Chapter 67

The door to the Command Room was knocked on, and the person inside said, “Come in.”

Hels directly pushed open the door. The door slammed forcefully against the wall behind it with a heavy thud, startling the people inside.

The Command Room was no longer the same as before. There were no maps, no guides, no scattered and haphazard teaching aids. Instead, a new air purifier had been placed there, and the screen desktop was spotlessly clean.

Ben Yian sat at the desk. He looked up at Hels and frowned. “Who taught you to open doors like that?”

Hels did not want to waste words with him. He directly asked, “Where’s the Colonel?”

“He’s doing firearms distribution training. Not sure which district.” Ben Yian’s voice softened a bit.

Hels took two steps forward and stopped in front of Ben Yian. His tall frame exuded overwhelming pressure, and Ben Yian’s chair shifted back slightly. He looked up warily. “What are you doing?”

Hels looked down at him from above. The vicious glint in his eyes was as always, leaving no room for mercy. He slammed both hands on Ben Yian’s desk and growled through gritted teeth, “You all just love humiliating him like this? Making him distribute guns and do firearms training? You know full well he completely opposes this policy!”

The new policy allowed civilians to carry guns. Before this, Loch City had conducted a year-long ideological education campaign for all residents, followed by firearms training. Upon completion, each person could receive a small laser gun.

After assessing the risks, the higher-ups believed that the danger of not arming them outweighed the danger of arming them.

The General had assigned the person who opposed this policy the most to handle it. But that person was no longer like he had been back then, resisting and arguing fiercely. He had only been silent for a long time, listless and stagnant like dead water, before nodding in agreement.

The Military District’s slogans were too hollow. The door was half-closed, and the sounds of training outside were barely audible. Only the scorching sun hung low, sinking into the chill of the Snowfield.

Ben Yian closed his eyes briefly. A flash of pain crossed his tightly furrowed brow. He explained, “This wasn’t my decision.”

“Useless trash!” Hels grabbed Ben Yian’s collar in one hand and yanked him up from the chair, dragging him close. He practically gnashed his teeth as he said, “You’re not worth a finger of Han Ya or Wen Yu.”

The words stung Ben Yian. He struggled, grabbing Hels’s wrist and forcing him to loosen his grip somewhat before locking his movements and making him let go completely.

Ben Yian staggered back two steps and sat back in his chair. He straightened his collar and quickly calmed down. “They haven’t been in Loch City for eight years. What use is saying that now? If the people who stayed behind were any good, why didn’t you fight for him? What good are you then?”

A whistling wind howled in. Before Ben Yian could react, a heavy fist slammed into his face.

He froze in place. Over all these years, though he had always clashed with Hels, Hels had never truly laid a hand on him. They had maintained a precarious balance and harmony between them. Everything was just to avoid putting that person in a difficult spot.

Ben Yian touched the corner of his mouth and glanced down. As expected, it was bright red.

Hels’s voice was exceptionally vicious. “If I find out you’ve done anything even slightly against his interests, I’ll kill every one of you.”

Ben Yian did not start a fight right there. Instead, he laughed, leaned back in his chair, propped up his legs casually, and said offhandedly, “You really are the most failed soldier he ever trained—insubordinate, no discipline at all. If I punished you right now, he wouldn’t speak up for you.”

With that, he laughed again and continued, “Guess how many people know that eight years ago, the rumor in the Military District was that the kid the Colonel was raising was you?”

Hels suppressed his rage. His voice was cold. “Are you threatening me, or threatening him?”

Ben Yian shrugged. “Of course it’s you. I’d never do anything to hurt him, unlike some people who openly stir up trouble in the Military District. If it were anyone else sitting here today, he’d have to come clean up your mess again. Is that how you protect him?”

The words were true, but precisely because it wasn’t anyone else, Hels had thrown that punch.

Ben Yian pointed at the screen on the desk. It displayed a notification from the new base to the north from a day ago: a large group of Aliens had crossed their lines and might reach Loch City tomorrow.

This was the largest gathering in eight years. The new base mainly served as an information relay and could not handle a force of this scale. They still had to rely on Loch City’s Electromagnetic Net and the military’s strength.

All battle information was unified and sent to Ben Yian for review. He would then notify Woody to distribute the weapons.

They were about to face battle, yet that person was still assigned to do irrelevant urban training. Thinking of this, Hels could barely contain his hatred. He gnashed his teeth. “Have all the weapons been distributed? For the second wave of reinforcements, are you sure you can keep up?”

“Of course. You don’t need to worry.”

They had planned for the first wave to charge ahead to the Snowfield as bait, luring the Aliens into the Electromagnetic Net’s grid, where conductive wires would eliminate them. Then the second wave of reinforcements would mop up the remnants.

Ben Yian took a deep breath and answered casually. He looked at Hels, raised a brow, and smiled. “After all, his adjutant isn’t you—it’s me.”

Hels ignored his laughable provocation. He snorted coldly, turned, and left. At the door, he paused and said coldly, “He doesn’t need an adjutant, and he sure as hell doesn’t need you.”

“Is that so?” Ben Yian suppressed his emotions, trying to appear as relaxed and indifferent as possible. “We’ll see who it is he really needs.”

Hels never imagined Ben Yian would respond with such childish words, like they were fighting over a favorite toy.

He did not bother replying. As he left, he slammed the Command Room door again with a “Bang!” The room fell silent.

Ben Yian clenched his fist tightly, veins bulging on his hand. He glared viciously at the door Hels had slammed, nearly burning a hole through it.

“Thud!” His fist pounded the screen desktop, accidentally opening his personal favorites folder. Row after row of messages popped up on the desktop.

—“It’s all thanks to the Colonel, plus the Electromagnetic Net. The Colonel alone at the city gate could take on ten thousand.”

—“I don’t get how they pick adjutants. That adjutant got the position by cozying up to the Colonel, right? They’re close, so backroom dealings, obviously.”

—“The military’s really gone downhill.”

—“If Adjutant Han and Wen Yu hadn’t left the city, it never would’ve been Ben Yian’s turn.”

…

Ben Yian: [New base sent info. Aliens gathering. Prepare for battle.]

Soldier: [We need the Colonel to issue orders personally.]

Ben Yian: [I’m the Colonel’s adjutant. Can’t I handle personnel movements?]

Soldier: [We only take orders from the Colonel.]

…

Woody’s sudden appointment still had some credibility, but Ben Yian’s parachuted-in role had always been a laughingstock. He had spent little time in the Military District with no achievements. He had come from the City Defense District and had only recently transferred to the outer district when he was directly appointed adjutant. Over the years, he had heard too much mockery.

He did not even know if it counted as backroom dealings. The General had assigned him, so he came, thrilled beyond measure. But what followed was even more doubt.

Staring at the messages that had all popped up by accident, Ben Yian’s eyes turned bloodshot, his pupils trembling uncontrollably.

He stood up, said nothing, picked up the chair, and smashed it viciously onto the screen.

The screen flickered a few times, glitched, then restored itself immediately. The messages he had saved one by one in his favorites reappeared on the desktop in sequence.

—“The patient’s condition is very poor. We don’t know when he’ll wake up next, or if he ever will.”

—“It’s been over two months now. If he doesn’t wake by three months, please prepare for the worst.”

…

“Thud!” Another punch. It glitched again, then reappeared, stubborn as if etched into the desktop.

Needles pricked at him ceaselessly.

Violence solved nothing. He could only frantically close each popup window with both hands, bend down to pick up the chair, sit back down, and wearily pull up his personal terminal with his eyes closed.

The moment he closed his eyes, it was all the years of sharp confrontations with Hels, Ben Mu’s weak smiles, her days in a coma, and finally, that person’s every response to him turning into a face full of smiles—but nothing more.

In the end, he sent a message.

Ben Yian: [Come home early after training. Stay safe :)]

That person had saved many people and helped many, but perhaps to him, everyone was just an ordinary passing figure in his life, fuel for his beliefs. None were special.

–

After leaving the Command Room, Hels asked around hurriedly along the way and finally found the district where the current firearms training was happening.

On a high platform, a crowd gathered below. From afar, Hels spotted that tall, slender figure standing ramrod straight, never relaxing for a second.

Seeing him, his earlier anger vanished completely.

That person was patiently explaining to the residents how to use the gun, just like he used to with every new recruit.

His hair had grown longer; he did not want to cut it, letting the slightly curly red-brown locks fall to his shoulders. He looked gentler overall. If not for the sharper, icier blade in his eyes, the eternal chill, the unmelting desolation.

These years, he had lived like this. He had grown more and more silent, only showing a bit of his old self when facing Hels and Ben Yian.

A middle-aged man in a wheelchair examined the model gun over and over for a long time. He listened intently but still did not understand. After pondering, “click,” he pressed the trigger. The man in the wheelchair jumped in fright. Even though it was just a model with no bullets, such behavior was still dangerous.

The person on the platform stepped down.

Hels stood at the edge of the crowd. Through the layers of gaps, he saw that person’s profile. It was distant, yet the focal point. Looking from afar was enough.

He walked to the side of the man in the wheelchair, bent down, tucked the hair by his ear behind it, and patiently explained it once more just for him.

People were talking all around, asking each other questions. The large area was noisy, but his voice still pierced straight to Hels’s heart.

“Be careful. When you face mortal danger and have no choice but to fire, do it decisively—kill that Alien. But never point the muzzle at a person, whether there are bullets or not.”

His voice was like still, frigid lake water, unchanging under day after day of cold sunlight, without a single ripple.

Hels felt like his heart was being snipped away piece by piece with scissors.

The middle-aged man in the wheelchair nodded emphatically and thanked him. Finally, he grabbed his hand. “Colonel, thank you for your hard work.”

That person smiled briefly, then restrained it.

Night fell. Training ended, and the crowd dispersed slowly. The soldiers returned to the Military District, and that person headed home too.

Streetlights passed one by one. Under the orange glow, black shadows drifted from behind to in front, then back again. Dark clouds in the sky drifted north, illuminated elsewhere by distant lights out of sight.

Two sets of footsteps echoed dozens of meters apart, one behind the other, heading to the same place. No intersection, only dull heaviness.

Until the sound of a door opening and closing, a moment later, opening and closing again.

All unease dissolved the instant the woody scent hit.

“Brother!” A clear shout rang out.

The bathroom door opened. Steam and the scent of bath products poured out together. Horne dried his hair and glanced at Hels, who was squatting by the bathroom door waiting.

Hels stood up immediately. Horne’s gaze shifted from downcast to upward, tilting his head slightly.

He was a bit taller than him now.

“Brother, you took forever.” Hels pounced to hug him.

Horne’s expression did not change. He sidestepped, and Hels hugged empty air.

“Brother!” An aggrieved voice.

Horne tossed the towel over. He turned and headed up to the loft. Hels clutched the towel and followed him upstairs. “Brother, ignoring me again, ignoring me again!”

Horne pulled down the loft bed, took a blanket from the underfloor drawer, and gestured to Hels. “Make it yourself.”

Hels: “?”

Hels was highly alert. He stood still without moving.

Horne pushed open the bookshelf and entered the study inside. He curled up on the sofa to read, not sparing Hels another glance.

Hels stared at the bed he had not slept on in eight years and tentatively asked, “Can’t I sleep with you anymore?”

“Mm.” Horne answered flatly, without a shred of attention or emotion. “We’re adults now. My bed can’t fit two people.”

Hels: “?”

No, he had not grown all at once. How could it suddenly not fit overnight?

Hels did not make the bed. He walked over and forcibly squeezed onto Horne’s single-person sofa.

Horne frowned, pushed to the edge, a bit helpless but still yielding some space. “Have you even realized that you’re taller and bulkier than me now?”

“No.” Hels answered righteously. He squeezed to the back, crossed his legs, hugged Horne from behind, and rested his chin on his shoulder. This way, the single-person sofa could just fit two people.

“Let go.” Horne ordered, still with the unquestionable sternness from the training field.

But this was home, not the training field, and Hels did not listen.

Horne thought he needed to change the rules at home. He had been too lenient with Hels, who had become completely unrestrained.

Seeing that Horne was about to get angry, Hels quickly made amends: “Then promise me you won’t make me sleep upstairs, and I’ll let go.”

Horne sighed, pried Hels’s hands apart, turned around to face him, and said with a serious expression: “Then you answer me first. Why did you conflict with Ben Yian today? How many times has it been? And you even got physical?”

Hels pursed his lips, nearly rolling his eyes: “He’s really boring. He’s tattling on this too?”

“That was in the command room, not at home, Hels. Do you have any sense of decorum?” Horne said sternly. “That was a private message he sent me, without going through the military district. Do you want me to punish you?”

Hels immediately said: “I’m sorry.”

Horne: “…”

There was nothing to say. Hels was like this—quicker to admit fault than anyone, with a better attitude than anyone. There was no way to press him.

He sighed, relaxed his body, turned back around, picked up the book, and continued reading.

“Brother, I was wrong.” Hels immediately got down from the sofa, squatted in front of Horne instead, and looked up at him.

Horne turned his head away, and Hels shifted position to get closer. Horne shifted again, and so did he.

“Brother.” Hels really wanted to snatch the book from Horne’s hands, but after reaching out several times and pulling back, he could only clench his fists tightly and pound the sofa. “I broke the 200 record today—16 bullseyes.”

“Mm.” Horne responded, his ice-blue eyes reflecting only the text in the book.

Hels fell silent. He just squatted there. When he got tired of squatting, he simply sat on the floor, rested his arms on Horne’s thighs, and gazed at him.

After a long time, Horne’s gaze shifted downward, and he suddenly asked: “16 bullseyes—how much time?”

Hels’s head snapped up, and he answered immediately: “30 seconds!”

“Mm.” Horne nodded slightly, turned a page in his book. “Not bad.”

More than not bad—eight years later, he himself could only maintain 12. At least in this target practice event, Hels had surpassed him, as he claimed.

“From now on, I’m Brother’s gun.” Hels said seriously.

Hels always said something shocking. Horne tried to control it, but a slight upward curve still appeared at the corner of his mouth—and Hels caught it.

He immediately climbed up, squeezed back into the sofa, nestled behind Horne, and hugged him from the back.

His breath lightly brushed Horne’s neck. Horne could no longer focus on the book and said faintly: “Don’t push your luck.”

“Okay.”

Horne: “Okay, and then what?”

Then Hels hugged him even tighter.

Horne: “…”

Fine.

Horne pried his hands apart, stood up, put the book back in its place, and went downstairs.

Hels sat on the sofa, watching that back figure, and did not move.

Lately, he often felt like he could not catch up to Horne, that Horne would not turn back.

As the footsteps slowly descended the stairs and were about to disappear at the bottom, Horne paused one second before. He turned his head, looked up, and asked: “Not coming down?”

Hels immediately jumped off the sofa, hurried a few steps to the top of the stairs, saw the figure below, paused, and asked in a daze: “Didn’t you say to let me sleep in the attic?”

Horne turned his head and took the last step down the stairs, but his voice carried up: “I never said that.”