Three years ago, he was “Lone Wolf,” the youngest special operations commander in the entire army and a first-class merit award recipient.
During a mission, he drove an armored vehicle off a cliff, trading his own life to save twelve of his brothers. His martyr’s certificate was issued and his memorial service held. After receiving the news, his mother fell gravely ill and died heartbroken six months later.
Three years later, he was Zhou Yang, the most ordinary deliveryman in Jiangzhou.
One delivery at a time, one day at a time. He rented the shabbiest room in a run-down neighborhood and lived next door to Old Xing, the mechanic. Nobody knew how he got the scar in the web of his left hand, or what the mark on his brow meant.
He wanted to hide. To keep out of sight. To repay the debt left by that war in the most ordinary way possible.
Until the day he accepted an order for spicy blood curd and offal, delivering it to the thirty-fifth floor of Dihao International.
The man who opened the door was the older brother who had been searching for him for thirteen years.
The woman at the company next door, who had dropped a photograph, was his cousin, who thought he was dead.
Old Xing, the mechanic at the mouth of the alley, had been sent by the military district to “keep an eye on him.”
And the eyes lurking in the shadows had finally fixed their gaze on this “dead man.”
He could hide, but he couldn’t hide from responsibility.
He could keep out of sight, but his abilities wouldn’t let him.
This delivery, he had to make himself.
Because some people are born to stand at the summit.
