearby cybercafe, headphones on, fully immersed in the competitive world of League of Legends.

The cacophony of virtual combat blared through his headphones, effectively drowning out every other sound in the world—especially those he loathed.

Though the game was designed for team play, requiring coordination with online allies, Xia Liang was in no mood for collaboration. Ignoring his teammates' curses, he charged through the game with reckless abandon, taking on adversaries single-handedly, whether they were solo or in groups, his approach as wild as it was relentless.

He played nonstop until well past eight in the evening, foregoing both food and drink.

Exhausted, Xia Liang finally removed his headphones, shut down the game with a click of his mouse, and rose to pay at the front desk.

As he paid, he crammed the change handed to him by the cafe manager into his already stuffed wallet, which was thick with a stack of hundred-dollar bills—a surprising show of generosity from the organization backing "that person."

With no income of his own, Xia Liang didn't decline the money. He felt entitled to it, spending freely and never pinching pennies.

After leaving the cafe, he didn't catch the covetous glance that followed his wallet. Hungry, he stopped at a night stall for a bowl of pea noodles before heading home.

Approaching a small park near his residence, Xia Liang's path was suddenly obstructed by two smoking men rising from a nearby flowerbed. Bathed in the glow of the streetlight, one sported yellow hair, the other a scrappy, ruffian look.

Beneath the glow of the streetlight, Xia Liang caught sight of two figures emerging from the greenery behind him. One sported a head of dyed yellow hair, while the other was somewhat short and exuded a ruffian air, together obstructing his path.

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