Chapter Sixty-One: The Importance of Following Rules

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Life in the cell was, in truth, exceedingly dull. Since all the inmates here were serving short sentences, there were none of the preferential policies for sentence reduction through labor, as one might find in a prison. One simply ate three meals a day and idled away the endless hours with nothing to do. Yet, even within this monotony, the rules around meals remained steadfast: the allocation of dinner, for instance, followed a strict hierarchy. Though each person’s ration was ostensibly the same, the cell leader would usually receive a larger portion, while newcomers often found themselves unable to eat at all for their first few meals, or received only a scant serving to stave off hunger.

Despite all the inmates dining together in the common hall, these unwritten rules were always observed—unless one wished to find themselves ostracized within their own cell. What surprised Qin Anyi, however, was the mysterious man on the lower bunk; even as the meal hour arrived, he remained soundly asleep, showing not the slightest intention of rising. The guard merely delivered his meal and left, paying no attention to this unorthodox behavior. Clearly, something was amiss—deeply amiss.

Seated on a bench in the dining hall, Qin Anyi’s mind kept circling around the enigmatic figure. Dinner was quickly served, and those around him were naturally fellow inmates from the same cell. The tattooed man made a point of sitting beside Qin Anyi, speaking in an arrogant tone: “Hand your dish over to the boss. Newcomers don’t get the same treatment as the old hands on their first meal—it’s the rule.”

Qin Anyi glanced at the meager food before him, which wasn’t so bad—at least there were green peppers tonight. With the tattooed man’s words ringing in his ears, he wasted no time, scooping up his food and eating, entirely ignoring the demand. The tattooed man was instantly infuriated, but, after all, this was the dining hall; it was hardly the place to make a scene. He could only lower his voice to threaten: “Kid, you’ve got guts. You’ve managed to piss me off. Once we’re back in the cell after dinner, I’ll show you what hell on earth means. Even if you beg for mercy, I won’t let you off.”

Qin Anyi continued eating, unmoved, finding it a waste of time to engage in verbal skirmishes with such people. His quiet disregard only stoked the tattooed man’s rage further, but here, there was no outlet for his anger. Dinner finished, the inmates returned to their cells. The tattooed man, now accompanied by several cronies, cornered Qin Anyi, bringing him straight to the bunk where the fat boss slept, at the heart of the cell.

“Kneel!” The tattooed man and his henchmen forced Qin Anyi before the fat boss, roaring with authority as he lifted a foot to kick at Qin Anyi’s knees. Qin Anyi’s body suddenly shifted sideways, dodging the blow, and, with a swift turn, he kicked back—his heel striking the tattooed man’s shoulder. With a wretched cry, the tattooed man was sent flying, crashing into another inmate and dragging both to the ground.

“This brat actually dares to fight back! Everyone, get him! Beat him within an inch of his life!” The tattooed man, though not stunned by the blow, was mortified, and shouted in fury. The scene was on the verge of erupting into a full-blown brawl, when a cough resounded through the cell—a sound not loud, nor soft, yet it seemed to echo right beside each person’s ear.

The fat boss’s fierce expression instantly turned to terror; his burly frame sprang upright from the bunk. “Old man… do you have any instructions?” he asked cautiously, inwardly cursing his luck. So the newcomer was connected to the old man after all; just as he was about to act, the old man intervened. The guards’ orders were beyond his power, but with the old man’s backing, this newcomer would have free rein in the cell—no one dared say a word.

“No instructions, really. Just that the kid’s a bit ignorant—I need to teach him,” said the mysterious figure, who, unnoticed, had appeared beside Qin Anyi. With sleepy eyes, he sized up Qin Anyi, smiling amiably.

Qin Anyi’s heart lurched; he instinctively fell into a defensive stance. This man had approached him so closely without Qin Anyi sensing a thing—how was it possible?

“Kid, do you know what your mistake was just now?” the mysterious figure asked with a genial smile. For all his indeterminate age, he seemed utterly ordinary, almost invisible—so much so that even with him standing right before Qin Anyi, the latter’s subconscious still tried to ignore him.

“Please instruct me, senior,” Qin Anyi replied, bowing respectfully. The gesture was a bit awkward, but none of those around dared mock him.

“Enough with this senior and junior nonsense. I’ve hated that all my life. If I like you, I’ll say a few words; if I don’t, even if you die before me, I won’t care. Don’t bother with useless formalities. Whether I help you has nothing to do with how you treat me,” the mysterious figure waved impatiently. “It wasn’t wrong to fight them, but the mistake was in your method.”

As he spoke, he walked over to the tattooed man, who had just struggled to his feet. At once, the tattooed man began trembling like a leaf, beads of sweat bursting across his forehead in terror.

“There are many ways in this world to inflict pain so intense it feels worse than death, without leaving a mark on the body. For example, watch this.” The mysterious figure lightly brushed the tattooed man’s body several times. Instantly, the tattooed man’s face contorted in agony, and he collapsed, his body twitching uncontrollably. His mouth gaped wide, his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets, yet, bizarrely, no sound escaped him despite the obvious torment.

The chilling spectacle made everyone shudder, each instinctively edging away from the tattooed man. Qin Anyi was stunned; the mysterious figure’s methods were far beyond his comprehension. The pain etched on the tattooed man’s face showed how excruciating it was, yet he couldn’t even cry out to ease it.

“That’s more like it. This is what you should have done—not simply use brute force to inflict physical harm,” the mysterious figure said, brushing the tattooed man again. At once, the agony eased; in just those few minutes, the tattooed man’s clothes were soaked with sweat, his face pale as he lay on the ground, unable to rise, staring in terror at the mysterious figure, unable to utter a word.

“What… is the difference?” Qin Anyi still didn’t understand what the mysterious figure meant.

“The difference is this: here is the detention center. Overt violence is not permitted. If you want people to fear you, use covert violence—make them hurt, make them scared, make them tremble, yet leave no evidence. It’s not just self-preservation; it’s also giving face to the rules and order,” the mysterious figure explained. “That’s what I want to teach you. You haven’t possessed power for very long, have you?”

Qin Anyi nodded instinctively, beginning to grasp what the mysterious figure meant.

“When people suddenly gain power they never had before, certain emotions arise—contempt for the rules. But you must understand, no matter how strong you become, your power is always limited. Within any system of rules and order, you must abide by them. The things established in plain sight can only be subverted discreetly, never openly, unless your strength is truly enough to shatter the existing rules and order. Otherwise, reckless defiance leads only to self-destruction,” the mysterious figure spoke sternly, in a tone of instruction.

“This is a prison, representing the nation’s violent authority. Until your power is sufficient to overturn the country itself, you must obey the fundamental rules—never challenge them openly. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Anyi understands.”