Allen Thornfield had never thought of himself as stupid. If anything, he’d always known he was sharp—sharp enough to ace every single subject at fifteen and walk out as the top scorer in the entire college entrance exam.
But staring at the ancient-looking scroll on the desk, he felt a wave of headache rising. The pages were yellowed, carrying that dusty, time-worn smell that told you it had survived generations. Yet the symbols covering it… Allen had gone through piles of ancient-script books and still couldn’t match a single character.
“A book that’s basically useless, and yet people went crazy over it. I don’t know whether to laugh or pity them,” Allen muttered, shrugging with clear disinterest. He closed the scroll and tossed it onto the shelf like it meant nothing.
The night was deep and quiet. Allen stretched lazily, and under the warm glow of the lamp, his face looked pale—still carrying that fragile air of someone who’d only recently crawled back from the edge.
“A whole year of recovery… at least I’m not dead anymore,” he whispered to himself.
Just as he was about to sleep, a shadow flickered past his window—swift, silent, almost ghost-like.
Before Allen could even turn around, the shadow was suddenly behind him. The door hadn’t moved an inch; no one knew how the intruder got in.
“What is it?” Allen asked calmly as he turned, voice low and edged with impatience. Being disturbed in the middle of the night was something he despised.
“Young Master, the person you wanted us to find… has been located.”
Black Shadow stood with his head slightly lowered, a dark fanged mask hiding his expression, though the chill in his presence said enough.
“Where?” Allen’s eyes narrowed, and even his sickly complexion seemed to regain a faint spark.
“Fuhai University.” Black Shadow handed him a folder.
Opening it, Allen’s gaze fell on the first page—
a photo of a girl with delicate brows and a soft, mesmerizing face.
For a moment, he simply stared, lost in something he couldn’t name.
It was a long time before he waved his hand lightly.
Black Shadow vanished without a sound.
Allen picked up his phone and dialed a number.
“Byron Thornfield, I’m going to Fuhai University.” His tone was direct, leaving no room for discussion.
There was a stunned silence on the other end before an explosive roar followed. “You little brat—calling your old man this late just for something like that?”
On the other end sat a shirtless middle-aged man, a gold chain thicker than a finger hanging around his neck, the very picture of a loud, nouveau-riche boss.
Hearing the call abruptly end, Byron Thornfield let out a half helpless, half amused sigh. Then he slapped the round, firm rear of the woman beside him.
“Oriole, help me get an admission notice from Fuhai University,” he said.
“Boss, who could be so important that you’re doing this yourself?” she asked, her voice tinged with surprise as her slender arms wrapped around his neck, every move carrying a sensual tease.
Byron Thornfield let out a grumpy huff. "He's my son."
"Oh—so he's the young master. I'll get right on it," the woman said, instantly loosening her grip as she turned to leave.
"No hurry. We finish our business first," Byron chuckled, rolling over and pinning her beneath him.
The night deepened.
Allen Thornfield lay on his bed, a yellowed photo held gently between his fingers. In the picture stood a young man and woman in military uniforms. The man stood straight as a spear, lips tugged into a roguish little smile. The woman beside him had a sparkle in her eyes, one arm hooked around his shoulder, her grin bright and carefree.
Even with the photo worn by time, it was obvious—the man with that cocky smile was Allen himself, just younger, softer around the edges. And the woman clinging to him… she looked almost exactly like the girl from tonight’s dossier. Seven or eight parts similar, easily.
Allen fell asleep clutching the photo.
In his dreams, two silent trails of tears slid from the corners of his eyes.
The next morning, during breakfast, Allen told his grandmother he wanted to enroll at Fuhai Daxue. She refused instantly, glaring at him over her half-eaten bun. But Allen was patient and stubborn in equal measure; in the end, the old lady could only sigh and agree.
She didn’t even finish her meal. She immediately dialed Byron Thornfield, and the moment he picked up, she tore into him—calling him a heartless ingrate and every variation of “white-eyed wolf” she could think of. Then came the warnings. The threats. She ordered him to send more guards, double or triple the protection. If her grandson so much as lost a single strand of hair at Fuhai Daxue, Byron would have to bring his own head back for inspection.
On the other end of the line, Byron didn’t even dare breathe wrong. He slapped his chest in frantic reassurance—so hard it sounded like he might bruise a rib. Only then did the old lady finally hang up.
Her nerves made sense.
Allen had vanished at fifteen—no kidnapping, no clues, no last sightings. One moment he was there, the next he was gone.
Byron had pulled every string he had, even put up a hundred‑million reward, but not one scrap of information surfaced. For the first time, the business titan who could shake the entire southern region with a single stomp felt utterly powerless.
And just when the world had accepted that the teenage prodigy—the kid who had aced every subject in the national exam—had disappeared forever…
Eight years later, he returned, just as suddenly as he had vanished.