Chapter 60

Horne was just about to speak when someone nearby asked, “I heard the government recently allocated funds to the residential district? How come I haven’t received mine?”

He looked like a friend of the mask stall owner, and Horne immediately shifted his attention. “Yeah, yeah, it hasn’t reached you yet? My life’s been a lot easier lately. I even had two full meals of meat. Look, I’ve got enough money to buy materials now and do some small crafts. Heh heh, though I’ll spend it all soon, but even two easy days count as easy.”

“Wow, that’s great.”

Horne quickly led Hels away from the market in silence.

Hels was tense the whole way, afraid Horne would blame him. But they walked far enough that the market’s clamor faded, and then Horne suddenly burst out laughing.

Hels: “?”

Horne laughed as he walked, ignoring the puzzled stares from people on the street. He leaned in and said, “To be honest, I thought those masks were ugly too. I wanted to smash them myself, but I didn’t expect you’d actually do it. Hahaha.”

Hels relaxed.

“You’re not mad at me,” Hels said quietly.

“Hahaha,” Horne was in high spirits, “Mad at you for what?”

It was the first time Horne had seen Hels smile—the guarded expression on that kid’s face finally softening into something approachable.

People came and went on the street. Horne pulled Hels along as they passed a few homeless people sleeping on the roadside. He bought some bread and handed it out to them, only to have one tug at his pant leg demanding more. Horne backed away a few steps and hurried off.

The loft with its reading lamp was quiet, the single window cracked open just a slit, letting in some of the wind from outside.

After washing up, Horne nestled on the sofa in his study reading a book, with Hels huddled under Horne’s shirt, squeezing onto the single small sofa with him.

The leather sofa wasn’t very breathable, and it started to get hot after sitting for a while. Horne felt helpless. He nudged Hels, gesturing for him to go read on the other chair, but Hels wouldn’t budge. He insisted on sharing the same book.

“You can’t even read it,” Horne said as he flipped through the pages quickly, showing Hels the book’s thickness, the dense text, and his own annotations.

“I can read it,” Hels replied casually. He pointed to the page Horne had just turned to, where a line was underlined. Closing his eyes, he recited, “All beings in this world must die one day. Rather than facing death’s gaze with courage, one might as well stand against a myriad foes, for the ashes of ancestors, for the temples of the gods.”

He read slowly, with some words still unclear because he rarely tackled such long sentences. But he had improved a lot.

Hels flipped to the book’s cover and pointed to the title. “Ancient Roman Classics. You read this one a lot.” Then he looked up at Horne.

Horne’s eyes were ice blue—like unyielding frost on the training field, but at home, like an endless sea.

Hels slid off the sofa and ran barefoot to the brown bookshelf that covered the wall. He pointed to a framed ancient disc on the middle shelf’s end and read aloud, “Humans are ignorant yet proud. They have endured wars, plagues, earthquakes, tsunamis…”

And God permitted it all.

Hels dashed downstairs. Horne had no idea what he was up to and followed.

From under Horne’s pillow in the bedroom, Hels pulled out a book and said, “Seize the day, put little trust in the future.”

It was exactly the one Horne had been reading lately—Roman poet Horace’s Odes.

He rushed out of the bedroom, his footsteps echoing quickly into the living room. Hels grabbed the well-worn book from the coffee table and said to Horne, “I am a law only for my own kind, not for all.”

Thus Spoke Zarathustra—the title dazzled right in front of Horne’s eyes.

Horne hadn’t realized Hels paid attention to the books he read or even knew where he kept them. He was about to speak when Hels continued, “Life and will are different principles. Nietzsche likens the present to an age of awakening, where humanity must rise from unbearable humiliation into beings that transcend the human.”

He set the book down and said, word by deliberate word, “I think that in this era, staying kind isn’t noble—it’s a luxury.”

Horne was stunned. He stood two meters away from Hels, raising his hand and then lowering it.

Now he realized this child’s terror lay not just in his learning ability, but in his insight and depth of thought.

Horne hadn’t even known when Hels had gone through all the books he himself had read.

He tossed Hels’s slippers onto the floor and said gently, “Hels…

“You’re truly special.”

The most special person he had ever met.

Hels walked over and turned on the black record player in the living room. Music filled with static poured out—piano accompanying cello, playing Gabriel Fauré’s Sicilienne Op. 78.

Hels fiddled with the needle, lifting and dropping it lightly against the record, creating a rhythm.

The familiar ups and downs, fast and slow. Horne felt his emotions surge like waves. He suddenly laughed and said, “Want to go play in the snow?”

The wind on the Frost Plains howled, making their hands tremble with cold and darkness. Overhead, the Control Tower’s searchlights swept by every few seconds, illuminating the chill rising from the snow.

Both wore thick coats as they squatted in the snowfield a few meters from the North City Gate. The on-duty guards watched them closely for safety. Seeing they weren’t venturing farther, they relaxed—any mishap could be handled within steps back to the Electromagnetic Net’s protection.

They dug several pits in the snow, piling it elsewhere. After over an hour, the snow sculpture’s rough shape emerged.

A castle stood alone in the snow, surrounded by a small forest and stream. Beyond the safety circle lay a bustling city.

Hels built diligently, shaping it from his inner vision, while Horne helped refine the details.

“Don’t make the forest too big,” Hels said.

“Okay.” Horne removed part of the long snow strip.

Though bundled up, their hands were freezing. Horne’s felt nearly numb, beyond control, and Hels looked the same, yet he persisted with his masterpiece.

When Hels didn’t need him, Horne sat on the ground watching, head propped on his hand, silent.

Beyond his earlier praise, Horne thought he could add another for Hels: exceptional manual dexterity. The kid had strong ideas of his own.

Footsteps crunched in the snow, drawing nearer, along with rising warmth.

“Major, it’s been a while. Cold out here? Here’s a heating device.” A voice came from not far behind—these were City Defense District personnel. Though not under Horne’s command, they were military too.

Horne turned and saw the man approach with the device, placing it nearby. Warmth spread instantly; hands pressed against it thawed from numb to tingling.

Horne smiled at him. “Thanks.”

The man waved it off. “Head back and rest soon.”

As the temperature rose, the snow didn’t melt. The sculpture’s form took shape. Horne watched Hels arrange it meticulously until the last “house” was complete. Hels pressed his hands to the heater, rubbing them nonstop.

“Done?” Horne asked.

Hels nodded, then shook his head. He scooped more snow from nearby, shaping two little figures and placing them at the largest castle’s door. “This is us,” he said softly.

He made two more and put them in front of a nearby house. “These are the two generals.”

“Hm?” Horne was surprised. Hels even knew about them.

The kid had always been silent and wary, yet he’d never stopped observing everything around him, noting every detail.

Another figure went before a nearby house. “This is my mother.”

Horne was even more surprised—this seemed like the first time Hels mentioned his own affairs. But Horne didn’t pry, and Hels offered no explanation.

“Who else do you want to live here?” Hels looked up at Horne, snow in his palm.

Horne added some little figures near the houses. “Hm, over here we have Han Ya, Ben Yian, and Wen Yu.”

Hels’s hands paused, puzzled. He asked, “Why?”

“Why what?” Horne thought he meant why those three and started to explain, but Hels cut him off.

“Why give handouts to the homeless on the street?”

Horne opened his mouth, caught off guard by the question. He thought about it—ever since picking Hels up on the snowfield, his good intentions had only brought penalties, Hels included. Repeated setbacks could make anyone dismissive or scornful.

Hels looked up at Horne, searching his eyes for the answer.

“Because…” Horne had meant to explain simply, but then realized he didn’t need to. This wasn’t a mere child.

He gazed at the castle Hels had built, his eyes drifting to the vast, icy snowfield.

“Someone told me innocence and kindness are stupid. But I’ve always thought they’re not inferior traits, and they don’t cause me pain. What pains me is not being innocent or kind enough.” He recalled all he’d done, the wanted and unwanted consequences, but it all melted into a smile.

“After that incident, many thought I’d be broken. I did change a lot, but I don’t want to hide. I want to let myself out, because every time ‘I’ hide, some schemer gets away with it. So I want to…”

He trailed off. Hels didn’t interrupt, just waited.

Horne clapped the snow from his hands.

It was past midnight; the wind howled fiercer, the heater no match for the cold. Horne asked if Hels wanted to head back. Hels stood, instantly stomping their two-hour creation flat with his shoe—no regret, no hesitation. “Let’s go.”

On the way out, he scooped a lump of snow to play with, gradually packing it into a hard ball, compressing it tighter all the way home.

Horne didn’t mind, just glanced sideways, keeping an eye on him.

The streets were empty now; their figures hesitated in the biting wind.

Hels tossed the snowball into the air, caught it steadily, tossed again. After a few times, he flung it far away.

A white arc traced through the air. Horne watched the pure white streak.

“Smack!” A sharp crack.

Hels froze mid-step.

Horne: “…”

“Who’s there!!! You’re dead!!!” A curse erupted.

Hels shot Horne a tense glance.

Horne took a deep breath. “Run!”

He hadn’t expected such bad luck—a random snowball shattering someone’s window.

“Who is it! I’m reporting you!”

Horne whispered urgently, “Run faster! If you get caught, you’re on your own!”

Hels gritted his teeth and chased after him.

They ran like the wind, fleeing home from halfway, the cold slapping their faces, breathless yet hearts pounding wildly.

“Bam!” The door slammed shut, blocking the chill.

Panting inside, Horne recovered quickly. He slid down against the door and started covering his face, laughing—louder and louder.

“Horne!” Hels protested.

Horne’s face beamed. He poked Hels and grinned. “Who said you could use my full name?”

Hels deflated, squatting slowly, silent as he watched Horne laugh. He thought Horne was like a seed from God, blooming vibrant flowers across the endless white snowfield.

“Hels,” Horne said after laughing it out, ruffling his hair with a long sigh, his voice soft, “you really are…”

—Truly special.

At home, the record player still spun, playing the classical piece Hels had remixed.

“Hiss—hiss—hiss—”

—So are you.