Chapter 293

Lightning flashed, thunder boomed, illuminating the cliff face in an instant. Wind howled, rain poured down. Waves surged from afar, crashing against the cliff and spraying high into the air.

Before Wang Yan could react, he felt his body plummeting rapidly, water falling on him from above—he knew it was rain, for the thunder echoed in his ears. Instinctively opening his eyes, he saw water below; instantly, his body stiffened, arms guarding his chest, and he took a deep breath before being engulfed with a loud "Plop!"

His swimming ability wasn't great, but it was LV3. Combined with his powerful internal organs and long breath retention, he was a minor underwater tyrant—more than sufficient.

The feared impact with underwater rocks never came; the place was deep. He halted his descent, swung his arms, kicked his long legs hard, and surged forward with a powerful waist and abdominal motion, rising to the surface in moments. He kicked water, pushed his shoulder-length hair back from his vision, wiped his face, and tasted salt on his lips—it was seawater.

Under dim light, he saw clearly the steep, sloping cliff ahead. Wang Yan dove into the sea, swam to the rocky outcrop jutting from the cliff, pushed his hair back again, wiped the water from his face, then spat forcefully into the sea, expelling the unpleasant taste.

He didn't curse his live dad—after all, he wasn't injured, just soaked and disheveled, which didn't matter. He'd lived with his live dad for over three hundred years; he knew his live dad never made pointless moves, never threw him into the sea without reason.

He scanned all around, confirmed there was no danger, then braved the torrential rain to receive the system's assigned identity information.

Wang Yan, twenty-nine years old, had wandered across multiple regions within China due to war, then vanished without a trace.

The current date was June 10, 1940; this place was Syracuse on the eastern coast of Sicily. The sea he had just politely spat into was the Mediterranean.

After reviewing it, Wang Yan understood: this time, he had to survive and grow. His appearance and skin tone hadn't changed—he was still himself, a yellow-skinned man from the distant East. Where was this? Italy. The current leader was Mussolini. No matter how ridiculous Italy was in WWII, it was still an Axis power, aligned with Hitler. Today was the day Mussolini officially declared war on Britain and France.

He hadn't checked whether any Chinese people were here, because it didn't matter—his appearance made him stand out here. Of course, he couldn't blend in anywhere outside Asia; discrimination and abuse were mild—getting killed was common.

Still, there must be some Chinese here; after all, many laborers who went to France twenty years ago had stayed, and over the decades, they'd spread out.

His provided information was useless—merely proof he had existed. How he arrived here? That was up to him to explain. And no one would care how he got here anyway…

Shaking his head, he didn't stand there like an idiot in the rain. Wang Yan rose and climbed up the cliff wall by feel.

Along the coast was a road. Through flashes of lightning, buildings appeared in the distance. Wang Yan stood on the muddy road, surveyed the surroundings, compared them to the seaside mansion scene from Malèna—and yes, this was it. His live dad never made pointless moves. Still, he couldn't help mentally complaining: why not just drop him on the road? Why throw him into the sea?

Again, he pushed his hair back with both hands, wiped rain from his face, and took off running. This row of over a dozen seaside mansions—he didn't know which one Malèna lived in. And it was deep night, no lights on; hard to scout. He'd need time to identify it.

Thunder, lightning, torrential rain, fierce wind—he wasn't worried about noise. Reaching the nearest courtyard, Wang Yan didn't slow down, kicked off the wall, and vaulted over. Only then did he quiet down, peering cautiously through gaps outside to observe the interior.

Calling it a mansion was generous—compared to the future, it was nothing. Now, it was plainly shabby: broken walls, leaky roofs, holes everywhere letting in wind and rain. Wang Yan climbed walls and pried windows, switching positions several times, until finally, in the seventh house, the one relatively central, on the second floor, he found Malèna: half-covered by a thin blanket, wearing a strapless nightgown, revealing her mountainous curves and long legs, even asleep, radiating irresistible charm.

Shaking his head, Wang Yan vaulted over the high wall into the neighboring courtyard next door, searching and inspecting once more. Repeating this back and forth, after climbing over six walls, he finally found her in the seventh house—a relatively centrally located building. On the second floor, half-covered by a thin blanket, wearing a spaghetti-strap nightgown that revealed deep valleys and long bare legs, was Malena, alluring even in sleep.

People's aesthetics differ. No matter what others said, he loved her—especially her figure. Compared to Asia, women here in Europe and America were generally much fuller, with pronounced curves. And overall, women here were also stronger in combat. He'd experienced this many years—qualified to speak.

After a moment of reflection, Wang Yan jumped down from the three-meter-high windowsill, landing firmly on the muddy ground below. He walked to the gate beside the courtyard, tried pushing and pulling—it was locked from inside. Though he could kick it down with one foot, he wouldn't do that. Instead, he circled around to the back window, felt around, pushed it open, stomped, drew breath, leapt lightly, and slipped inside silently.

He closed the window, stripped off his tattered clothes and shoes, tossed them aside, and wore only a loose white pair of boxers, barefoot. He noticed a bag of bread on the table, grabbed a few slices, ate as he casually rummaged through the house. Conditions were what they were—nothing special.

Passing a mirror, he looked at his body, thought for a moment, and with a thought, colorful tattoos appeared. His live dad's system was an expert—though the many ferocious beasts looked chaotic together, they weren't actually disordered; those who understood could instantly identify each one, and those who didn't found them harmonious and pleasing.

He revealed the tattoos for one simple reason: they were rarely useful, but they were a system reward—he couldn't let them go to waste. He'd be the Eastern thug.

Besides, his situation this time was bad. No identity, no background, no resources. If he wandered outside for an hour, he'd be arrested. So again, he'd return to his old trade: be a thug, become an underground king. Only after Italy surrendered and two years passed could he walk the streets openly. Of course, he'd never walk the streets like a clown—he'd just have an identity then.

Perfectly, Sicily was the homeland of the Mafia. Back when he ruled as a gang boss in Southeast Asia, he'd fought them often. Now he'd truly infiltrated their nest—destroy them.

As he thought of random things, Wang Yan turned to the kitchen, drank some water—the bread was a bit dry.

After finishing, he went upstairs to the room facing Malèna's, pulled out bedding, and lay down to sleep soundly. He didn't go to her bedside to be a pervert—she'd be his eventually; why rush?

The next day, his three-hundred-year biological clock woke Wang Yan early. Outside, the rain had cleared. People were already walking along the coastal road, heading to work. To avoid detection, he didn't go out to exercise. He rummaged through a cabinet and found a slightly worn pair of men's pants and a beige shirt—obviously Malèna's dead husband's.

Due to his build, Wang Yan tried them on—they were too small. He reluctantly gave up. He'd hoped to face Malèna as a normal man, but now it was impossible.

Shaking his head, he tossed the tattered clothes back into the cabinet, strolled past the sleeping Malèna, went downstairs, poured a glass of water, and sat at the table eating yesterday's bread.

He didn't finish it—just enough to feel slightly full. He saw there was barely any food in the house; he had to leave some for Malèna. Then he took from his space the long-unused, sharp-edged treasure blade, studying its intricate engravings—bored, he used it to pass the time.

After a while, footsteps sounded. Wang Yan glanced at the clock on the wall—6:30. He stood the blade upright, clasped his hands over the hilt, and waited quietly for Malèna to come down.

Malèna yawned, adjusted her slipping strap, combed her tousled hair, and shuffled down the stairs in slippers, looking drowsy. After descending the final step, she headed straight for the kitchen. She hadn't noticed before, but now her eyes widened: a man covered in tattoos, wearing only loose boxers, leaning on a pitch-black long blade, stared at her with bright eyes.

Instinctively, she froze, stepped back, opened her mouth to scream—but at that moment, the man's deep, resonant voice spoke: "Beautiful lady, don't blame me for not warning you—if you scream, I'll kill you."

She watched as the man swung his blade, cleanly slicing off the backrest of a chair. Imagining that blade on her own body, she swallowed her scream, stepped slowly backward until she pressed against the wall by the stairs, trembling as she stared at the Eastern man: "You can take anything you want from my house—please don't hurt me…"

She hugged her chest tightly. She was confident in her beauty, terrified the Eastern man before her would lose control—rape first, then kill.

Wang Yan shook his head and spoke in LV2 Italian, mumbled: "You needn't fear. I came last night—if I wanted to harm you, why wait until now? Relax, beautiful lady. Come, sit down."

Seeing the glinting tip of the blade pointed at her, Malèna shook her head repeatedly, yet obediently walked slowly to Wang Yan's side and trembled as she sat on the chair whose backrest had been cleanly cut.

She was a woman. He was a muscular man wielding a deadly weapon. She couldn't resist. Obedience was her only option—resistance meant a knife. She didn't want to die. She was still waiting for her husband to return.

"Good." Wang Yan nodded encouragingly: "Let me introduce myself. I'm Wang Yan. You can call me 'Wang.' Now, I have some problems. Would you be willing to help me?"

"Of course, sir. I'm honored to assist you." Malèna stared at the beautiful blade, forcing her voice steady, suppressing her terror.

"I'm a homeless vagrant, wandered here after many trials. But my skin color, my appearance—you've seen them. Your countrymen won't accept me. They'll report me. They'll call the police. My fate? Either killed by police or enslaved. How miserable."

Wang Yan mimicked the foreign accent as best he could: "So I need a place to stay. I need shelter from rain and wind. I need food and warmth. Beautiful lady, will you help me?"

"Sir, I think you might consider going to…" Malèna's mind raced, trying to speak plainly without angering the man—but halfway through, she felt a chill at her neck, shuddered, and quickly corrected: "I… I certainly… certainly would. If you don't mind… please stay here temporarily."

"Thank you for your help, madam." Wang Yan sheathed his blade, placing it before him, and looked at the woman: "I may stay here one day, two days, perhaps a year or two—until I'm certain it's safe to leave. Beautiful lady, any problem?"

"Of course, of course not." Malèna nodded rapidly: "But… but could you… could you please not hurt me?"

Wang Yan looked at the trembling, pitiful woman before him, hearing her say such an odd thing, and smiled: "I said it already—if I wanted to harm you, it wouldn't be today. And I won't let you help me for free. While I'm here, I'll pay you for my lodging and meals. But I have no money now—I'll pay you later."

Wang Yan looked at the trembling, pitifully delicate woman before him, listened to her say such interesting words, and couldn't help but laugh. "I've said it before—if I wanted to hurt you, today wouldn't have happened. And I won't let you help me for nothing. While I'm here, I'll pay you the appropriate amount for my lodging and meals. However, I'm penniless right now, so it may take some time before I can give it to you."

"I always keep my word." Wang Yan shook his head, then asked: "So, beautiful lady, what should I call you?"

"I'm Malèna, Malèna Scordia."

"Good, Mrs. Malèna. My current appearance is improper. Your husband's clothes don't fit me. I need proper clothing and ample food. If possible, please also bring me some books to pass the time. And buy me a map of Sicily."

"I'll go to town and buy them for you." Malèna rose to leave—but seeing Wang Yan's smiling face, she wisely sat back down, wide-eyed and pitifully asking: "Is that okay?"

"Of course, Malèna. But I warn you—if you report me to the police or tell anyone about me, believe me, Malèna, I swear to your God—you and your family won't survive." Wang Yan tilted his head comically, grabbed her chin, and grinned like a pervert: "Last night, I visited all your neighbors. They know things about you. Malèna, you understand me—you'll help me wholeheartedly, won't you?"

"Yes, sir. I swear to God—I'll help you wholeheartedly." Malèna hurried to promise. She didn't doubt his words—especially when he spoke of her not surviving, his eyes held cold, lethal indifference.

"Of course you can, Malena. But what I want to remind you is this—if you go to town to report to the police or tell anyone about my affairs, believe me, Malena, I swear to your God, you and your family will not fare well." Wang Yan comically tilted his head from side to side, reached out and pinched her chin, revealing a perverted smile: "Last night, I went and checked on all your neighbors. They must know things about you. Malena, you understand what I mean, don't you? You'll help me with all your heart, right?"

"Sir, it's still far to town. I may return at noon—or later. Please don't misunderstand."

"I fully trust your honesty, Malèna." Wang Yan smiled at her, repeating: "Go. I'll wait."

"Mr., there's still some distance from here to town, so when I return it may already be noon, or even later. Please don't misunderstand."

"I trust your integrity completely, Marlene." Wang Yan smiled as he looked at her, then said once more, "Go on, I'll wait for you."

Marina stood up, dared not look back, and slowly walked to the door, wanting to open it and leave. Behind her, the man's voice sounded again: "Marina, don't you need to change your clothes before going out?"

"Oh, yes, I should change clothes. I'm sorry, Mr., I was just… just scared. I didn't mean to run away." Marina stood frozen, turned back, and hurriedly explained to the man named Wang.

"I believe you, Marina. You needn't panic. It was my rudeness that startled you, left you flustered—I understand completely. Don't say more. Go change your clothes."

Marina thanked him repeatedly, first slowly, then after climbing a few steps, she couldn't hold back and broke into a sprint, vanishing from Wang Yan's sight.

Wang Yan shook his head, set the knife aside, poured himself another cup of water, sat down, and finished eating all the bread. He had kindly left some for Marina, but now it seemed she wouldn't eat it.

After a long while, Marina finally trudged downstairs, looking at Wang Yan, who had already finished eating and was sitting there: "Mr., shall I go to town now?"

"Don't you need to take my measurements?"

"Oh, yes, it was my oversight. I'll measure you right away. Could you stand up? It's inconvenient for me like this." Marina hurried to the sewing machine, fetched a tape measure and paper with pen, and returned.

Wang Yan naturally cooperated, stretching his arms while Marina's trembling hands measured him back and forth.

After another while, the measurements were done, recorded on paper, and tucked into her small bag. Marina forced a smile: "Then I'm off?"

"I can trust you, right?"

"Yes, Mr. I swear it before God."

"Go." Wang Yan nodded with a smile.

Marina turned, opened the door, and left. At first slowly, but once she looked back and saw no sign of the man, her pace quickened into a brisk walk. Only when far away did she finally exhale, then slow down…

Wang Yan went upstairs, lay down in the room he'd slept in last night, and rested. During the measurement, he clearly felt Marina's heavy breathing—she had wanted to stab the pen into his neck, but finally relaxed her tense muscles and finished measuring him.

Though he had acted like a home invader, the beginning was tolerable—after all, they lived under the same roof. Too bad his precious blade—its first appearance was to scare a woman…

With nothing serious to do, he drifted into such idle thoughts until noon arrived, and Marina still hadn't returned. Wang Yan, of course, didn't truly trust a woman—he rose and went straight to the attic of the neighboring house. He was expert at breaking and entering.

He pried a hole in the roof and patiently watched Marina's front door. Even if Marina truly reported him, he wouldn't harm her—after all, she was the mission target; he'd have to grovel and flatter her desperately. That part was unpleasant.

But Wang Yan thought Marina was a sensible woman. After all, to survive and avoid hunger, she had already slept with officers, lawyers, dentists, workers—once or even multiple times. So now, she wouldn't do anything foolish. She still had a husband fighting overseas; she wouldn't be so stupid as to seek death. Cowardly.

Still, caution was always right. What if Marina truly wanted to die? If he were unprepared, wouldn't he be caught like a turtle in a jar, truly becoming Wang Ba? Thus, a true man must know when to bend and when to stretch.

Only at three in the afternoon did a group of wild teenage boys appear, racing bicycles. The one lagging behind—Wang Yan saw clearly—was that pubescent boy obsessed with fantasies of sex with Marina, the one whose father had taken him to brothels: Renaldo. Their appearance—these boys chasing beauty, full of base thoughts—meant Marina was returning. And it meant she had wisely not reported him, not brought anyone back.

After all, given people's love of gossip and spectacle, if Marina had truly reported him, she'd have returned with police or soldiers in a vehicle, and these boys would have trailed behind for the show. So it was safe.

Just as the boys settled in a row, Marina's figure appeared on the dirt road, struggling under a pile of goods, slowly approaching. Amid the boys' hungry stares, she opened the door and entered the house.

Wang Yan waited another fifteen minutes, confirmed safety, then quietly slipped out, concealed his form, and climbed back into Marina's house—no, his future home.

Marina sat frowning on the sofa when she heard the window push open—and there stepped the man named Wang. She felt disappointed: just now, she had hoped he'd left, that he'd spared her. Now, false hope shattered.

She quickly stood, placed the heavy bags on the table: "I'm sorry I'm late. Here are clothes, food, and three books."

Earlier, at the town's police station entrance, she had hesitated for a long time, but ultimately dared not enter to report him. She hadn't eaten breakfast, then went to her father's for lunch, and only then dragged herself back.

Wang Yan turned, closed the window, walked to the table, and put on the clothes, pants, and shoes—a suit, leather shoes, even a shirt. The fabric was obviously poor: because Marina was beautiful, no one offered her real work—or rather, many offered work, if she'd sleep with them. Her only income came from her dead husband's meager pension. So she wasn't wealthy. These items on the table likely cost most of her current money.

Before her husband's death notice arrived, she could still beg two meals from her father's house. But after rumors spread throughout Syracuse, her father abandoned her. So she took that critical step.

Of course, all that is too distant. The film's themes of human nature, society—none of it concerns Wang Yan. If anything relates, it's only how a great rogue of the century began under such circumstances, and the related secrets…

Dressed, Wang Yan jumped and stretched, testing the fit. It was acceptable. The clothes were off-the-rack, bought by size, not custom-tailored—naturally a little ill-fitting—but decent enough.

He took off his coat, wore only the shirt, rolled up the sleeves, sat on the chair, and pulled out what Marina had bought: "Sit. Have you eaten?"

"I ate lunch."

Wang Yan generously invited: "Then eat with me. Don't be shy."

"Thank you, Mr."

"I told you—I'm Wang Yan. Call me 'Wang.'"

"Okay… Wang?" Marina awkwardly tried the name.

Wang Yan couldn't be bothered to correct him, nodded in silent acceptance, picked up a cake, and placed it in Marina's hand, then devoured his own. She had bought bread, cakes, and various oddities like Italian pasta—only a little meat. If he truly lived like this with Marina, he'd starve. These foods couldn't supply enough energy for his powerful body—he'd waste away in a while.

Silence filled the room, broken only by chewing.

After a while, Wang Yan asked: "Who's the richest person in town?"

Marina shook her head: "I don't know. I never asked about such things."

Wang Yan looked at Marina, confirmed she truly didn't know. It made sense—just as in the original film, no woman would befriend her, because they felt inferior.

He thought a moment, then asked: "Where do the Mafia operate here? Or—who's the most respected person around town?"

The Mafia originated in Sicily, with deep historical roots, extending into every corner. But they mainly operated in villages, acting as shadow governments. After Mussolini came to power, he cracked down on them. The Mafia sounds powerful, but they're merely organized gangs—no match for state machinery. After suppression, their strength shrank drastically. Yet due to history, eradication was impossible—they were reshuffled.

Now, the Mafia mainly concentrated in Zhongxi Force. In the east, their power weakened—but not vanished. "Mafia" is just a general term for all Sicilian gangs; thugs exist everywhere. So Syracuse surely had respected figures—resolving disputes, smuggling, organizing women, and other trades.

His plan needs no explanation: kill the current gang boss of Syracuse, then take his place. Forgiveness? Impossible. Must kill. Why? Because he's an outsider. To rule a foreign people, you must be ruthless—anyone who resists dies. Only then are the survivors true allies, worthy of petty favors. In short: a heavy club, a small sweet.

Italy declared war; many men were conscripted—they couldn't refuse. But most thugs wouldn't go. Not just from cowardice—they had money, connections, could dodge conscription, enjoy comfort, high pay. No one wanted to die on a battlefield for nothing. And the Mafia hated Mussolini—he was their enemy, causing them heavy losses, forcing many friends into exile.

Marina thought of the men who used to leer and flirt with her on the street, and shook her head: "I don't know where they are. But I know there's a bar outside town—many go there."

"Exactly where?" After hearing the address, Wang Yan asked: "What else do you know?"

Marina shook her head. She truly didn't inquire about such things. Even with her dead husband, they never spoke of them. Now, struggling alone, her knowledge was extremely limited.

"Eat." He asked no more. Knowing where the thugs gathered was enough—he'd learn everything later.

Wang Yan had eaten little in the morning, nothing at noon, and was now very hungry. He immediately devoured half of what Marina had bought before feeling full. Marina stared, dumbfounded: the food that used to last her two or three days was now gone—this man was a beast.

After eating, under Marina's confused gaze, Wang Yan carefully inspected the house and sealed every hole. He knew Renaldo had a peeping habit. He didn't want to waste time explaining reason to a child, so he sealed it shut—avoiding discovery.

After finishing, Wang Yan stopped, moved the old sofa to the corner, sat down with a book, and crossed his legs.

Marina sat quietly, watching Wang Yan work. Now that he sat reading, she remained motionless—she dared not move. She glanced here and there, occasionally stole glances at Wang Yan, then quickly looked away.

Wang Yan felt Marina's gaze. Being stared at constantly was unpleasant. He closed the book on the sofa, looked at Marina coolly: "Don't you have anything to do?"

"Huh? Oh, yes, I do! I'll do it now!" Startled by Wang Yan's sudden look, Marina jumped up, hurried to the sewing machine, sat down, and mechanically stitched and patched—finding work where none existed.

Wang Yan ignored her, sat reading until loud shouts came from outside—lights out. It was wartime curfew: night patrols forbade people from staying awake late or wandering streets.

Hearing the call, Marina quickly turned off the light, returned to her seat, and sat quietly, listening to her own heartbeat, sensing the breathing nearby.

In the darkness, Wang Yan's voice came: "Aren't you sleeping?"

"Ah, yes, Mr., I'll go to sleep right away."

"Call me 'Wang'."

"Alright, Wang."

With a reply, Marlena went upstairs, and soon the sound of a door closing came through.

She was truly frightened, completely stunned. Wang Yan shook his head, stood up, and stretched out a huge yawn, his bones cracking as he extended them. He went to the kitchen, drank a cup of cold water, then put on his clothes, donned the black peaked cap he had dug out—belonging to Marlena's deceased husband—opened the window, and climbed out, leaping into the garden...