That Year's Accident, That Boy
When Juniper returned, I asked her to take me to Quentin Vance again. Something told me he was hiding secrets. She suggested bringing him out during rest hours by pretending to deliver medication—a common practice for handlers.
I understood immediately. Juniper let me wait by the beach while she fetched him. Valerian insisted on accompanying me, claiming a weak woman shouldn't wander alone where criminals might lurk. When he called himself "powerfully built," I couldn't help but laugh.
The beach was pitch black, far from the docks. But the darkness brought me a strange peace—even Valerian standing nearby was barely visible.
Then I heard running water. I whipped around. "Valerian! Do you really have to pee here?"
"Seriously, how could you even tell in this dark?"
"Put it away!"
"I've already started—can't exactly stop halfway..." He paused. "It's too dark, I got scared, couldn't hold it."
I sighed. When would this boy ever act like a proper man?
The moon emerged from behind clouds, brightening the beach slightly. I couldn't resist asking: "You're weak, cowardly, not particularly bright—why insist on becoming a Sin Hunter? And once you became one, why push for Earth-tier and Heaven-tier when you could've stayed at Human-tier?"
"You wouldn't understand," Valerian muttered, crouching in the sand, digging absently. "You were rated Heaven-tier from your first mission. How could you possibly understand someone just slightly weaker than you?"
"Maybe I could. Try me."
"Penalty missions," he said quietly. "They're all about making you uncomfortable. The criminal gets punished, sure, but they already hurt someone. Every time I finish a mission and look at the person I've captured, I think... why did I only arrive after the damage was done?"
"So you want to reach Heaven-tier for protection missions?"
"Yes. I hate delayed justice—justice shouldn't have to be late."
"But you're completely useless—"
"Even weak people deserve to protect others!" Valerian raised his voice. "You're all so powerful, everyone praises you. But me—just because I'm small, my desire to protect isn't worthy of respect?"
Something tender shifted in my chest. I reached out and stroked his head.
He murmured: "Everyone laughs at me for overreaching, but I don't care what they say. I just want to protect someone—even once. I want someone to tell me thank you for protecting me."
"You will," I said softly. "You're weak now, but persistence gets answered eventually."
"Yeah, Valerian, you'll definitely achieve it!" Juniper's voice came from behind.
I turned. "You brought Quentin Vance?"
"In the truck." She pointed.
Valerian jumped up. "I'll go get him."
As he ran off, Juniper spoke softly: "Sister, did you know the apartment building has a recreation room on the top floor? Private mahjong, cinema, pool tables, juice bar—the only entertainment on this island."
"Didn't know. Nobody told me."
"Valerian and I never go there. You know how rooms are free to claim? A Sin Hunter once moved into a room Valerian had vacated, found his diary he'd forgotten to clean up, and read it aloud to everyone in the recreation room. Valerian became the laughingstock. He got into a fight—got beaten up, of course. Never went back."
"His diary?"
"Yes. Let me tell you what it said."
"I wish I could teleport. To appear instantly beside the weak. To save them from evil's claws. I wish for a beautiful winged unicorn. I'd ride it through the night sky, merging with the stars. Even in thunderstorms, in the swirling vortex of rain and lightning, I'd hold fast to my duty. My eagle-sharp eyes would find everyone who needed help. The unicorn could carry the sick to the hospital. Or I'd wield a sword to punish the wicked. But I have nothing. Still—I won't give up. Because somewhere in this world, someone needs me to protect them."
"The Sin Hunter read it aloud. Valerian was humiliated. He fought the guy, got pummeled. Since then, he won't go near the recreation room. Neither will I."
"His dedication runs deep."
"Valerian was always weak. Couldn't beat anyone. To salvage some dignity, he became the self-proclaimed boss of the younger kids—they called him their leader. Pathetic, really. His only authority came from younger, smaller children. The kids his own age never respected him."
"Sounds like him."
"Then came the earthquake. His hometown, Sichuan."
"He's from Sichuan?"
"Yes. When it hit, everyone followed the teachers and evacuated. Valerian went the opposite direction—digging through rubble. He was crying, screaming that he'd promised to protect them. Those kids followed him everywhere, tripping over their own feet when they ran, crying to him whenever someone bullied them. He'd sworn to protect them until they grew strong. He couldn't save a single one. They were pulled from the rubble by rescue workers—so small, so tiny."
Juniper crouched beside me, rubbing her face, forcing a smile. "He's fundamentally weak—can't even protect himself. Why does he insist on protecting others?"
"He's not—"
I looked at Valerian's silhouette in the moonlight. "Teleportation sounds pretty impressive. And a unicorn-riding knight—that's romantic. So people laughed at his diary? I think it's admirable. I'd love to have teleportation powers. I'd love a unicorn. He should say it proudly. I like romantic boys."
"Yeah..." Juniper said softly. "Who doesn't?"
Valerian came dragging Quentin Vance over. "Sister, should we leave you two alone?"
"Please."
He led Juniper away. I watched his retreating figure and thought—I should go easier on him.
Yes. No more teasing.
"Juniper, slow down! Careful—Valerian peed over there!"
"Valerian, are you out of your mind! Can you stop doing weird shit for one day?"
"Don't listen to her—I'm the little one, not the big one!"
"You degenerate—are you proud of pissing on the beach? If you do that again, I'll chop it off! I can't even walk over there, it's too dark and I can't see! Carry me!"
I was satisfied. So Juniper didn't call him "Summer Brother" when she was truly furious.
I turned to Quentin Vance. "What you told me last time—was it all true?"
"Of course it was true!" He was terrified.
I spoke coldly. "The year of the bus crash—what really happened with Cassian Vance's father, Zachary Vance?"
"I..."
"Don't try to fool me! Almost every survivor of that bus crash was killed by Cassian Vance! So many dead—don't tell me you never heard what really happened!"
"I... heard something."
"Then tell me everything." My voice turned dangerous. "If I catch you lying or hiding even one detail, I'll hand you straight to Cassian Vance."
"I'm telling the truth..."
I pulled out my phone and dialed Cassian Vance on speaker through the Judgment Tower app.
He answered. "What is it?"
"I'm by the beach, can't be bothered walking back. Can you pick me up?"
"Oh."
He hung up. Quentin Vance had clearly recognized his voice—the terror on his face was unmistakable.
"He'll be here in under ten minutes," I said coldly. "If I don't hear useful information before then, I'm handing you over."
"I'll talk! I'll tell you everything..." He finally surrendered. "That year, when the bus crashed, we all agreed to say it was his father who grabbed the wheel. He did grab the wheel—but things weren't that simple."
"What really happened?"
That year.
Cassian Vance's father, Zachary Vance, was returning home with fellow villagers on a long-distance bus.
In the days before mobile payments, every worker clutched their hard-earned cash, terrified of thieves.
Bus routes during Spring Festival were plagued by robbers—knife-wielding gangs who terrorized passengers.
The bus was stopped by people standing by the roadside, claiming they'd been abandoned by their long-distance bus and needed a ride.
The passengers weren't surprised. Long-distance buses had a reputation. abusive drivers, arbitrary overcharging, random unloading of passengers at the driver's convenience.
Some buses would load passengers at the station, drive halfway, then force everyone off at some random exit before returning to pick up another fare. The stranded passengers, luggage in tow, walking in freezing drizzle with nowhere to turn.
So when these stranded passengers waved for help, people felt sympathetic. They were just doing a good deed, right? And the stranded passengers even offered extra money. The greedy driver was happy to oblige—overloading was his specialty anyway.
Only Zachary Vance grabbed the steering wheel and warned the driver not to open the door.
Something was wrong, he said. Why were these stranded passengers all able-bodied men? Not a single woman?
The number didn't add up, either. If the driver was dumping passengers, he'd dump everyone at once—why only this small group?
The passengers dismissed his concerns. The people were probably just ordinary travelers who'd been waiting for ages.
Then two women with babies stepped out from behind nearby trees—they'd been using the bathroom. Convinced, the passengers overruled Zachary Vance and opened the doors.
The stranded passengers boarded cheerfully, chatting amiably. But when the bus reached a more isolated stretch of road, they revealed themselves as robbers.
When the knives came out, Zachary Vance remembered everyone's promises. He shouted and charged at them.
But when he grabbed for a knife and looked back—the entire bus sat in obedient silence. No one dared raise their heads.
They'd promised: whoever chickened out was a coward.
In the end, only one man wasn't a coward.
The fight spilled toward the driver. The bus lost control and plunged from the mountain road.
The crash didn't initially kill that many people. Survivors climbed out of the wreckage while the injured screamed for help, trapped inside.
As flames erupted, the survivors froze.
What now?
How would they explain this to everyone back home?
They were all from the same villages—relatives, neighbors, people who'd organized this trip together.
If the truth came out, they'd never live it down.
Then someone proposed: Zachary Vance had been burned to ashes. He was the one who'd grabbed the wheel. He was the one who hadn't been stabbed. Why not pin it all on him?
They agreed. Sorry, Zachary Vance, but you're already dead. Better one family disgraced than all of ours.
They made a pact. From now on, it was Zachary Vance's fault. But they also swore—whatever happened, they'd take care of his widow and child.
That was how they started.
But they underestimated the village's fury.
When the story spread, Cassian Vance's family became enemies of every surrounding village. Anyone who tried to speak up was shut down: "My cousin/brother/nephew died because of him! And you're defending his family?"
The hatred exceeded their expectations. And the more people hated Cassian Vance's family, the less anyone dared speak the truth.
Witnessing such hatred, who would volunteer to take it upon themselves?
In time, they even forgot their promise to help Zachary Vance's family. The truth was buried.
And from that day forward, a child became the son of a sinner—despised by everyone.
I remember it all.
Age seven. Cassian Vance had a fever. His mother carried him to the town clinic on her back.
The doctor's son had died on that bus. He sneered: "My son is dead, why hasn't yours dropped dead yet?"
Freezing winter rain. Nobody would give them a ride. His mother's hands cracked and bled from the cold as she bicycling twenty kilometers to the county hospital, Cassian Vance strapped to her back.
By the next day, her hands had split open so deeply you could see the flesh inside.
I remember it all.
Age ten. The teacher assigned an essay: "My Father."
Four students stood up and declared theirs was a good father who'd been killed by Zachary Vance, and they wished he'd be reincarnated as a pig.
When Cassian Vance's turn came, the entire class chanted: "We don't want to hear from the animal's son!"
He'd never cried, no matter how many beatings he took. But that day, he pursed his lips and said nothing. Walking home, he didn't speak—just wiped tears, desperately trying not to sob.
His mother went to the school to complain.
The teacher replied: "Do you really think you're the victims here?"
I remember it all.
When he got into university, Cassian Vance came to my house in secret and held me tight.
He asked very carefully: if we ever got married, could I look after his mother? Because her health was poor, she'd suffered so much. He'd finally made it out—now he wanted her to have a better life too.
His voice broke as he spoke.
I said: "Of course... I've eaten her cooking for so many years. We'll protect her together."
I remember everything.
Every single detail.
Carved deep into my heart.