The Law Can’t Punish You, but My Fists Can

He was Mo Wuhen, an orphan who survived by begging. With his frail shoulders, he carried the hopes of his three younger siblings.

The cold, hard paving stones in the alley where he curled up as a child, and the blood and tears he silently tended to alone at night, made him vow never to let his loved ones suffer even the slightest abuse again.

When his bank balance finally grew large enough to build them a safe haven, he realized the word “orphan” had already been carved into his very bones: his little sister’s school uniform, torn askew; the bruises hidden beneath her sleeve; her pale little face outside the operating room, forcing a smile; and her words, “Big Brother, it doesn’t hurt.” Each one cut into his heart like a blade.

Watching the green waves flicker on the monitor, Mo Wuhen finally removed the mask of “ordinary” he had worn for ten years. The people who had trampled his boundaries would never know that the boy who always wore old sneakers had once casually bid on a castle worth tens of millions at a dark-web auction.

The figure who delivered takeout for others

could dismantle the most sophisticated military-grade code lock with his bare hands.

When the bullies received threatening letters with scalpels enclosed, they finally realized that this supposedly “helpless” orphan

had long since become the deadliest blade in the shadows,

and the only people who could ever be his weakness were the three little suns in his arms, whom he had to protect.