Chapter Thirty-Four: The Art of Concealment

Let us return to not long ago.

In the heart of the academy district, nestled between two middle schools, there stood a small audio store tucked away in a narrow alley. The proprietor, an elderly man who accompanied his grandson to school, sold old CDs and videotapes, the latest music gadgets, and, on the side, some used books and stationery. After school, most high schoolers rushed to the bustling street for snacks and drinks, and only a handful of students with artistic leanings wandered in to browse. Business was slow, but the old man with his sweeping white beard enjoyed the peace and quiet.

A boy wearing a flat cap stepped through the shop’s door, greeted the owner with polite respect, and set down his backpack. This middle school student, exuding a faint scent of lakeside air, was none other than our ill-fated Miles.

The old proprietor greeted him cheerfully. “Ah, little Miles! I’d wager you went to a barbecue party at noon?”

After their failed “prison break” two days prior, the group of middle schoolers ought to have received a stern lesson. Yet, having been thoroughly frightened by a certain gray-haired ability user, even the gym teacher, known to students as the “Silverback Gorilla,” didn’t have the heart to scold the tearful children. Miles, in particular, showed such earnest repentance and self-reflection that his punishment was merely to help out at the small shop beside the school during his free time, assisting the elderly man with odd jobs.

Yet, there was little real work to do. Miles spent his idle hours listening to music, chatting with the old proprietor—just as he was now.

He should have come in the morning, but his electric scooter had been taken from him. With a gloomy face, Miles said, “More or less… Sorry, sir, I’m late.”

“No matter, I’m just happy you’re here. Miles, would you change the record for me? It’s the red package on the third shelf to the left… Yes, that one. An old folk song from the West of the United States—you’ll like it.”

Miles carefully placed the record in the old gramophone, and the mellow sound of an accordion filled the shop.

The proprietor closed his eyes, savoring the music. He hummed along for a while and then asked, “So, what did you do, son? The last kid who came to help was a big fellow; said he got into a fight outside school.”

“I—” Miles almost blurted out that he’d been caught up in a superpower brawl, but realized the old man was asking about the reason he was here, not today’s events.

He stammered, “I tried to sneak home.”

“No wonder! I can quite understand how you feel. My grandson always wanted to do the same when he first arrived. Want to know his little trick?”

“Uh, what was it?”

“He could bend spoons. Quite the superpower, eh?”

The flat-capped boy couldn’t help but laugh.

“Ha! Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean—”

The old man stroked his beard.

“I know, I know, it’s nothing serious. Back then, he would say, ‘Damn it, Grandpa! I can only bend spoons, why do they have to bring me here? My classmates’ telekinesis can do anything—they should bring more like them!’ And I’d tell him, ‘That’s a pretty neat little magic trick, isn’t it? Try using it to strike up a conversation—your girl classmates will be interested.’”

Miles imagined a boy chatting up classmates with a spoon and laughed, “You’re so open-minded.”

“We have to look on the bright side, son. Once you get used to it, you’ll find life here isn’t so bad.”

“You’re right,” he muttered in agreement.

The old proprietor gazed at him kindly. “But I sense you don’t quite agree.”

“I…” After hesitating, Miles burst out angrily, “I really don’t want to stay in this place! In this city, even if I do nothing, I get swept into strange events and meet strange people! They’re all so powerful, each with their own abilities, or at least muscle. But what about unlucky fools like me who just get caught up? What am I supposed to do?”

“I want to go somewhere safe… I want to go out and see the world…” Miles mumbled in distress.

“Sorry, sir…”

He caught the delicious aroma of pastry—the old proprietor brought over a small plate holding a steaming hot apple pie.

“Fresh from the oven—would you like a slice?”

Miles took it shyly and munched on it.

“I imagine you’ve run into some bad luck today. You know, by custom, I don’t pry. I’ll just share an old saying: things always get better.”

“You got soaked with lake water today, but a few years ago, that wouldn’t be considered misfortune—the truly unlucky were bedridden, and the worse off lost their lives. You work diligently, never doing wrong, just wanting to get by. But one day—boom! Superpower users and monsters are fighting, your workplace is gone, and when you get home, your house is nothing but rubble. Look to the side—there’s a shootout in the street, bullets flying everywhere, and you don’t even know which way to run!”

The old man chuckled as he recounted tales that made the boy’s hair stand on end.

“R-really?”

“Ask your teachers and upperclassmen—they know better than I. Those were terrible times, and all you could do was pray. Pray not to get caught up, pray for a hero to save you… But look, in just a few years, our city has improved. People aren’t fighting in the streets anymore, and even when disaster strikes, like the Dragon Catastrophe, nobody gets hurt.”

“So you mean we need to learn patience?”

Miles looked at the old man, unconvinced, but the proprietor merely smiled.

“I mean, you must face life with optimism. The world is harsh, life is cruel, and misfortune comes around often—but you must believe, Miles, believe things will improve, believe there is good in this world. If you lose even that hope, then there’s truly nothing left.”

The old proprietor glanced at his watch. “I must hurry; promised to bring pie to my grandson. Miles, can you watch the store for me? Just half an hour.”

Miles agreed, watching the old man leave with more pies.

He sat in the proprietor’s chair, melancholy in his eyes.

Believing things will get better sounded nice enough, but was hard to practice. At least, he couldn’t do it now.

He might spend his whole life here, and every time the thought occurred, Miles felt unhappy.

What had he done wrong to deserve exile from home, locked up in the Sky City? For disasters like the Demon and the Red Lion, terrifying as they were, everyone could understand locking them away—but someone like him, who could barely spark a little electricity, was less dangerous than a handgun. Why lock him up?

He feared these powerful people, feared the chaos of the city, missed his family and old friends. He wanted to travel farther, breathe free air, see new people and places—even some remote backwater without cell service. Before he was brought to the City of the Skies, his stubborn father had finally agreed to take him on a trip to the United States during vacation… Now, it seemed that chance was gone forever. The thought made Miles even more dejected.

Jingle.

The sound of wind chimes at the door pulled him from his gloom, and the flat-capped boy sat up straight. He saw a tall, slender man in a green shirt push open the door, and instantly felt the old man’s words were nonsense.

In this world, bad things always came one after another.

Miles raised his hands, “Sorry, sir! The Walkman got turned into movie tickets—I don’t know where it is!”

The man in green looked puzzled.

“The Walkman is in your pocket, isn’t it?”

“I only have—” The boy reached into his trousers and pulled out a square Walkman.

“‘This Star Desperately Wants to Retire’”

He was utterly dumbfounded. He remembered clearly that he should have had two movie tickets in his pocket, given to him by the Demon’s friend as compensation! Could it be that this was the item those three were really after?

Miles felt unsettled. He racked his brain but couldn’t fathom what power the pink-haired lady had used to perform such a seamless switch. Suddenly, he recalled another strange event from today: this very man, with a touch, had turned a tree trunk into an electric scooter.

Were the two connected? Miles didn’t dare think further. He didn’t want to get entangled in more trouble. With sympathy and common sense, the middle schooler warned the strange man, “Sir, the members of Deathwing are looking for this Walkman. Deathwing is terrifying—you’d best not mess with them.”

“Hmm.” The man in green nodded, “What is Deathwing?”

Miles immediately realized the stranger was an outsider. Locals wouldn’t be ignorant of “the Organization”—even newcomers like himself, who had only lived here a few years, heard warnings about them from teachers and classmates.

“Oh dear…”

He knew he shouldn’t get involved with such strange people; most of today’s misfortune was brought by this man. But he was an outsider, unfamiliar with local norms—this could get him in trouble, just as it had today.

The kind-hearted middle schooler decided to briefly impart some basic knowledge about “the Organization.” Recalling an upperclassman’s lecture, he began to recount information about Deathwing…

·

The Demon, the Red Lion, the Doctor, the Sky Hero, and the newcomer Dustblast… How many have we discussed? Perhaps it’s time for a change—let’s talk about some who are different from the lone rangers.

Let’s speak of those even more terrifying—such as Skullface.

Don’t misunderstand: “more terrifying” doesn’t refer to their combat prowess—I personally think the ones I’m about to mention aren’t stronger than the previous—rather, it’s their influence.

Think about it: when superpower users battle across an entire city, what’s bound to happen?

You must have guessed—group action. Superpower users with violent tendencies submit to even greater violence, forming what are called “Organizations.”

In the past, superpower organizations were synonymous with the city’s hidden side, but in recent years, when the big names finally decided to intervene and clean up, they retreated and vanished from public view.

But remember, the organizations have always been here. Skullface’s “Deathwing” is one of them.

Deathwing operates mainly in the Fixed Wing and Savage Wing districts. They used to rule both, bringing death. In the past, they controlled the dark side of these districts, managing every imaginable—and unimaginable—transaction and activity: arms, drugs, assassination, superpower development, illegal experiments… Just hearing these terms tells you how nasty they are, doesn’t it?

Some fools think Deathwing is a kind of “yakuza” with a touch of chivalry. Well, a few members might have some principles, but most, the vast majority, are thugs, bullies, cowardly villains. Their conduct reflects their leader, Skullface—a cold, sinister man.

Their symbol is black clothing and wing tattoos; when you see people dressed like that, remember to steer clear.

What to do if they approach you? Nowadays, security is better, and ordinary folk aren’t that unlucky—but if it happens, do your best to comply… If things get truly bad, call the police, or pray for a hero to pass by, if you get the chance.

·

Miles spoke quickly and quietly, glancing around in fear that passing thugs might overhear.

“Do you understand now?”

The man in green smiled.

“I do. Deathwing is a bunch of little thugs.”

Miles realized all his words had been wasted.

“Have you loaded the song for me?”

“—Just a moment!” The flat-capped boy recalled the man’s request, hurriedly found a USB cable, and connected the Walkman to the shop’s old computer.

Several gray warning windows popped up on the screen, followed by an image of black wings. The monitor flickered as if infected, unauthorized links detected, and the relevant information and warning were sent out through the network to Deathwing’s headquarters. All files would be sealed immediately—

But at that moment, the emergency protocols failed entirely. The warning windows and wing images vanished in succession, replaced by three digital locks with unknown codes. The codes were then automatically entered, the device began running a special program to access the files.

Miles made no sound of astonishment; he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

In the middle schooler’s eyes, the device merely lagged a bit when connected.

Just as he couldn’t see through Kirra’s disguise, just as he couldn’t notice the changing appearances…

Ordinary people rarely see the truth.