Feng Zikang confirmed this fact through his own demise.

He had been an ordinary youth, treading the same path as everyone else—the dull routine of school, studying, waiting for the day he would graduate and become an adult.

Until one day, in a dark alley, he encountered two thugs attempting to assault a young woman.

Though typically not a brave person, he possessed the innate spirit of a young man, so he acted out of righteousness. As a result, he was stabbed thirteen times, bleeding profusely until he collapsed onto the ground.

The woman fled in panic, while the thugs whistled and swaggered away.

Feng Zikang might not have died; he wouldn't have, had the woman who escaped called the police or sought help.

But she did not.

He lay flat on the freezing pavement, feeling his own blood drain drop by agonizing drop, with no one coming to his aid, no one caring for him.

The wound in his throat allowed him only shallow, rasping breaths, leaving him incapable of crying out.

The night deepened. As his life force ebbed away, the stars in his vision began to whirl and dance, becoming illusory.

His body gradually stiffened, his consciousness blurred, and the courage, hope, and impulse that had once filled his heart twisted entirely into hatred.

I tried to save someone out of kindness, and why must I lie here like a dead dog? Was that woman too afraid to even dial a phone number?

Why?!

When the last drop of his blood had dried, his fury reached its apex. He discovered his soul leaving his body, ascending endlessly—upward, upward it floated.

Carrying a chest full of resentment and lingering hate, he traveled ever higher.

Passing through the atmosphere, traversing the vastness of space, winding past the stars.

Straight to the place beyond the Thirty-Three Heavens.

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