Chapter 138: Extra 2 – Chronicles of the Cleaner
Fu Wenchu always felt his life lacked flavor, a stagnant pool with faint ripples.
As he thought this, he pulled a bloodied knife from a corpse’s chest, flicked it into the air, and caught the handle.
While lamenting, he wiped the blade clean on the murderer’s clothes.
…
As Silver Hammer’s top “cleaner,” Fu Wenchu’s “beginning” was messy.
His first kill wasn’t for righteous self-defense.
His origins were blurry.
He recalled only his father’s roars, fists, the stale reek of cheap beer, and his mother’s wails, her blood-scented, feeble embraces.
Before Fu Wenchu grew old enough to fight back, his father hacked his mother to death, leaving a corpse and a child in a rented room, fleeing without mercy.
Reflecting on his childhood, Fu Wenchu figured his pre-twelve memories were fuzzy because his father’s beatings dulled him.
The landlord, cursing bad luck, pinched his nose, hauled his mother’s body to a public crematorium in a truck, burning it to untraceable ash. He sold the room’s furniture cheap to offset rent, erasing Fu Wenchu’s childhood, leaving no trace of “home.”
After scouring the room like autumn winds, the landlord didn’t kick Fu Wenchu to the streets to beg. Instead, he pulled strings, landing him a job at a nearby bakery.
As the owner’s “distant nephew,” he worked for food and shelter—generous terms.
Fu Wenchu drifted, doing as told, a blank-faced, honest kid.
Near the bakery, a pretty, dim-witted boy often loitered, sucking his fingers, aimlessly wandering.
Good-looking and defenseless, he was frequently taken away for “things.”
What those were, the boy didn’t care or couldn’t.
Whoever beckoned, he’d skip over happily, a grubby butterfly.
After, kinder folks might feed him; crueler ones left him beaten and penniless, worse for wear.
The lower district’s bakery didn’t fuss over quality. Shelves held expired bread—moldy parts were sliced off, tossed, and the rest resold.
The dim boy lingered for those moldy scraps.
One rainy night, Fu Wenchu woke, squinting, holding a tattered umbrella, stumbling to a public toilet.
Passing an alley, he heard fists smacking flesh through the drizzle.
Peeking, he saw the dim boy, barely breathing, crumpled among garbage, and a reeking drunk, cursing nonstop, pummeling him.
The boy’s curled body twitched with each blow, squelching trash, water pooling beneath—either runoff or his blood.
Fu Wenchu thought: Bad luck for him tonight.
Yawning, he returned to the bakery, slipping into still-warm bedding.
His ears rang with rain.
The boy, silent even in death, wouldn’t scream.
After a moment, Fu Wenchu sat up, groping in the dark for a sharp bread knife. Testing its edge, he found it too distinctive—trouble if a diligent “White Shield” cop investigated. He swapped it for a plain, sharp kitchen knife.
Before leaving, he grabbed the umbrella.
Stepping out, he yawned again into the misty rain.
Purposeful, Fu Wenchu slunk to the alley, steps cat-quiet—a skill honed to avoid waking his drunken father, whose anger meant beatings.
Ghostlike, he crept behind the drunk, silently driving the knife into his heart.
Not the neck.
Fu Wenchu thought.
Neck wounds sprayed high.
A lesson from his mother’s death.
Using the umbrella as a shield, he guarded his face and body.
The drunk, cooperative, didn’t turn, collapsing dead onto the boy.
The boy, stubbornly alive, hadn’t passed out. Sensing the blows stop, he nudged the body, dazedly crawling free.
He grinned at Fu Wenchu, mindless—half his face swollen, unclear if crying or laughing.
Fu Wenchu flicked blood from the knife, said nothing, and walked off, letting rain rinse the umbrella and blade. Back at the bakery, he dunked the knife in a disinfectant vat.
Done, he slipped into soft bedding, sleeping dreamlessly.
Next morning, he fished the knife from the vat, rinsed it with boiling water, and set it back neatly.
Killing, unexpectedly, awakened Fu Wenchu, pulling his mind from chaos, revealing his worth.
Untrained, he’d done it flawlessly—a born killer.
He stayed at the bakery another year.
His precautions proved unnecessary.
“White Shield” didn’t even question the bakery.
The drunk was tossed into the crematorium.
“White Shield” cops had brains but spared none for lowlife trash, shoveling corpses into furnaces as duty done.
After, Fu Wenchu still saw the resilient dim boy.
He’d scavenged a tattered newsboy cap, worn jauntily, looking spry.
Spotting Fu Wenchu from afar, he’d whip off the cap, waving excitedly.
Bystanders, clueless, teased: “Hey, one dim kid’s got a crush on another!”
Labeled a “dim kid,” Fu Wenchu didn’t mind, flashing a guileless, slightly goofy grin.
At Silver Hammer’s labor age, 13, Fu Wenchu dove into its murky dye vat.
Before, he had no wealth or name.
His father, after killing his mother, vanished, leaving only a common “Li” surname.
Fu Wenchu preferred Fu.
His mother’s surname.
He’d honor her, not the murderer.
“Wenchu” came from an ancient poem he’d glimpsed somewhere.
—Ask the canal how it stays so clear, for fresh water flows from its source.
He loved that line.
His life was too murky, too chaotic. He wanted to find his “source of living water,” to live like a person.
He never expected this search would make him Silver Hammer’s top assassin.
Fu Wenchu excelled at mimicry and disguise. Any weapon in his hands, flipped a few times, unlocked endless uses.
Even his face suited the trade.
As missions piled up, he noticed no one could recall his appearance.
Not ugly—up close, even quietly handsome—but utterly average, unremarkable, save for strikingly bright eyes.
With slight cover, he blended into crowds.
Ten people describing him gave ten vague, conflicting accounts, their sketches all generic.
Even the corporations he worked with noticed this quirk, favoring him more.
Over time, his reputation spread.
But it wasn’t wholly his.
Some called him “Wen-ge”; misheard, it became “Wu-ge.”
Later, the underworld ditched names, dubbing him “Cleaner.”
Only a few vaguely recalled “Wen-ge.” “Cleaner” became his moniker.
He roamed Silver Hammer, his bloodied hands quietly weaving a vast network.
Yet, after years of wading, Fu Wenchu never found his living water, instead stumbling onto his father.
Still alive, shamelessly thriving like walking garbage, with a new woman.
She’d fled her wretched family, only to land in another hell.
Fu Wenchu ended him before she was beaten to death.
—The man now dead before him.
Fu Wenchu held the bloodied knife upright, spinning it like a vivid red top, flinging crimson beads: “I’m your son. Remember me?”
The man, still breathing, quickened his gasps.
Struggling, he turned his grit-smeared face, not begging but spitting: “…Fuck your mom.”
Fu Wenchu didn’t flinch.
He never seemed to anger, even now: “My mom’s long dead. You can’t catch her down there. Forget it, don’t haunt her—haunt me. Your son killed you. Don’t forget in your next life. Come find me.”
He rubbed his nose, irritated by the blood’s stench: “…See you once, kill you once.”
After his father’s death, Fu Wenchu reflected. His life hadn’t shifted dramatically.
Too much time had passed; it wasn’t revenge, just a task—like eating or drinking—part of life’s checklist.
Done or undone, it didn’t matter.
But ask Fu Wenchu what did matter, and he’d draw a blank.
His life remained a stagnant pool, faintly rippling.
His living water seemed forever out of reach.
Until one day, a rare deadbeat client crossed him.
Dragon Tooth, famed for androids, hired him for “business” but, strapped for cash, begged for a few days’ grace.
Fu Wenchu didn’t spare lives, let alone money.
If they wouldn’t pay, he’d take.
He slipped into Dragon Tooth at night, strolling their core R&D zone like a market.
After careful picking, he chose the prettiest silver-haired android, hoisted it, and left.
Fu Wenchu hauled his prize to his motel.
Rich as sin, he had no fixed home, drifting like a ghost through Silver Hammer, killing in ten steps, leaving no trace.
Before activating the android, he read its manual.
A domestic model, a Dragon Tooth prototype loaded with experimental features, unactivated, untested for empathy, used solely as a testbed.
Its handsome face wasn’t original—recycled from a custom se-x android mold for convenience.
Fu Wenchu slapped his thigh, cursing. He had no home, no need for housekeeping.
He considered returning it, maybe stealing again, but that face was too charming, a still-life painting sitting there.
He let beauty sway him.
Entering the activation code, the android stirred, opening pure, electric purple eyes.
It scanned, locking onto him.
Its voice, warm and soft: “Master.”
Fu Wenchu blinked: “Uh…”
The android’s next question stumped him: “What would you like me to do for you?”
Fu Wenchu: “……” Damn, hadn’t thought that far.
Ignoring his silence, the android tilted its head curiously: “Hello. Please set a name for me.”
Fu Wenchu slung it over his shoulder, ready to return it.
Too much trouble. Pass.
