What truly defines good and evil?
Is it evil when one uses demonic powers to save lives?
Is it righteous when one wields divine powers to commit wicked deeds?
December 14th, 2025.
An unknown town in China.
The night was buried beneath a heavy snowfall. The world was silent, pure, covered in white—until a crash shattered the stillness.
A black family car lay overturned in the snow, its frame twisted and broken. Blood spilled across the once-crystal surface, staining the whiteness with crimson despair.
Inside, strapped upside down in the back seat, was a boy. He was no older than four. His short black hair clung to his pale face, while blood seeped from his mouth, his ears, even his eyes.
His vision swam. His tiny chest rose and fell weakly, every breath ragged and painful. A shrill ringing drowned out the world, until a woman's voice pierced through the haze—hoarse, desperate, trembling.
"Zi…xiao…! Zixiao! Get up!"
The boy's eyes fluttered open. Through the shattered glass and flickering snow, he saw her face—his mother. His lips trembled as he tried to call out, his voice thin and breaking.
"Ma…ma… my body… it hurts… so much…"
His words shook with fear, each syllable stolen by the weakness devouring him. His small hands reached out, but his strength was fading, slipping away with the warmth of his blood.
But his weeping quickly twisted into pure terror.
Through the shattered windshield, Zixiao saw it—his father's lifeless, bloodied body sprawled in front of the car. Every instinct screamed at him, but his small body could barely move.
Beside the corpse, a figure cloaked entirely in black loomed. A black cap shadowed his face. In his hands, a crowbar coated in crimson swung relentlessly, pounding Zixiao's father's head. Blood splattered across the bar, across the road, across everything it touched.
As the figure turned, Zixiao caught a glimpse of his face—streaked with blood, emotionless, almost inhuman. He wiped it carelessly on his clothing and stepped toward the car, swinging the crowbar to fling off the excess blood, as if rehearsing some gruesome ritual.
Zixiao couldn't even form a sound, paralyzed by the sight of his father's mangled body.
"Zi…xiao…look at me… Zixiao, look at me!"
His mother's voice cut through the chaos, trembling and panicked. She leaned toward him, tears streaking her face. "No matter what… don't… trust… the… light… and believe me… no matter what, you're mom will always love you."
Her eyes were dripping from ters.Her words faltered as she struggled against the terror gripping her. But before she could say more, the figure in black raised the crowbar—and with a single, merciless swing, her life was extinguished.
"Ma…ma…ma…"
Zixiao's eyes overflowed with tears, blurring his vision. He tried to reach for his mother's bloody hand, but his body refused him. Pain clawed at every limb, every joint, and he could barely lift a finger. All he could do was cry, his small sobs swallowed by the cold night.
The black-clad figure turned toward him, moving with deliberate cruelty, reaching to pull him from the wreckage. Zixiao could do nothing but weep and accept his fate.
With a violent yank, the man tore Zixiao from the car. The boy screamed, agony wracking his tiny frame as he hit the frozen, blood-stained snow. His feeble struggles were useless; his energyless body could not defend itself.
The killer's cold, merciless eyes studied Zixiao's crying face. A low, cruel chuckle escaped him. He raised the crowbar high, aiming straight for the boy's head.
But before it could strike, a blinding white light tore through the sky, striking down onto Zixiao. The brilliance seared the black figure's eyes, forcing him to stagger back, shielded by the intensity.
And when his vision cleared… Zixiao was gone.