William Smith suddenly turned around. Behind him stood an elderly man with graying hair and kindly features, who was at this moment clutching the sleeves of several young people, pleading anxiously. William Smith had never seen Mr. Foster with such an expression before—not since he was born. Even during that car accident when he was ten, on the verge of death, Mr. Foster still wore that same gentle, benevolent look.

Everything had changed because of the girl who entered Mr. Foster's household three years ago, said to be a distant relative of his. That girl with a princess-like, stunningly beautiful face and an air of nobility—Emily Johnson.

But now, in this moment of crisis, William Smith looked at the young men Mr. Foster was holding onto. All of them, who usually fawned over Emily Johnson and pursued her with desperate passion, were now making various excuses to shirk responsibility.

William Smith sneered inwardly. After all, beauty is rare, but you need to be alive to pursue it. In this day and age, how many people would really risk their lives for love?

“Mr. Foster….” William Smith stepped forward and gently pulled the old man aside, calling softly.

Although, over the past three years, ever since Emily Johnson arrived, William Smith had moved out soon after—seemingly not very welcomed by the girl—and thus had little contact with Mr. Foster, he still felt genuine respect and closeness for the old man who had raised him.

When the old man saw William Smith, his eyes lit up as if he had grabbed onto a lifeline. He gripped William Smith's clothes tightly with trembling hands and cried out, “Child, you must save Miss! You can't let anything happen to her!”

“Miss!” At these words, William Smith's clear mind was shaken. He looked at Mr. Foster's anxious, burning gaze and, as usual, fell silent for a few seconds.

He turned, pulled a quilt from the crowd nearby, soaked it with water, tore off two strips to wrap around his arms and cover his head and face, then wrapped himself up. With a leap, he climbed up the emergency ladder again.

At this moment, the floors above the seventh were completely engulfed in flames. William Smith knew exactly where the girl was—the easternmost room on the seventh floor, because that used to be his bedroom for seventeen years. In his mind, he couldn't help but recall the scene when Emily Johnson wanted to move into his room: her exquisite face frowning slightly, her bright eyes drooping beneath thick lashes—a look of deep-seated disdain.

Humiliation! That was the first time in his life William Smith felt he was living at the very bottom of society. In the eyes of this obviously well-bred girl, perhaps he was as insignificant as plankton in the deep sea. Maybe, for Emily Johnson, living in his room was supposed to be William Smith's honor.

Damn it! How could he be thinking about this at a time like this? William Smith cursed inwardly as the scorching heat seeped through the damp cloth into his mouth. He knew he couldn't afford the slightest distraction now—once he saved Emily Johnson, he had to get out immediately.

The thick smoke on the seventh floor made it impossible to tell directions. William Smith was secretly grateful for having lived here for so many years; otherwise, his own life would have been lost as well.

Relying on his memory, William Smith felt his way to the bed, squinting against the attacking flames. His hands touched a human-shaped figure. “Found her!”

William Smith felt a surge of joy. He quickly ran his hands up the body toward the chest—smooth as jade, with a faint heartbeat. “Good! Still alive!”

He swiftly tied Emily Johnson to his back, and, like a cat, darted out onto the balcony, climbing down the emergency ladder at lightning speed.

As he got closer and closer to the ground, William Smith felt a wave of relief. Luckily, he was blessed this time—not only had he done Mr. Foster a huge favor, but he had also played the hero saving the beauty.

Just as he was thinking this, William Smith had already reached the height of the second floor. The crowd below cheered, and everyone’s hearts, which had been hanging in suspense, finally relaxed. But just as William Smith thought everything was fine, the person on his back suddenly started to move.

“Uh, who are you? Fire! Ah, fire, let me go. Help!” Feeling the violent struggle on his back, William Smith realized the hastily tied cloth was about to give way, the sound of tearing growing louder. He was horrified.

“Stupid woman, stay still! Do you want to get us killed?” As soon as William Smith finished speaking, he felt his waist suddenly loosen, and the girl's scream came from behind.

Damn it! You're really going to get me killed! As William Smith thought this, his whole body was flung into the air. He grabbed the girl, who had started to fall freely, holding her tightly in his arms. Then, while still in midair, he twisted his body so that Emily Johnson was on top, and the two of them plummeted from high above.

So soft—this girl's body is really soft! But that's all; everything else about her I absolutely can't stand.

As he hit the ground, a wave of intense pain and dizziness swept through William Smith's body. Before losing consciousness, he thought viciously.

……

The flames shot skyward, the terrified cries of the girl on his back, and finally, to save that damned girl, William Smith had to use his own body as a cushion, falling from a height of seven meters on the second floor.

Such distant memories! He must have been only twenty that year. What happened after that?