Standing bare and dripping wet before the mirror,  
Shen Hao carefully examined his chest. He’d been so preoccupied with training lately that he hadn’t paid much attention to his body—until now, when he unexpectedly noticed a hard lump. Only then did he truly scrutinize himself in the mirror and realize with shock that his once-flat chest had indeed begun to show subtle curves.

They were faint—barely noticeable—but on someone who wasn't overweight like him, whose build had always been lean and toned, even the slightest protrusion seemed abnormal.

Staring at his reflection for a long while, he finally reached out and pressed gently on both sides of his chest. Hard lumps were unmistakably present beneath the skin. Unless they were tumors, the only terrifyingly plausible explanation was that his breasts were actually developing.

How could this be happening?

He was frustrated. He hadn’t taken any of the estrogen-inducing medication prescribed by his doctor. Could it be that the leftover pills had some lingering effect? Or had his body simply begun developing naturally after the surgery?

The doctor had mentioned he possessed underdeveloped ovaries and a rudimentary uterus, capable of producing small amounts of estrogen. Perhaps that faint hormonal presence was enough to trigger this unexpected growth?

But at twenty-four years old—without medication—it seemed biologically implausible for such development to occur naturally. Yet the evidence was undeniable. No matter how unwilling he was to accept it, reality stood before him in the mirror.

He stood frozen for a long time, lost in thought, until a chill running through his wet body snapped him back to his senses. Grabbing a towel, he began drying himself off.

There was nothing he could do.  
If his body insisted on developing against his original wishes—to remain unchanged—there was no way to stop it. He could only hope it didn’t progress too far. If it stayed as small as an AA or A cup, it might still be concealable under short sleeves, unnoticeable to others.

Though he sighed in resignation, accepting this reality did ease his frustration somewhat. Then, the exhilaration of having just broken through to the second level of his internal cultivation surged back, lifting his spirits.

As he stepped out of the bathroom, his eyes happened to glance toward the window—and the impenetrable darkness of the night beyond. A sudden, restless urge stirred within him.

It was just past eleven at night. The surrounding neighborhood was quiet, far from any bustling streets, and cloaked in deep shadows. Perhaps… he could go out and test his newfound abilities?

Once that thought took root, it burned brighter and brighter, impossible to extinguish.

Unable to resist, he changed into a short-sleeved T-shirt and shorts, put on his glasses, and was about to leave—when he paused, then dug a face mask from his drawer and slipped it on. Even if someone spotted him, they wouldn’t recognize him. That offered some peace of mind.

Fully prepared, he left his apartment, took the elevator down to the ground floor, and wandered through the residential complex until he found a dimly lit corner, hidden from streetlights. He looked up at the building’s exterior wall, steeled himself, then activated his internal energy and leapt upward.

With effortless grace, he soared more than three meters into the air.

At first, he didn’t realize how high he’d jumped—until he grabbed onto a balcony’s security grille and glanced down. Only then did the height register, filling him with exhilaration.

Bracing one foot against the wall, he pushed off again, ascending higher.  
After a few more climbs, his confidence grew. Relying only on rudimentary light-body techniques, he scaled the building with increasing ease, soon reaching a point roughly twenty meters above ground—about the sixth floor.

Hanging from the grille with just one hand, he barely exerted himself.  
To his left stretched a smooth, blank wall; to his right, a vertical line of metal grilles. He chose the latter, swiftly climbing upward.

Some apartments were dark—residents already asleep—while others still glowed with light. He carefully avoided the illuminated windows, wary of being seen. Even if his face remained concealed, being spotted scaling a building at night would raise suspicion.

As his movements grew more practiced, he grew bolder—no longer just climbing vertically, but also stepping sideways across the metal awnings above each balcony.

His technique was still crude, far from silent. Each step on the stainless-steel awning let out a faint “clang-clang” sound.  
But since he avoided lit rooms, most residents either didn’t hear him—or if they did, the noise passed too quickly for them to investigate.

He moved from one building to the next with gleeful abandon, reveling in the freedom of scaling urban structures like a nocturnal phantom—what some might call “Spider-Man”—though he thought of it more as becoming one of those legendary “Four Hundred Aunties” known for scaling buildings with ease.

This thrill intoxicated him. In that moment, he even thought: even if he hadn’t been born with true hermaphroditism, it might still be worth castrating himself purely to master the “True Scripture of the Sunflower.”

Of course, that was just the heat of the moment. Making such a life-altering choice would never be simple. Before training, who could be certain the manual was genuine?

Gradually, his courage swelled further. He even dared to pass by brightly lit living rooms—if he moved fast enough, he told himself, no one would see him.

But just as he thought this, he landed near the balcony of a brightly lit apartment—and froze.

Through the sheer fabric of the sliding glass door, he saw something unimaginable. His pupils contracted sharply.

Inside, two people.  
One stood over a body on the floor, holding a blood-soaked cleaver. Fresh blood dripped steadily from the blade. The victim lay motionless, his chest drenched in crimson, a pool of blood slowly spreading across the floor.

The man with the cleaver stood coldly over the corpse, staring down as if pondering his next move.

At that exact moment, Shen Hao landed with a loud “clang” on the security grille outside.

Before he could flee, the killer turned—and their eyes met through the translucent curtain.

Both faces registered pure shock.

Neither had expected to see the other: one clinging to the outside of a balcony grille, the other standing beside a fresh corpse.

Shen Hao’s mind screamed a torrent of curses. Of all the nights to practice his climbing, he had to stumble upon a murder scene—a once-in-a-lifetime nightmare!

In the split second their eyes locked, before Shen Hao could even process what was happening, the killer reacted instantly. He spun around and lunged forward, his left fist already swinging toward Shen Hao’s face.

This was no ordinary punch. It carried extraordinary force, whistling through the air with a sharp “whoosh”—a sound Shen Hao faintly recalled from somewhere before.

But there was no time to think. The fist came too fast. By the time Shen Hao registered the danger, it was already inches from his face.

For a heartbeat, he truly believed he was about to die. If that blow landed, he’d lose consciousness and plummet to his death.

Plummet?

The thought flashed through his mind—but his body reacted even faster than his thoughts. He let go of the grille entirely and threw his weight backward.

Just as he leaned back, the fist slammed into the grille with a deafening “clang!”—and punched straight through the stainless steel.

Shen Hao caught the sight from the corner of his eye as he fell: the man’s fist had torn right through the metal.

These grilles were made of hollow stainless-steel tubes—they weren’t flimsy, yet this man had shattered one with a single blow.

This killer… wasn’t ordinary!

His heart clenched in dread.

He hadn’t actually fallen all the way—he’d kept his feet hooked under the grille below, so his backward motion was controlled. Normally, against a regular person, this trick would give him time to regain balance and escape. The attacker would have to go downstairs and chase him through the building, giving Shen Hao ample time to flee and call the police.

But now? With a superhuman murderer who could punch through steel?  
The killer could easily tear open the grille and drag him inside just to silence him. Based on that punch, it wasn’t just possible—it was likely.

He wasn’t safe. He had to run—now.

All these thoughts flashed through his mind in less than a second. Before his body even fully tilted backward, he made his decision: he released his feet and let himself drop.

He crashed onto the awning of the floor below with a heavy “thud.”

As his body started to roll off the edge, he quickly grabbed the grille with his hands, halting his fall. Without looking back, and forgetting all about stealth, he released his grip and stomped down the awnings, “clang-clang-clanging” his way toward the ground.

In moments, he was back on solid earth.

Instead of returning to his own building, he sprinted toward the neighborhood’s main gate, acting like a random outsider fleeing the scene.

Before disappearing into the night, he glanced back—memorizing the building and the exact floor of the crime scene. To his surprise, the killer hadn’t followed. Far in the distance, the man stood on the balcony, watching Shen Hao’s panicked escape.

Even from that distance, Shen Hao felt the killer’s gaze like cold steel needles piercing into his back—as if etching his face into memory.

“What terrible luck!” he thought bitterly.  
“All I wanted was a little midnight practice—and I run into a monster like this?”

Once the initial panic subsided, Shen Hao regained his composure—though he couldn’t help but curse his rotten luck.

The immediate priority was obvious: call the police.

But he hadn’t brought his phone. Worried it might fall during his climb, he’d left it behind. He never imagined he’d witness a murder tonight. Now, he had no way to report it.

And even if he did… how would he explain it?

“Officer, I couldn’t sleep, so I went out for a smoke… and somehow floated up to the sixth floor, where I saw a man kill someone through a window”?

That wouldn’t just sound absurd—it would make him the prime suspect. At best, he’d be detained for questioning. At worst, the real killer would learn his identity and where he lived… and come after him for revenge.