The First Crown of Thorns

In a small town near the Tunisian border, Hou Rui parted ways with Father Rick and his companions, who had cared for him for two days. Though Father Rick strongly refused any gratitude, Hou Rui still managed, through a discreet transaction, to donate twenty thousand dollars to Father Rick’s Saint’s Church — a small token of thanks for the man who had saved his life.

Once he was back to acting alone, Hou Rui’s first move was to return to the city, where he retrieved his hidden passport and other belongings. He then filed a medical request with the organization, for with bullet wounds as severe as his, there was no way he could board a plane home.

Soon enough, under the organization’s arrangements, Hou Rui was settled in a private sanatorium by the Mediterranean coast. Thus began a period of languid convalescence, spent either gazing at the beaches and palm trees outside his window or at the alluring nurses by his side. In Tunisia, a crossroads of Africa and Europe, any beauty he could desire—blonde, brunette, redhead, fair-skinned or dark—was readily available. It was, by all accounts, the kind of idle, affluent life most people could only dream of. Yet, even as he enjoyed meticulous care and exquisite cuisine, Hou Rui, brought up in modest circumstances, felt that spending a thousand dollars a day was outrageously extravagant. So, as soon as the wounds on his arms had scabbed over, he promptly left the sanatorium and began traveling across Tunisia with a fake passport.

Hammamet, Douz, Tozeur, Sousse; deserts, steppes, lakes, and seashores—Hou Rui visited nearly every famous site in Tunisia. Among them, he was especially taken with Sidi Bou Said, one of the world’s three fabled blue-and-white towns. He stayed there for a whole week, so enchanted he didn’t want to leave, and took countless photos of the scenery.

But, however beautiful the escape from reality, it could not last forever. With the second year of university about to begin, Hou Rui boarded a plane back to Asia, reluctant though he was to leave.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the globe—

Langley, Virginia, United States. Headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency. In a hidden basement room, three walls were lined with enormous display screens, cycling through files, videos, and various photographs. Below the screens, three rows of seats were occupied by a dozen analysts, each immersed in complex documents and data.

“Chief, here’s the analysis report on last year’s Azabad attack in Afghanistan,” said an analyst in glasses and a gray sweater, placing a thick file on a balding supervisor’s desk.

The balding supervisor flicked through a few pages and tossed the report aside. “Alright, I got it. Go back to work,” he said casually.

“But sir, the background of this attack is far from simple!” The analyst, frustrated that months of hard work were being brushed off, quickly tried to elaborate.

“What exactly are you trying to say?” The balding man was growing impatient.

“Sir, look here, and here. From the on-site investigation, the attackers used advanced European and Israeli-made infantry weapons. Forensic tests on enemy corpses and bloodstains showed their team included members from Asia, Africa, Europe, and Latin America. All signs point to this being the work of a highly organized, multinational force, not local tribal militias,” the analyst said, flipping pages and highlighting the doubts for his supervisor.

“So what are you implying?”

“That the attackers were a well-equipped, well-trained team — their combat capability was at least on par with Blackwater mercenaries.”

“Nonsense. Blackwater and the other major private security firms are important contractors for the Department of Defense. Why would they attack our own soldiers?”

“Then perhaps it was soldiers from another country, conducting covert operations in disguise?”

“And what evidence do you have for that?”

“None for now. But if I had broader access — for example, if I knew what exactly the convoy was transporting — I might be able to follow other leads and eventually identify the attackers.”

“That’s enough. Don’t say another word. The Azabad incident ends here!” The supervisor brusquely cut him off.

“But sir, fifty-seven American soldiers died in that attack. We lost several vehicles and a Chinook helicopter. Are we just letting this drop?” the analyst pleaded in a last-ditch effort.

“Do you know how many similar operations Congress and the President authorize every day, every hour? How many unsanctioned missions start in secret? It’s not just you — even I don’t have clearance to know everything! I want you to get back to your desk and focus your time and energy on protecting the soldiers who are still alive and the missions still underway. This matter is closed.” With that, the balding supervisor bowed his head and paid the stubborn analyst no further heed.

Yet, once the dejected analyst had left, the supervisor picked up the report again and began studying it closely. Ten minutes later, after much hesitation, he lifted the phone. “Hello? Tell Operations to keep a close watch on the black market for Afghan antiquities in the region. If any items originally from the National Museum of Afghanistan surface, I want immediate surveillance. I want to know the fate of every statue, every linen scroll.” With this simple instruction, he placed the thick report in a drawer and put the matter aside — unaware that a sample of Hou Rui’s blood had also been recorded in that very report.

Two days before the new semester, Hou Rui finally returned to Beijing. He first tried to contact Jin Shanshan to ease his longing, only to learn that her distinguished school had already started classes; at that very moment, she was in class, chatting with him on WeChat.

So, Hou Rui postponed their meeting to the weekend and messaged Old Xiao on WeChat before heading off to Pengcheng Driving School.

“Wild Dog, this time I really have to congratulate you!” Old Xiao’s message was baffling.

“Congratulate me for what? For completing the mission?” Hou Rui replied.

“Not just that. You’ve received your first Thorned Laurel Wreath!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s an organizational honor — rare and very useful.”

“So what does it actually do?”

“For now, nothing. But once you’ve collected three wreaths, you’ll understand its true significance.”

“We’ll see about that. Anyway, what’s my next training?” Hou Rui asked.

“Heh, your next training is the ultimate dream of most men. I look forward to your performance.” With that, Old Xiao sent him an address and a phone number.

“Same old tricks, nothing new,” Hou Rui muttered, flagging down a taxi to head straight to the address, eager to see what this so-called “ultimate dream” for men would turn out to be.

Twenty minutes later, Hou Rui eyed the little shack before him with suspicion. It was a tin hut, built as an extension onto a small building nearby, barely seventy or eighty square meters, and looked so rickety up close that it seemed likely to collapse at any moment. Above the door, large red characters advertised photocopying, typing, lock-picking, and key duplication.

“There must be some mistake,” Hou Rui said, turning to leave, but as soon as he stepped away, someone called out behind him, “Hey, young man, are you Wild Dog?”

“Wild Dog? The hell I am! Your whole family’s wild dogs!” The nickname made Hou Rui bristle instantly, especially being called it in public on the street.

“So it’s you. Come in, I’ve been waiting for ages.” A small old man with a goatee waved him inside, looking every bit the classic street hustler. Hou Rui could only roll his eyes. Once he squeezed into the cluttered little hut, he found it even narrower and more chaotic than he’d imagined.

“Pup, you’re starting work here today. Every day—” The goateed old man spoke with his back to Hou Rui, fiddling with a key under a magnifying glass.

“I’m not a pup, and I’m not Wild Dog. My name’s Hou Rui,” Hou Rui growled through clenched teeth, glaring at the old man’s neck and wondering if he could snap it in a second.

“If you really want to, you can give it a try!” the old man said suddenly. This unexpected retort left Hou Rui silent. From past experience, every instructor assigned by the organization possessed some extraordinary skill — but what was this old man’s specialty?

“If you don’t plan to try, then sit down. We’ll start with key duplication.” Seeing Hou Rui hesitate, the old man patted a low stool beside him.

No, he couldn't let an old man look down on him so easily. Besides, Hou Rui was curious to know if his skills could match up to the organization's personnel. At worst, he’d subdue the old man quickly, as long as he didn’t hurt him too badly.

With that, Hou Rui suddenly lunged, grabbing the old man’s hand behind his back. As he prepared to wrench the arm aside and subdue him, the old man flicked his wrist, smoothly breaking free from Hou Rui’s grip.

Impressive! Hou Rui, unwilling to admit defeat, was about to try again when the old man’s hands darted lightning-fast. With two crisp clicks, a pair of shiny handcuffs had already been snapped onto Hou Rui’s wrists.