Henry Lincoln didn’t say anything. He picked up the books from the chair and walked toward the town.

“Miss Bennett isn’t much of a swimmer.” Samuel Lincoln struck a pose, as if inviting Henry Lincoln to admire the scene in the water.

Henry Lincoln quickened his pace. On the way, he ran into some police officers who had driven over; he pointed them in the right direction without saying anything extra.

Back home, Henry Lincoln tossed the book aside and collapsed onto the bed. Thinking back on what had just happened, he realized he’d been wrong from start to finish.

He hadn’t passed the “test” and had lost a precious opportunity.

He also hadn’t saved Miss Bennett—he hadn’t even tried. He just watched as she was pushed into the river and heard her scream.

He still hadn’t figured out whether Miss Bennett was actually an enemy spy; he was completely at a loss, not even close to an answer.

The more he thought about it, the less he understood his own true feelings: was he regretting the lost opportunity, or regretting not saving her? This left him especially discouraged.

The bedroom was small, with a window facing west. At this moment, sunlight silently filtered in from outside, like an emotionless spectator, staring at the bloody scene, still finding the smell of blood not strong enough.

Against the wall stood a bunk bed. Henry Lincoln slept on the lower bunk; the upper bunk belonged to someone else. That’s right—he was twenty-seven this year and still didn’t have his own room.

At the foot of the bed, between the bed and the wall, stood a tall, skinny cabinet. Other than that, the room had nothing else—so bare it was almost like a prison cell.

From outside came the sound of the door opening. Just from the footsteps, Henry Lincoln guessed that “Mom” was back.

Mom was the owner of this house and the caretaker of a group of orphans. She was in her sixties, tall and sturdy, had never seemed young, nor did she seem to age. She had raised many orphans—this was both her job and her passion.

When the orphans grew up, they would leave. Some went to work as maintenance workers on farms, others went off to seek opportunities elsewhere. The turning point usually came before they turned twenty-three, around the time they graduated from high school or college.

Henry Lincoln was the orphan who had “stayed” here the longest.

The house was large, with ten bedrooms in total. Each one was small and always filled with children of various ages. Sure enough, before long, Henry Lincoln heard the children’s noisy voices as they clamored for cake from Mom, like a flock of chirping baby birds.

Every year on Great-grandpa’s birthday, Mom would go help out and then bring back loads of food, mostly cake. Henry Lincoln had eaten plenty as a child, but now he had long since lost interest.

The bedroom door opened. Henry Lincoln’s roommate was back—another long-term resident of the house.

Samuel Lincoln was twenty-four, a year out of college. If he couldn’t join the organization this year, his prospects would be just as bleak.

The “test” at the riverside counted as a guarantee, so Samuel Lincoln was in a good mood. He hummed a little tune, didn’t even take off his shoes, and easily climbed up to the top bunk, flopping down heavily.

Neither of them spoke. After a while, Samuel Lincoln poked his head down from the top bunk and asked, “Hungry?”

“Yeah.”

After sharing a room for so many years, even enemies would develop some friendship, let alone Samuel Lincoln, who was a likable guy, got along with everyone, always willing to run errands, full of clever ideas, and often the life of the party at gatherings.

Samuel Lincoln handed down a piece of cake.

Mom was both kind and strict; she didn’t allow any of the kids to eat or drink in the bedrooms, but Samuel Lincoln always found a way to dodge her watchful eye.

Henry Lincoln took the cake and ate it slowly.

Samuel Lincoln kept his head poked out, stayed silent for a while, then said, “Don’t think I’m totally unmoved by all this. But someone’s got to do these things—if not you, then me.”

“You really believe she’s a spy for the other side?”

“Why do I have to get hung up on that? Lao Qian is the boss—he makes all the decisions and takes all the responsibility. It’s like the army: politicians decide whether to fight, generals decide how to fight, and as soldiers, all we have to do is pull the trigger. We’re all just soldiers—why make trouble for ourselves by asking pointless questions?”

Henry Lincoln quietly finished his piece of cake, carefully eating the crumbs that had fallen on his collar so Mom wouldn’t find out later. Then he said, “In a lot of novels, immortals and bodhisattvas often recruit demons and monsters as gatekeepers.”

“Hey, you’re actually pretty clear-headed about this! To become a god, you have to start as a monster. Right now, we’re just monsters who’ve been newly recruited—gotta do all the dirty, hard, and exhausting work. Once we’ve made it, there’ll be newcomers to take over.”

“Maybe… I’m just too weak. Congratulations.”

“Me? Oh, you mean the organization thing. Well, Lao Qian hasn’t given me the final word yet, but it’s pretty much settled. I’ll be leaving soon. Mom probably heard something—she told me in the kitchen just now to pack up my things.” Samuel Lincoln couldn’t quite contain his excitement and leaned out of the bed a bit more. “Nine years! I’ve been training since I was fifteen—nine whole years. If I can’t become a spy, it’ll all have been for nothing.”

For Henry Lincoln, it wasn’t nine years, but twelve.