Chapter 8

It was those ancient and desolate dreams again.

In the dreams, the Frost Plains were always crowded with people, but everyone stood frozen, dwelling in the eternal flow of time, reduced to insignificant specks of stardust.

A massive pendulum hung in the clouds, its second hand pointing to a brilliant history that ultimately fell.

Two million years ago, humans walked out of Africa and lit the first spark. The flame quickly spread into bountiful farmlands, splattering beneath the bronze and iron swords struck by people.

From then on, humanity’s technological singularity arrived. Turing and Deep Blue, AlphaGo and GPT—after 2024, AGI became widespread.

Until 2030, when a British archaeological team found a clay disc again in the Qumran region of Israel. Hebrew inscriptions detailed prophecies from centuries earlier, foretelling the global financial crisis, extreme weather, and wars between nations that erupted after 2025.

Humans were clever, so they did not believe the prophecies, even though they had already come true.

In 2050, countless massive black six-winged species and their starships hovered over Greenland Island. On their way to the Dastuhlúnes Lighthouse in Iceland, several hypersonic glide bombs exploded toward them.

Fifty years later, vegetation and the environment were severely damaged. Most of Earth’s land was covered in vast ice and snow, and the only surviving human cities were Loch City and Langdao City.

They were named after Edward Loch and Lev Davidovich Landau, symbolizing humanity’s boundless determination to break out of Earth and their unending struggle.

At the end of the dream, the people on the Frost Plains turned into human-shaped snow. A gentle touch shattered them into invisible pure white scattered on the ground.

On that pure white, General Yaro’s blood gushed out, intermingling red and white. Horne broke down and shouted his mother’s name, charging desperately toward Loch City to find his father, only to be stopped by the human commander. The commander told him that General Al had protected Loch City’s residents by fighting one against ten thousand at the main city gate and died gloriously.

Horne knelt in the piercing daylight of the polar day, weeping bitterly and accumulating hatred.

Prayers echoed everywhere, like the chants from childhood in the only remaining church in Loch City, where people clasped their hands and prayed to God.

‘All beings in this world must die one day. How can one bravely face death’s gaze? Better to fight one against ten thousand, for the ashes of one’s ancestors, for the temple of the gods.[1]’

He plummeted, his heart contracting violently.

In that instant, Horne struggled as if drowning and leaped up from the bed, only to fall back in pain.

His mind gradually filled with color from a blank slate.

A clean, soft bed, beige walls, wooden floors, a fresh air system running constantly. The scents of alcohol and medicine lingered faintly, but a familiar woody aroma filled his nostrils.

That woody scent brought Horne a long-lost sense of peace, so quiet that he heard not a single sound from outside.

Horne raised his hand, feeling a sting on the back. An IV needle was still embedded in his vein.

At the foot of the bed stood a wardrobe with a huge mirror on it. He sat up slowly and could see himself perfectly in it. He wore no clothes, but white bandages wrapped him tightly. No bloodstains were visible, only the gaunt flesh beneath. With a slight flex, his muscles bulged, veins clearly outlined—traces of countless training sessions.

Otherwise, his body and face were clean. His hair had been carefully washed, fluffy and comfortable over his shoulders, though the gash remained. Without the anxious expression in the mirror, he would have looked like a lazy scene after a good night’s sleep.

Click. The door opened then. As ventilation rushed in, a few strands of Horne’s hair fluttered. He turned his head and met Hels’s eyes as he pushed the door open. The icy gaze softened instantly.

Hels paused, then chuckled lightly in relief and walked in. He handed the bowl in his hand to Horne and said softly, “Finally, a bowl of hot porridge can fulfill its mission.”

White porridge with white sugar, and upon closer sniff, bits of sweet cheese.

Horne’s gaze followed Hels without speaking or resisting, letting Hels feed him spoonful by spoonful.

“Does it still hurt?” Hels’s voice was gentle.

Horne shook his head lightly, then nodded.

It was the man who had bandaged him in the warehouse before. Last time, the light was too dim to see clearly, but now he took in the man’s face fully. That did not matter. What mattered was his empty stomach, slowly filling under the man’s patient care.

Surprisingly tasty.

The bowl emptied. Hels set it on the bedside table and stood. “Want more? Do you like egg noodles? Or dessert? Water?”

Horne looked up at him from below, a faint light in his eyes.

He remembered the events before passing out, so he remembered the words this man said while holding him. He just could not quite understand them.

That extreme distrust seemed deeply buried in his heart, as if he wanted to dig out his heart to see what filth hid in the breach, only to be devoured instead.

Trust, trust—he had always believed in people, but now he could not recall why he suspected everyone around him so much. The moment he tried to remember, his heart tore with pain.

Horne tilted his head and extended the hand with the IV. “Can I pull this out?” His voice was hoarse, but his throat felt fine.

Hels looked at him silently for a moment, then nodded.

As Horne carefully removed the needle, he asked, “How long was I asleep?”

“A week.”

“Oh.”

Silence again.

The window, not fully closed, blew open in the wind, intensifying the woody scent. Horne then noticed it came from an aromatherapy machine by the bed.

His favorite woody fragrance wafted slowly as white mist from the machine.

Horne looked up, seeing Hels holding back words, and patted the spot beside him on the bed. His tone was harmless. “Sit.”

Hels did not move, staring wordlessly at the pitiful facade he put on.

Horne’s expression fell, like a rejected cub lion. “Not allowed?” He buried his head and smiled bitterly. “Sorry, I seem to have some PTSD. You—you make me feel very safe.”

Hels sighed inwardly. The same trick, and he thought to try it twice.

So he did not even wait for Hels to sit steadily.

In an instant, Horne’s muscles exploded with power. He flipped, hooked Hels’s neck with his elbow, slammed him hard onto the bed, straddled him, and pinned one thigh’s tendon with a knee.

He drew back his elbow to press Hels’s neck, raising his other hand beside Hels’s eyes.

The freshly pulled needle gleamed with its sharp tip and a drop of blood, a hair’s breadth from his eyeball.

“What’s your purpose in approaching me? Who sent you? The military, the government, or the Tower?” Horne’s tone turned icy cold instantly.

Hels lay pinned beneath, limbs aching, but he did not resist at all. As if expecting it, he tugged the corner of his mouth into a smile. “Wow, let me guess—what did I do to make you so guarded?”

Horne’s arm pressed harder, unwilling to waste words. His commanding aura from the Military District made him even more aggressive. “Answer!”

Hels’s tone was intriguing. “You’ve been unconscious in my room for a week. Do you know why you can still threaten me like this?”

Horne frowned, easing his force experimentally, but found Hels had no intention of resisting. Looking closer, he realized even the pinned posture was deliberate—seemingly suppressed, but a counter-ready stance a hair’s breadth from his aggressive center, as if Hels had seen through every move.

“You’re Hels.” Horne said expressionlessly. The man repeatedly mentioned in the Red Light District, warned countless times not to approach.

“Hm? My name—does it sound nice?”

Hels’s voice was bewitching, low like a surging tide—comforting in calm, merciless in storm, tempting one to hide in his warm depths.

Horne snapped back quickly, his head throbbing sharply. In that instant, Hels powered his waist and abdomen, swiftly turning to throw Horne off.

The situation reversed abruptly. Horne’s needle stabbed instantly, but halfway, his wrist was gripped. Hels did not squeeze hard—just flicked, and the needle flew from his hand.

“Don’t wave needles or knives around every day. It’s dangerous.” Hels smiled with pursed lips, adding in a breathy whisper, “Especially in bed.”

This man was off. Horne wanted to resist, but he was pinned too tightly to exert force.

Hels did not mind. He grabbed a tissue, swiftly pressed Horne’s raised attacking hand following its motion, changed his wrist grip to clasped hands, sandwiching Horne’s hand between his palms with the paper barrier.

Blood bloomed a small spot on the tissue. Ten seconds later, it clotted.

Hels stood, pulling Horne up too. First thing, he checked the bandages all over Horne’s body. Seeing no blood seeps, he relaxed. “Didn’t hit your wounds, did it?”

Horne’s complexion was poor.

He felt he had truly intended to kill, yet the other treated it like playing house with a child. It could only be blamed on his poor condition. Without injuries, he should have been able to match him.

Horne gritted his teeth, squeezing words through them. “You knew I’d threaten you?”

Hels raised a brow. “Ah, yeah, I knew.”

“Why sit then?”

Hels looked innocent. “You ordered it.”

Horne clenched his fists, face taut.

It was indeed his usual commanding tone, and this man obeyed unusually.

After a long moment, Hels smiled faintly, the laugh sounding somewhat pleased. He squatted, going to one knee. Their eyes drew infinitely close. Hels looked up at him; Horne’s facial muscles tensed, unmoving, head slightly lowered, warily watching the man before him as breaths brushed his exposed skin.

He had glimpsed the contours under this man’s mask in the dark warehouse once—a fleeting sharpness. Yet his mask was plain, hard to link to the “killing machine” described.

After a moment, Hels dropped his habitual joking tone, speaking earnestly and solemnly. “Alright, maybe talking like this is weird, but if you really can’t find anyone to trust, just trust me, okay?”

Horne stiffened. He did not know why it was this sentence. Frowning, he asked, “Did you know me before?”

“No.” Hels answered quickly.

The wind stopped. The white gauze curtain drifted lightly back into place, covering the wall’s original color in pure white.

Moments later, Horne’s muscles fully relaxed. For the first time in ages, he felt a false sense of reassurance. Even so, his voice remained piercingly frosty. “I’m not interested in who you are, what you’ve done, or what you want to do. Just tell me one thing: how did humanity fail?”

At the top floor of the Red Light District building, only those with Hels’s permission could enter. Sometimes he was here, mostly not. Too far from the ground, none of the human city’s clamor penetrated.

The elevator descended all the way. Hels said nothing throughout. The man behind asked, “Why not tell him? You’ve been waiting for him.”

Hels glanced at You Wenjie in the elevator’s reflection, his tone flatly different from with Horne. “I don’t want him to remember that.”

“Even if that memory holds all your pasts?”

Hels’s gaze pierced through the elevator wall to a distant past. No matter how distant, it was just a helpless self-mockery. “We never had any past.”

What there was had always been his naive, godlike adoration.

The elevator plunged down, and You Wenjie’s reminder pulled him down too. “Maybe he’ll remember soon?”

The doors opened, and the Red Light District hall’s dust flew in. People saw Hels but dared not speak or draw attention. Where he passed, silence mostly fell.

Only after Hels’s figure left through the main doors did the Red Light District resume its frenzy.

In a booth corner, Han Ya watched Hels’s departing back and sent another message: [They met.]