Morning broke over the city, and for the first time in days, the sky was quiet. The pale beams that had pierced the clouds were gone. Peace, however fragile, had returned.
Lu Ye activated the Eye of the World, scanning Zhao Yang's energy field. The results came back stable—blood mist retracted, and the edges of his consciousness were sharp and defined.
Lin Lan confirmed, "His Dark Blood Mechanics have stabilized." He Xuan added, "His recognition system is back online. No more misfires or blurred targeting."
Lu Ye nodded. "We need to rest." "Not because we're wounded—because we're still alive."
The squad found shelter in an abandoned bookstore on the west side of the city. The walls were intact, the roof hadn't collapsed, and sunlight filtered through cracked glass, casting warm patches across the wooden floor. Dust hung in the air, mingling with the faint scent of old ink and paper.
Zhao Yang sat by the window, blood mist curling gently into his palm like a tame ribbon of fog. He looked out at the empty street and murmured, "This place… doesn't feel like the end of the world."
Lin Lan handed him a book. Its cover read: A Brief History of Humankind. "You could read it," she said softly. "See what we used to be."
Chen Mo leaned against the doorframe, eyes closed, resting. Qin Hao sat in the corner, repairing the light-thread generator. He Xuan was dismantling his disc, cleaning the magnetic core. Lu Ye sat in the center, a map spread before him—but he didn't write. He simply stared at it, as if waiting for something truly peaceful to begin.
Lin Lan brewed a pot of tea. The water was purified, not fresh, but the aroma still brought comfort. She looked at Zhao Yang. "How do you feel now?"
Zhao Yang nodded slowly. "Like I just woke up from a dream." "But the dream… is still inside me."
Chen Mo opened his eyes. "You didn't hurt us." "You just… pushed too hard."
Zhao Yang gave a faint, bitter smile. "I was afraid I wasn't human anymore."
Lu Ye looked up. "You're not afraid of who you are." "You're afraid of losing control." "And right now—you're in control."
He Xuan spoke up. "Your blood mist left a mark on my disc." "Looks like… an eye."
Zhao Yang's voice was quiet. "Maybe it's watching me."
Lin Lan replied gently, "Or maybe… you're watching it."
Silence settled over the room. Then Qin Hao suddenly said, "There's a piano in the back room."
Chen Mo raised an eyebrow. "You play?"
Qin Hao chuckled. "No. But I can fix it."
Zhao Yang stood. "I… learned a little when I was a kid."
In the back room, a dusty upright piano stood quietly in the corner. Zhao Yang sat down, touched the keys. A single note rang out—soft, but clear.
He closed his eyes. Blood mist rose behind him, no longer shaped for battle, but drifting like morning fog. The melody he played was broken, hesitant— but each note felt like a quiet affirmation: I'm still here.
Lin Lan leaned against the doorway. "He's not playing music," she whispered. "He's trying to find himself again."
Lu Ye watched him. There was no command in his eyes—only trust.
Chen Mo murmured, "We all need this." He Xuan nodded. "Even if it's just for an hour."
Night fell. Emergency lamps lit the bookstore with a soft glow. The air was still. Zhao Yang sat by the window, looking out at the ruins of the city. Blood mist swirled gently in his palm, calm and quiet.
He spoke softly:
"I know who I am." "I'm not a god. I'm not a monster." "I'm just… still trying to be human."
Lu Ye walked over, stood beside him. His voice was low, steady:
"You already are." "And we're not going anywhere."