Chapter 35

He suddenly turned his head and shouted loudly: “Come look! Isn’t this the guy who came asking about the Military District a while ago!”

With that shout, all eyes turned toward them.

Horne stood unmoving, coldly repeating once more: “What do you want?”

“It really is this guy.”

“Wow, the Military District!”

No one paid him any mind, but that tone, clearly laced with mockery, stabbed into Horne’s upright back like thorns pricking it.

A recon drone flew in from the city gate, skimmed over the Slum, and headed toward a higher spot.

The vagrants who had been whispering suddenly started yelling. The one holding the pocket watch grabbed Horne’s arm and shouted: “I’ve got him! Quick, search him for anything valuable!”

Before the words had even finished echoing, Horne countered with a twist, wrenching the vagrant’s arm backward with almost no effort. Expressionless, he shoved the man away.

Dozens of vagrants behind him instantly pounced.

“No valuables? Strip his clothes off then! It’s been ages since I had new ones!”

“Didn’t you say the latest one was for me last time?!”

Spit, snot, a massive stench—they came at him from all sides like a barrier, surrounding Horne in the middle.

In the terminal, Hels’s replies sat there.

Hels: [Busy, anything?]

Hels: [Miss me?]

Hels: [You can go to the Doctor’s. I’ll come pick you up later, okay?]

Hels: [Horne?]

Too dirty.

Horne leaned against the flower bed’s edge, unhurriedly straightening his clothes, but the smell was too strong—it seemed impossible to brush off. He could only frown irritably, thinking he’d clean up properly once he got back.

Nearby, the lame vagrant clutched his recovered pocket watch and burst into loud sobs.

Not far away, dozens of vagrants writhed on the ground like a swarm of ants, groaning in misery.

They hadn’t expected this seemingly non-aggressive person to strike so ruthlessly. One against many, and they’d had almost no chance to fight back.

But Horne hadn’t gone all out, making them realize they couldn’t win and back off. He stepped on the vagrant’s arm, pried open his palm, and returned the pocket watch to its owner.

Perhaps because it was so close to the city gate, recon drones flew by from time to time, and several guards stood at the entrance.

Horne leisurely replied to Hels: [Yeah.]

Hels: [Took you this long to reply? What are you doing?]

Horne: [None of your business.]

Hels: [Colonel, don’t you think it’s pretty unfair?]

Reading that reply, Horne suddenly smiled faintly, his lips just barely curving before he smoothed it away.

Horne: [Don’t think so.]

Forget it—guarding this spot and waiting idly for rabbits was a pure waste of time. Fishing for info was too hard; actual tracking would be faster.

With that thought, Horne turned his head toward the city gate.

The gate’s material had been changed—gray-silver and towering, seamless when closed.

Back when he’d lived in this area, he could see the city gate perfectly from the attic window, along with the Frost Plains outside. The snowfield was an eternal expanse of white, barren of anything else.

Cries and groans filled his ears nonstop. The lame vagrant had cried himself out, stood up, swept his gaze over the people sprawled haphazardly on the empty ground, and suddenly his eyes reddened. He whipped his head around and snarled viciously at Horne: “Who gave you permission to hit them?”

Horne had just closed the terminal and straightened up. He glanced at the man, not yet processing what he’d said, when the vagrant stormed over in a rage and shoved him hard.

Horne, caught off guard and not expecting the move, staggered back two steps.

“They—they’re all my friends! Who gave you permission to hit them?!” The lame vagrant bellowed, his eyes bloodshot with fury. He looked around but found nothing suitable, so he squatted down, scooped up two handfuls of yellow dirt mixed with stones, and hurled them at Horne. “Who asked you to meddle?!”

Horne instinctively raised a hand to block. The dirt, carrying pebbles, struck his head; dust crept into his clothes. The outfit he’d just managed to brush mostly clean now bore streaks of mud.

Horne snapped to attention, his gaze turning icy. He said nothing, backed up a few steps, and irritably shook out his clothes—the mud clung uncomfortably to his skin.

The lame vagrant broke into hysterical sobs, limping toward the center of the empty ground: “Are you all okay? Hurt anywhere? I—I’ll kill him!”

The dozens of vagrants began wailing like ghosts and wolves across the empty ground.

“He hit someone! He hit the vagrants!”

“Humanity’s doomed!”

If humanity was doomed, it would be by its own hand.

But the people he wanted to save included these vagrants as part.

With no extra clues turning up, Horne decided not to waste more time. He’d go back, wash up, and wait.

He and Hels had an appointment the next day for a second treatment with Siselen. It hadn’t needed to be so soon, but he required a suitable excuse to lure Hels out—Hels was always in a good mood when he took the initiative. Plus, he could get treated.

Seeing that soft sofa, Horne felt a twinge of dread. Even before sitting, the piercing pain had already begun.

“It doesn’t have to be this frequent. If it’s uncomfortable, you can wait a few days,” Hels said. He sat on the long sofa with legs crossed, his expression not entirely approving.

Horne replied flatly: “Not uncomfortable.”

The previous patient hadn’t left yet. Siselen gestured for them to wait.

The entire medical studio was white like a mirror, oppressively so. To ease the suffocation, Siselen had placed green plants everywhere; beyond that, the only decorations were books.

Hels’s gaze followed Horne, who stood before the bookshelf, head tilted up.

After waking, his mind constantly churned with thoughts of survival and humanity, but facing all these books brought a moment of peace.

Horne raised a hand, fingertips lightly brushing each shelf, each book—these were stories left by humans long ago. A century later, the storytellers were gone, but their tales endured forever.

Horne pulled one out, cradled it in his hands, and gently opened it.

Even while just reading, he stood ramrod straight, upright and impeccable, like a perfect sculpted masterpiece amid the pure white.

Horne heard a soft chuckle from behind. He turned to look.

Hels sat casually, hand propping his cheek, head tilted, staring straight at him with amusement in his eyes.

Horne said coldly: “What’s so funny? Am I that amusing?”

Hels straightened a bit, lips curving: “Laughter is just a pleasant emotion—not only for mockery. You could try thinking that I’m smiling at you because seeing you puts me in a good mood.”

Horne’s fingers tightened slightly on the book. He lowered his gaze, turned away, and avoided looking at Hels.

“Even with your back to me, it’s the same.”

Horne: “…”

In another sense, Hels’s willingness to get close was actually beneficial to him.

But Horne still found it hard to parse the man’s verbal logic.

Hels’s voice came from behind: “What kind of place do you think Hulunbuir is?”

It was a perfectly normal question, no verbal traps apparent. Horne thought for a moment and answered: “Relaxed, peaceful, vast.”

Hels pressed: “What about Uruguay?”

Horne’s gaze lingered on the page before him, but his thoughts drifted to the holographic game map.

He recalled the scorching sun, searing stone benches, sweat pouring, shirtsleeves hiked up.

Horne said: “Passionate, heart-pounding, free.”

“Tasiilaq? That town on Greenland Island.”

“Desolate, mysterious, eerie.”

Interest sparked in Hels’s eyes. He sat up straighter: “Haven’t you noticed? All those adjectives could describe the me in your mind.”

Horne’s hand paused. At the same time, he turned back around.

Three meters apart, the two stared silently at each other.

Horne admitted Hels’s skill at drawing out words far surpassed his own.

In truth, those places didn’t carry those labels—the labels stemmed from his mood at the time, and from Hels.

Horne caught on and fired back with Hels’s own words: “If you want to know how I feel about you, just say it straight.”

Hels covered his face and laughed.

After a moment, he stood, slowly approached Horne, gently extracted the book from his hands, waved it in front of him teasingly: “Overthinking it. Actually, I was talking about this book you’re holding.”

Horne: “…”

He no longer wanted to guess at Hels’s thought processes with his own logic.

Hels flipped through two pages casually, then closed it. Horne’s gaze fell on the book’s cover, but soon shifted to the hand holding it.

Hels’s fingers were long and strong— an ordinary person’s neck would snap instantly in such a grip.

Realizing what he was thinking, Horne felt a sudden ache in his own neck.

If they were inevitably opposed, it would be a brutal fight. Yet right now, Hels was comforting him, telling him not to cling to past memories.

Horne’s voice came out a bit unnatural. He cleared his throat, pulled another book randomly from the shelf, and said expressionlessly: “Yeah, have you read this one?”

Hels glanced at it: “Yes.”

He grabbed another.

Hels leaned against the bookshelf: “Man is born free, yet everywhere he is in chains.”

“This one?”

“The oldest Hebrew Bible manuscript. Humanity’s final prophecy was found at Qumran, right?”

Horne reached for another, but was stopped.

Hels’s voice turned low and gentle, murmuring near his ear: “Alright, Colonel. I’m guessing your goal isn’t to test how many books I’ve read. You’re just covering up your embarrassment.”

Horne grew annoyed. He yanked his hand back, stepped away, and said coldly: “You have three seconds.”

Hels paused for a second.

“Two.”

Hels: “…”

Hels sped up: “Alright, Colonel. I’m guessing your goal really is to test how many books I’ve read. How could it be covering up embarrassment?”

Horne shot him an icy glance and fell silent.

The door to the next room opened. Another patient emerged, thanked Siselen, and hurried off.

Siselen cleaned up, came out, and gestured for Horne to sit on the single sofa.

Horne stood for a moment, then slowly sat.

Siselen fitted the equipment, pulled up the previous settings, checked carefully, and asked: “Mr. Horne, how have you been feeling these past couple days? Any particular changes or sensations?”

“Fine.”

“Have you remembered anything these past couple days? Any sense of memories surfacing?”

“Not sure.”

“Alright. Tell me immediately if anything feels off.”

Siselen activated the device. Not long after, Horne felt his brain sinking, dizziness hitting him. He called out sharply: “Wait.”

It shut off.

“Mr. Horne? Uncomfortable?”

“No.” Horne opened his eyes, took a deep breath, glanced sideways at Hels nearby. Their gazes met.

Horne stayed silent for a few seconds, said nothing, and extended his hand.

That hand hung in midair, reaching toward Hels.