Chapter 122

It completely vanished across the vast snowfield.

He stood there stunned, motionless. A buzz exploded in his ears, as if the entire snowfield had suddenly collapsed, only for the sound to eerily withdraw, leaving behind waves of oppressive tinnitus and his heartbeat.

He wanted to open his mouth and shout, but all he heard from his throat was a “whimper” like the panting of a wild beast. He had gone so long without speaking that he had nearly forgotten what it felt like to make a sound.

Gone. What to do? Gone. He ran back following his memory, but the snowfield was too vast and empty, with no landmarks. Even the footprints they had left while chasing along the way had vanished.

Where did it go… Where did it go…

Which way to go? Left? Right? Was it this direction? He tried walking a bit—no, it did not feel right. Nothing was visible. Not this way, not that way either!

He ran faster and faster, growing more and more terrified—far more than the fear of spending a night alone in the city. He ran for a long time, his vision growing darker and darker. In his panic, his legs gave out, and he fell. Snow choked his nose, covered his eyes, and stole away his body heat.

The snowfield was so vast, and the continents of Earth so broad. Where was he supposed to search?

He grabbed a handful of ice-cold snow in his palm. Snowflakes dug deep into his nail beds, freezing his joints so they could not bend. That arm exerted force and pulled him up from the snow. The small figure stood once more and continued running toward some unknown direction under the myriad stars, the night wind blowing until his skin lost all sensation. He could only shiver to maintain his body temperature. His steps could not stretch out, his blood seemed frozen—each one step took all his strength.

Later, he could not quite remember. It seemed he suddenly no longer felt cold. A brief illusion of warmth even made him feel a little hot.

“Woo woo, woo woo woo.”

A humming sound came from his throat, like a lullaby before sleep, but the melody resembled the dirge of a dying beast.

Later still, he seemed to step onto a snow mound and rolled down the slope without the strength to stop himself.

So the nights on the snowfield were that cold. The warmth that Mikaila had spoken of—those warm people and things—did not exist. There was only endless wilderness and bone-chilling winds.

So cold. He was about to freeze to death.

He had witnessed the brutality of the Aliens, yet he had never encountered any kind humans full of kindness and beauty.

“Matthew?”

The voice echoed from above, ethereal like stars in the deep void.

It felt like a long time had passed, or perhaps after death. Moroz heard the voice, and it grew closer and closer.

“Matthew?!

“Matthew, hold on a bit.”

The fireplace burned, crackling and spitting sparks. Two people sat side by side, warmth seeping from their skin into their blood.

The person beside him was somewhat strange. He had rescued him but did not ask if he had filed for migration clearance. Perhaps he took him for someone from Loch City. But he did not drive him away either. He gave him food and shelter, and he was very friendly, without any wariness.

That person’s eyes were ice-blue, like the Frost Plains under sunlight—somewhat cool, yet not cold.

“Do you like… Hels?”

What was that?

“Have you heard of Slav mythology? Hels, the winter sun god. It suits you well.”

That person took out paper and pen, wrote down several names, and asked for his name. Moroz never spoke. Only when that person said he would give him a new name and explain its meaning did he turn his head and look at him earnestly.

Hels…

In that instant, emotions surged within Moroz, but they hid away in just a few seconds of eye contact.

He had never told that person his real name. Likewise, he had never said that Milo, that Slav, had given him the name “Moroz,” which also came from Slav mythology.

God of winter.

Blood in the winter, cellars in the winter, flight in the winter, garbage heaps, rancid sour water, moldy bread, bloodstained blades.

Moroz had once thought it was because of him that Mikaila had ushered in winter. But that person told him—

He was the sun of winter.

So there really were kind and beautiful humans in the world. It was just that the world he had once lived in was too small; he had never met them.

He nodded solemnly.

He wanted to get close to that person, to stay by his side.

But Mikaila was a very sincere Alien. When she came to the human world, she told the person she loved about her Alien identity. So Moroz always thought about this too.

Tell him. Horne would not mind.

The words chewed to pieces lingered anxiously in his mouth for a time, but what he truly swallowed was that sentence Horne had said at the Warfallen Asylum—

Aliens did not deserve death? No, “Aliens, death is too good for them.”

Even someone so gentle and kind had his insurmountable past, obsessions he could not let go, unshakeable, unable to release.

But he did not want to deceive anyone, nor did he want to die, much less leave. All he could do was stay silent.

Yet eight years had not made him grow into someone who could protect Horne.

When Hels awoke once more from a haze, outside there were only ruins like scattered remnants and devastation.

His limbs were bound tightly, the industrial tape over his mouth impossible to remove no matter what. The flesh at the site of the Resident Chip behind his ear had been torn open, the blood nearly scabbed over.

The glass room was the last intact spot in the Control Tower, still requiring military rank to enter. Hels had been locked here by Ben Yian for two months—from initial rage to now, with barely any strength left. He did not know what was happening outside, or how Horne was.

Yesterday, when Ben Yian came to the Control Tower, he also brought news: Horne would be executed today.

On what grounds? How could they do that to him?

He exhausted every trick again to break free from the bonds, just like the past two months—failure.

He could not stay tied up here forever. Even if he died, he had to go save Horne.

Why could he not turn into an Alien? Why?!

This near-death fury persisted until several people entered the Control Tower one after another. Hels did not recognize them, but from their attire, he could tell they were from the Military District.

They could not see him or hear him, but Hels could observe everything happening outside through the one-way glass, completely and without reservation, in crystal clarity.

“They’re really bringing him here?” one of them asked.

Another shrugged. “Ben Yian said so. Isn’t he his adjutant? They get along so well; the colonel will definitely trust him.”

“Pah, what colonel? He’s dying today.”

At the words “colonel,” Hels rolled over and struggled to the edge of the glass. He stood right there, twisted his body, and slammed into the glass fiercely.

Thud!

The people outside immediately went on alert.

“What was that sound?”

“I heard it too.”

“Probably the laser cannons outside.”

The dull thud drowned in the explosions of attacks outside, blending together, indistinguishable.

Hels hunched slightly, his stamina failing, sweat beading bit by bit on his forehead.

What did they want to do by bringing Horne here?

Hels gasped on the floor, rubbing the ropes against it. The floor was nearly worn into a groove, but the ropes showed no sign of fraying. There was nothing in this small lounge he could use.

He could not stay trapped here. He had to find a way out.

The people outside were still talking, farther away were cannon fire and screams. Hels ignored it. Soon, hurried footsteps approached closer and closer.

“Colonel, hello.”

Hels paused his efforts, immediately rolled up and stood at the glass edge, pressing his whole body against it.

Horne, Horne. It was him!

Seeing his appearance, Hels’s eyes nearly turned bloodshot; he could hardly breathe. Two months without seeing him, and he had grown even thinner. On the surface, he still seemed calm and composed, but his eyes held deep exhaustion.

Horne!

Filthy and thin black short sleeves, hands cuffed behind his back, ankles shackled with short chains.

Where was the once-respected colonel? He was the lowest, most deserving-of-death prisoner in this world.

“Colonel, please sit.”

The one who brought Horne was Ben Yian. Hels’s breathing hitched for an instant as all his strength gathered.

He knew what Ben Yian wanted to do!

Ben Yian just smiled faintly, speaking to Horne as usual. “They’re old friends of mine. You rest here a bit; I’ll go check the situation.”

In that instant, Hels twisted and slammed into the glass again.

Thud!

The impact numbed his arm.

“What sound?” Horne asked. He looked around, his gaze passing over the glass, over Hels’s line of sight, then to the outside.

He could not see inside the glass! He did not know he was here!

“Mmmph mmmph!” A tearing sound came from Hels’s throat, bursting out and echoing in the small glass room. No one saw him, no one heard.

“Outside.” Ben Yian answered.

Not outside!!

The tearing turned to roars, roar after roar swallowed by the tape. Hels frantically tried to break free with brute force, but the ropes did not budge. He did not know where Ben Yian had gotten these special ropes; they bound him completely, with no chance of escape.

“You shouldn’t have saved me.”

“Mmmph!!” Hels roared. Unable to break free, he could only stand at the glass edge, roaring as close as possible, hoping Horne might hear even a tiny bit through some crack.

Run, run! Ben Yian is not here to save you!!

Horne sat in the chair outside, always calm. “Do you know how Hels is doing?”

Right here! Right next to you!

“Mmmph mmmph mmmph!!” Burning with anxiety, Hels slammed into the glass again.

Thud!

If the sound could not be heard, he would shatter the glass, even if it was humanity’s densest, most unbreakable creation.

Thud!

Hels gasped, sweat pouring down his face. He slammed into the glass again and again, toward the person just less than ten meters away who never noticed his presence.

Turn around, look at the glass! Horne!

Thud!

The sounds of slamming the glass and the cannon fire outside rose and fell in the cramped space. Horne looked around in confusion, his gaze finally settling on the sliver of space exposed by the Control Tower, unaware of what was about to happen.

He thought it was the cannon fire outside?!

Thud!

The quieter the people outside sat, the more anxious Hels became. Slam after slam, heedless of the pain, heedless of injury—he only wanted to smash the glass, rush out, and take Horne away.

As Hels’s slams grew more frequent, Ben Yian glanced toward the glass room.

“Wait a moment, Little Horne.”

Bang! The door shut.

In that instant, Hels lunged at Ben Yian. The hoarse roar shaking his throat made Ben Yian furrow his brow.

“Tch.” Ben Yian sneered disdainfully. One hand drew a knife, the other gripped Hels’s neck tightly, slamming his head against the glass. The smile never left his lips.

Subduing Hels now was effortless. They were all just bugs in his hands.

“How does it feel? You can see him, but he doesn’t know you’re here. He even asked if you heard it. Hahaha.” Ben Yian’s laughter rose in pitch, his grip never loosening.

The cold gleam of the small knife illuminated Hels’s flushed face, pressed against the glass and distorted, yet allowing him to see Horne even more clearly.

Ben Yian laughed and then stopped, his voice turning to an unprecedented calm. In that calm trembled a faint quiver—indistinguishable as fear or excitement.

“Here’s the deal. I’ll give you a chance: go kill him.”

After hearing Ben Yian say this, veins bulged on Hels’s neck. The sound from his throat was no human roar. He arched his body fiercely to escape Ben Yian’s hand, only to be dragged back immediately.

“Shh, shh, quiet down. You can’t break free, and he can’t hear, but no matter,” Ben Yian’s voice was unhurried. “I’m always reasonable; you should know that. So two choices for you. One: go out and stab through his heart with one knife—let him die instantly, painlessly. Two: if you can’t bring yourself to, then watch us kill him slowly. The process… well, you decide how to choose?”

“Mmmph!!” Violent struggles.

At the same time, a scream of agony came from outside the glass: Horne’s. “Ah—!”

Hels whipped his head back, instantly frozen in place.

They had stabbed a knife into Horne’s thigh, from top to bottom, nearly nailing him to the chair he sat in.

How dared they!

Hels trembled all over, bloodshot eyes bulging. He thrashed like a madman, roaring, but Ben Yian remained calm. He stepped back two paces, suddenly laughed, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the glass and let out a long sigh. “Actually, I’ve always wanted to ask you something, Hels.”

“Aaah!” Another scream surged in from outside. In Hels’s wide, bloodshot eyes, through the one-way glass, he saw that blade pulled from Horne’s abdomen, fresh red.

Thump! Hels crashed headfirst into the glass, his vision going black instantly as his whole body tumbled down.

Ben Yian looked down at him, his tone suddenly turning ice-cold, his expression utterly devoid of emotion as he gazed over. “Can you tell me one more time—what is the essence of choice?”