Don't Forget Where You Came From

The judge dismissed Scarface's remarks as the ramblings of a madman.

Could there be anything more absurd than a criminal who exploited children turning around in court to criticize those who stood for justice?

"Summary judgment: Scarface is sentenced to the gallows!"

Following the judge's final verdict, the foreman of the jury began signing the sentencing document, as if unable to wait to see that ugly-faced criminal sent to the scaffold.

"Be grateful for the abolition of public hangings, or a scoundrel like you wouldn't even have a shred of dignity left."

Upon hearing the judge's final sentence, Scarface remained calm, no longer displaying his previous insolence.

He accepted his death with composure.

Even though Scarface knew that due to his special ability, he was destined to die in a manner ten times more painful than hanging.

The poor live simply to survive.

This was the truth he had learned over twelve years of exile.

That was why, on his first day back in London, he had fought and stolen with everything he had—all to experience what it meant to live.

Unfortunately, fate had always been exceptionally cruel to him.

Just like that snowy night over a decade ago, he shouldn't have been born into the womb of a starving, skin-and-bones laundress; perhaps then he wouldn't have had to begin a life as a wretch.

Scarface was led down from the dock by the bailiffs.

Just as he was about to step off the final stair, a strange, aged voice suddenly rang out from the gallery.

"Are you the Artful Dodger?"

Ye Yan, sitting in the gallery, looked at Oliver—who had asked the question—with some surprise. He certainly knew who the Artful Dodger was, but the age of the person before him didn't match.

No.

That wasn't necessarily true.

Ye Yan suddenly thought of his own situation.

He looked at the hideous scar on Scarface's face, suspecting that the man's ability might have the effect of preserving physical vitality.

Hearing the question, Scarface did not stop his pace.

"The Artful Dodger? Who is that?" He didn't look back, only cracking his mouth into a wide, laughing grin: "Before you stands only a wretch named Scarface, lucky Mr. Leeford."

Ye Yan's expression froze.

The man had denied it completely, but that form of address had said everything. As an orphan born in the Workhouse, Oliver's surname was Twist, but as the illegitimate son of a nobleman, Oliver should have been surnamed Leeford.

Scarface was actually the Artful Dodger, the master pickpocket known as Jack Dawkins in the original story.

Ye Yan had assumed that, aside from the protagonist Oliver, all other characters from Oliver Twist were already dead.

He had never expected...

His knuckles turned white as he gripped the railing in front of him, his thoughts swirling wildly.

The Artful Dodger also carried a coordinate mark of home.

He couldn't.

He couldn't let this man die!

Just as Ye Yan was contemplating how to break the deadlock, Scarface narrowed his eyes, his gaze sweeping over the ornate reliefs on the courtroom walls before finally landing on Ye Yan.

His cracked lips pulled into a peculiar arc.

The eyes staring at Ye Yan held a naked scrutiny, as if they could see through to the deepest secrets of the human heart.

"Billy, the wretch luckier than I."

Scarface deliberately drew out his tone, his shackles emitting a dull clatter with his movements.

"I only hope he doesn't forget where he came from. Temporary luck is not luck for a lifetime; naive children always like to pin their hopes on the mercy of others."

Ye Yan sat stiffly in the gallery.

He was instantly jolted awake by Scarface's words, "don't forget where you came from." The faint madness in his heart dissipated instantly, replaced by an unshakable chill.

I was actually thinking about how to save a criminal!

Ye Yan had always been self-aware.

He knew he wasn't a good person in the strict sense; at most, he was an ordinary man with a bit of conscience and kindness.

But regardless.

The most basic sense of right and wrong was always there.

Using any means necessary to achieve a goal was not something a person raised under the red flag should do.

Ye Yan clenched his fists.

Assimilated by this world in just a few short months—should I praise my own strong adaptability, or lament that the past twenty-plus years were lived in vain?

Ye Yan felt his thoughts tangled and chaotic, finding it difficult to even distinguish his true feelings.

He despised himself in his heart, while simultaneously trying to justify his actions.

It was as if a battle were being waged between his left and right brain.

No.

That was not it.

Ye Yan suddenly jerked his head up.

His intuition for danger allowed him to snap out of it just in time, preventing him from sinking any deeper into this inexplicable entanglement.

Realizing his state was off, he immediately checked the Diary; his risky venture into the Rose Garden this morning had unexpectedly unlocked the contents of the fifth entry.

Yet, during the preceding events, Ye Yan had not had a single moment to carefully read the text within.

[April 17, 1881 — London]

[Today is the day the trial for the case of the thirty-seven blue-eyed girls begins, and through the detective's analysis, we have finally determined...]

Ye Yan examined the contents of the Diary word by word, finally discovering a detail he had previously overlooked.

[The moon peeks, the sea returns.

Watching the phantom of the girl, I feel something hidden deep within humanity beginning to rise.]

When he first read this sentence, Ye Yan assumed it was just the Diary distorting his mental state once again.

After all, similar situations had occurred before; he would be merely a little uneasy, yet the Diary would describe him as "plunging into despair," or he would be absolutely certain, yet the words would claim he was "hesitant."

But now, Ye Yan realized he was wrong.

He had completely misunderstood the meaning of this sentence before; it was not a fabrication of the Diary, but a factual record.

Something was truly awakening within him.

Ye Yan suppressed the active thoughts in his mind; he felt as if two fighting fish were being kept in his brain, competing for food and stirring his emotions into a state of constant flux.

Consequently, without waiting for the judge to deliver the final verdict on Cyril Butler, Ye Yan left the courtroom ahead of time.

222 Baker Street.

By now, the renovation of the apartment was fully complete, and the freshly painted pine still emitted a faint scent, though the bookshelves remained empty, devoid of a single book.

Ye Yan arrived at the storage room under the stairs.

"Insight Door."

The strange rhythm of the Queqian Meter spilled from his lips, and a door appeared amidst illusory ripples.

Ye Yan took the key and opened the door.

He arrived once again at the Statue Gallery, then headed straight for the Samsara Bookstore.

[Welcome back, Administrator.]

The voices of Sam and Sara echoed in Ye Yan's mind.

Immediately following, as if they had discovered something, they let out a cry of alarm, causing the candles inside the bookstore to flicker without a breeze.

[Administrator, your soul quality has been afflicted; if you do not receive treatment, I fear it will damage your soul.]

The voices of the bookstore carried a distinct sense of urgency.

"How do I treat it?" Ye Yan asked.

[Read a book.]

The voices of Sam and Sara intertwined.

[The Sherlock Holmes Casebook you have stored with us is exactly what is needed to cure the cross-shell ailment of Knock.]

No sooner had the words fallen than the Sherlock Holmes Casebook flew off the shelf and landed steadily in front of Ye Yan.

[The Lamp will allow you to see your true inner self clearly.]