The elevator doors slid shut slowly. Inside, Ken held the hand of the chubby little girl, Liu Shiling, standing beside her mother, while Miss Yang stood on the other side, gripping the leash of her beloved dog, Pinkie.
Only now, the husky bore no trace of its earlier excitement. The entire dog had curled into a tight ball, pressed hard against the corner of the elevator, as though trying to melt into the metal wall itself. No matter how Miss Yang tugged on the leash or called to it, the dog refused to budge.
Huskies are often nicknamed "Erha," a mocking reference to their frequent bouts of madness and foolishness. They are notorious for poor obedience, a love of chaos, and an uncanny talent for wrecking homes. Along with Alaskan Malamutes and Samoyeds, they are collectively dubbed the "Three Stooges of Sled Dogs."
In truth, however, huskies—and sled dogs in general—are far from unintelligent. Bred by Siberian herders as working dogs, they were required to pull sleds through blizzards and whiteouts, where their ability to judge direction often surpassed that of humans. In such conditions, lead dogs were expected to make independent decisions.
Their so-called lack of obedience does not stem from ignorance of commands, but from a belief that they know better than their owners. Either the owner fails to establish sufficient authority, or the dog simply chooses mischief to achieve its own ends.
Miss Yang's husky was clearly undisciplined. It likely didn't even regard her as its master—perhaps not even as an equal, but as something beneath itself.
Ken knew the dog hadn't meant to attack the little girl earlier; it had only wanted to play. But in that situation, being knocked over would have been dangerous. Even if no physical injury occurred, the fright alone could have been traumatic.
Ultimately, the fault lay with the owner for failing to train her dog properly.
Miss Yang couldn't control her pet—but Ken could.
Back when he still patrolled the streets at night, he would occasionally encounter stray dogs and cats scavenging for food, or people walking their pets late at night. He soon noticed that once these animals became aware of him, all he needed to do was hold his breath slightly, tense his muscles, and allow a trace of ferocity to leak out.
Without him making a single move, they would immediately retreat, flee, or even drop to the ground in submission.
Once, a Labrador whose owner had let go of the leash ran over to sniff him. Ken merely glanced at it. The dog froze, then collapsed to the ground, unable to move. When they encountered each other again the next day—even with its owner holding the leash—the dog dropped flat the instant it saw Ken, meek and trembling, no matter how its owner tried to pull it up.
At home, Ken had experimented on the meat rabbits he bought. The effect was the same—the rabbits shivered violently, shrinking into themselves.
Birds, however, seemed immune. The pigeons in the plaza and sparrows perched on walls completely ignored his "intimidation." The same was true of chickens and ducks at the market.
Ken guessed that animals like cats and dogs possessed sharper sensory perception, allowing them to detect pheromonal signals of extreme danger emanating from him.
In any case, he was now certain that Miss Yang's husky would forever detour the moment it saw him—or the chubby little girl.
The little girl clutched Ken's hand, curiously poking her head out from beside his thigh to look at the husky "facing the wall" in the corner of the elevator. The fear in her eyes gradually faded.
"If you're not afraid of it," Ken said gently, patting her head, "then it will be afraid of you."
Shiling's mother glanced at Ken, then at the husky that had suddenly turned utterly submissive, a trace of confusion flickering through her mind. She had seen it clearly—the dog had merely looked at Ken once and seemed to have been frightened stiff.
The elevator soon reached the first floor. Even after Ken, the little girl, and her mother had exited the building through the electronic doors, Miss Yang still hadn't managed to drag her beloved dog out of the elevator.
…
After leaving the residential complex and saying goodbye to the girl and her mother, Ken started off at a brisk walk. After ten minutes, he broke into a run.
His pace was fast enough to draw curious glances from passersby. Seeing the backpack on his shoulders, most assumed he was a commuter in a hurry, and thought little of it.
They had no idea that Ken intended to run more than twenty kilometers.
He wasn't pushing his speed to the limit, but maintaining a moderate pace that allowed him to observe and think at the same time.
He had once roughly tested his hundred-meter sprint—just over eleven seconds.
For an ordinary person, that was already an impressive result, roughly at the level of a national second-tier athlete. But to Ken, since it fell far short of the limits of the human body, it could only be called average.
As for long-distance running, Ken felt he could probably shatter several world records with ease.
His recovery was simply too fast. He could maintain near-maximum speed for extended periods, slow down briefly upon reaching his limit, then resume at full capacity once more. Applied to a marathon, it would be nothing short of cheating.
As he ran, Ken also observed his surroundings, recording the layout of streets, roadside shops, and distinctive landmarks, comparing them to the online maps he had studied the night before. In his mind, he constructed a three-dimensional map of the area.
This was partly because he would be living nearby and needed to familiarize himself with the environment, and partly to train his powers of observation and memory.
After more than an hour, Ken reached the gym. Compared to public transportation, this was naturally slower, but judged purely as a run, it was an exceptional feat—especially since Ken was barely sweating and showed no signs of fatigue.
Yet after spending the entire morning at the gym, Ken made a decision: he would not be coming back.
The young coach from the boxing gym downstairs sought him out upon learning that Ken was training here. He invited Ken to join their boxing club—not as a student, but as a fighter. He even revealed that one of the club's founders, the elderly coach who had once served as referee during Ken's sparring match, was willing to personally train him.
Ken thanked them for their appreciation, but declined.
The incident made him realize that his recent performances at the gym, combined with his earlier appearance at the boxing club and the hiking trip with Zhu Ke'er, had already drawn considerable attention to his unusual abilities.
Even if the boxing club didn't pursue the matter further, the attention itself would remain.
Much like now—although he no longer performed extreme heavy lifts such as max bench presses, squats, or deadlifts, many trainers and members still kept an eye on his workouts. His early performances in the three major lifts had already spread through the gym, and people were naturally curious about how he trained.
Under such circumstances, his training inevitably became constrained, burdened with concerns.
So despite having only recently purchased a non-transferable membership card, Ken chose to give it up and find another place to train.
Fortunately, the training he now required no longer depended heavily on equipment. Bodyweight exercises were sufficient.
After leaving the gym, Ken spent the entire afternoon searching within a ten-kilometer radius of his residential complex for secluded locations where he could train and test his abilities without worry.
In the end, he chose a small mountain a little over four kilometers away.
At its base lay an abandoned construction site, once intended for a villa development that had never materialized.
The nearby residents had long since moved away. The area was chaotic and overgrown, rarely visited, with even the paths difficult to find.
Once the sun set and darkness fell, the place became utterly silent. Not a single light could be seen. Looking toward the distant residential blocks, it felt as though one were lurking in the shadows, watching the outside world from concealment.
Ken was very satisfied. He decided this would be his temporary base for training.
Though not terribly far from residential areas, the interference from smells, sounds, and artificial light was greatly reduced—ideal conditions for honing his senses.
Compared to the city, the mountain's scents were far simpler, yet to Ken, they were also far more unfamiliar.
He caught the stench of decay mixed with blood, not far away. Judging by its characteristics, it was likely the corpse of a rat.
Following the scent, he switched on his phone's flashlight and found exactly that—a rat lying disemboweled among the weeds.
After confirming his judgment, Ken prepared to leave. But then he stopped.
He closed his eyes and drew in a slow, deep breath, carefully parsing the information carried in the air.
Beyond the rat's scent, there was something else.
Another odor.
Was it left behind by whatever creature had hunted and killed the rat?