Beneath the crystal-clear sky and above the sea of white clouds, the vast golden desert slowly came into view through the windows of the aircraft. It was the kind of breathtakingly simple beauty that could mesmerize just about anyone.
But Faaris was not just anyone.
Not today.
Sitting inside his private jet, surrounded by luxury—expensive wine within arm's reach, dressed in tailored clothing, and basking in extravagance, his eyes still burned with rage.
He hated this view.
He hated everything.
Faaris had been born into poverty—a past he desperately wished could be erased from existence.
As a child, he shared a cramped, dirty home with five siblings, constantly fighting over food, over space, over anything that could slightly improve his miserable life.
He wasn't the oldest, but he had always been the most ruthless.
He got the lion's share of food, first pick of the second-hand clothes, and—worst of all—he once sold his newborn baby brother in secret, just to earn the money needed to attend school.
No one ever suspected him.
He was the golden child—the pride of his parents, the one the neighbors praised.
Even the village elder once said, "What a shame he was born in such conditions. With the right opportunities, he could become a great man."
Faaris believed that too.
And so, to escape the fate of becoming just another poor, exhausted laborer like his parents, he took matters into his own hands.
While his mother wept for the missing child, he wrote a letter and disappeared, claiming he was heartbroken and could not bear to stay.
He promised to find the missing brother and bring him home.
The villagers believed him.
Even his grieving mother, though devastated, felt pride—her son was so noble, so kind.
Faaris was both unlucky and lucky.
Unlucky, because he was born with nothing.
Lucky, because after he'd been beaten within an inch of his life by street thugs who stole all his money, he was rescued by Mr. Dawud—a man Faaris would later swear loyalty to for life.
He could still remember it:
That elegant man stepping out of a luxury car, eyes sharp, voice cold and calm.
"I need a clever boy to do a job for me. If you succeed, I'll grant you a reward—money, or a wish. But it's dangerous. You might die. So… what will it be?"
"I'll do it."
He hadn't even hesitated.
Years later, Faaris learned from Faiza that the whole thing—the beating, the setup—had been orchestrated by Dawud himself.
It was a test.
Dawud had been searching for a sharp-minded child.
He'd arranged the mugging to strip Faaris of all safety and show him how cruel the world could be—how brains alone wouldn't be enough to survive.
Faiza told him just to mock him.
But to Faaris? That truth didn't matter.
Dawud had been right.
And if it were him making the decision, he might've gone even further.
Besides, he'd succeeded.
He'd earned that "wish"—he became Dawud's protégé.
Step by step, he climbed from the mud to the marble floors of power, eventually becoming someone even the sons of nobles envied.
What was wrong with being used?
It just meant you were useful.
Look at him now:
Hotels, women, wine—anything he wanted, he could have.
He was treated like a god by his family, just by sending them scraps of his fortune.
He'd been on TV. In newspapers.
The media called him a "miracle child"—a symbol of how the poor could rise to greatness.
He'd used his mind to win.
Faaris downed his wine in one gulp.
And then his expression twisted.
He hated thinking of that name.
The one that had dragged him from the clouds back into the mud.
When he first arrived in the United States, he'd never imagined one woman would ruin his perfect record—strip away his pride and dignity—and ultimately force him into exile.
Laila Moran.
He would never forgive it.
Once he was back on his own turf, he would make her pay—a hundred times over.
"Where's my wine? Refill my glass!"
He slammed the empty glass onto the table.
A young flight attendant in uniform hurried over to pour him a drink.
But as the liquid filled the glass, Faaris scowled.
"What the hell is this?"
It wasn't the right color—it wasn't wine.
Furious, he looked up to scold the attendant—
Only to freeze when he saw the boy's face.
"Who are you?"
Faaris prided himself on his caution.
Everyone in his inner circle had been thoroughly vetted.
He knew every face. Every history.
But this boy?
He'd never seen him before.
And his memory was flawless.
So how had this stranger boarded his private jet?
And where were his guards?
Realizing something was wrong, Faaris shot to his feet, reaching instinctively for the weapon at his waist.
But he never got the chance.
A fist slammed into his gut with brutal force.
He doubled over, vomiting all over the floor.
His treasured, custom-made curved dagger was now in the boy's hands.
The boy admired it playfully.
"Beautiful blade. I think my boss will like it."
Faaris prided himself on using his brain over brute force.
Sure, he'd sculpted a decent-looking body, but purely for appearances.
Now, under the boy's blows, he collapsed in humiliation.
No resistance.
His handsome face smeared with tears and vomit, he couldn't have looked more pathetic.
"Tsk tsk," the boy clicked his tongue.
"If only you'd drunk the wine when I gave it to you, you wouldn't have had to look so pitiful."
"Who the hell are you?!"
Faaris spat through clenched teeth, eyes burning with hate.
The boy spun the golden dagger in his fingers, a dazzling display of agility.
"Does it matter? Shouldn't you be more curious about where your men are?"
Faaris's pupils constricted.
Where ARE they?
He didn't want to believe what he was thinking.
But the silence… the lack of footsteps… the fact no one had come…
The boy grinned.
"You should thank me, really. I arranged for them to meet your god in their sleep. Painless."
Faaris went pale.
He wanted to laugh in contempt.
But he knew—it was true.
No one had come. No one would.
"What do you want? Money? I'll give you ten million—no, fifty million!"
The boy raised one finger and wagged it mockingly.
"Seriously? You spent years in Hollywood and that's all you've got?"
A single sentence, straight to the heart.
Faaris's time in Hollywood was something he wanted erased—every detail.
"That has nothing to do with you!"
He growled, swallowing his anger.
Where were his men? Were they really…?
If they were dead, then this boy wouldn't let any witnesses live.
The boy didn't answer.
He just glanced at the "watch" on his wrist—a device displaying not just time, but cryptic data.
"Looks like our lovely little journey is coming to an end.
I hope your trip to hell is a pleasant one."
Then, with the grace of a medieval noble, he gave a deep, elegant bow.
Faaris's heart slammed in his chest.
A suffocating sense of doom enveloped him.
He tried to stand, only to discover—his body wouldn't move.
When?! How?!
He hadn't drunk the wine.
"What did you do to me?!"
He screamed, frantic and terrified.
The boy didn't reply.
Instead, he fastened a parachute around his body, walked to the cabin door, and—just before jumping—spoke one final sentence that shattered Faaris's mind:
"Dearest Mr. Faaris, one last message for you.
In your next life—stay far, far away from Miss Laila Moran.
Don't let your filthy shadow appear anywhere near her.
Don't breathe the same air.
Don't make her feel even an ounce of discomfort with your wretched soul.
Bon voyage."
Then, with Faaris screaming behind him, the boy leapt from the aircraft.
As his parachute opened, the jet behind him lost control, spiraling straight into the desert.
Moments later, it crashed—a fiery explosion sending plumes of smoke into the air.
And if anyone compared the crash site to the coordinates of where Laila had once nearly died in the desert…
They'd find that the two locations were nearly identical.
No one saw the boy, descending gently with his parachute, remove the mask from his face.
But if they had, they'd recognize him instantly.
It was Xiao Ye, the world-class makeup artist, who was supposed to be on set.
The man who owed everything to Laila Moran.
She had trusted him, supported him, and saved his companions when no one else would.
Now, he had personally ensured that her greatest threat had been erased.
And she would never know.
Let her live in peace and happiness,
He thought,
and leave all the dirty work to me.
May the gods above forever bless that talented, hardworking woman.