The Helios Station was a fortress of security. Someone like Li Xingyuan had no business lingering there.
If the luminous anomaly Chen Yan spoke of held any real promise of salvation for mankind, then his duty was to race back to Jiangcheng immediately. Yet, Chen Yan himself had conceded the point—the phenomenon was a fleeting, accidental capture. Its practical value was dubious at best.
"And you still want me to retrieve it from your lab?" Li Xingyuan couldn't hide his irritation with his oldest friend.
"Who else can I trust?" Chen Yan shot back, a weary smirk touching his lips. "I'm slated for the Helios Project, a one-way trip to the future. Consider this your shot at playing the hero."
Hero. The word was the foundation of their friendship. They'd met in primary school, two boys who became fast friends only after a furious debate—and subsequent fistfight—over which Ultraman reigned supreme: Tiga or Taro.
Every man dreams of being a hero. Li Xingyuan let the word sit on his tongue now, only to find its taste had turned to ashes, the bitter residue of a childhood fantasy ground down by reality.
When the time came to part, Li Xingyuan searched for the right words, something profound or meaningful for a final farewell. All that emerged was a hoarse, "Look after yourself." Chen Yan merely offered a faint, knowing smile and a slight nod.
They both knew it was goodbye for good.
Liu was detailing the army vehicle when Li Xingyuan found him again. A rag was draped over his shoulder, and he worked with focused intensity, polishing away every speck of dirt and scratch. He glanced up as Li Xingyuan approached. "Done with Professor Chen?"
A nod from Li Xingyuan was met with another from Liu. No prying questions followed.
It wasn't as if their conversation had been private. Chen Yan hadn't lowered his voice, and Li Xingyuan was certain their guide—the ever-present soldier—had heard every word and would duly report it. Liu's discretion, nonetheless, was appreciated.
About the so-called light… Knowing Chen Yan, he would have reported it through official channels. And was likely met with skepticism or outright dismissal, Li Xingyuan thought. Hence this desperate pass to a friend.
A mysterious glow that could save humanity? The idea bordered on the absurd.
"How's Pan Shuai holding up?" Li Xingyuan asked, leaning against the clean fender and pulling out his crumpled pack of soft Chunghwa cigarettes—a premium Chinese brand now reduced to a symbol of his frayed nerves.
Liu shook his head, declining the offered smoke without looking up from his work, his arm moving in firm, circular strokes over the hood. "Asleep inside. The past few days have worn him to the bone."
Li Xingyuan hadn't noticed it before, but at Liu's words, a wave of exhaustion washed over him. It wasn't merely physical weariness, but the deep, bone-aching fatigue that follows the release of long-held tension. He crushed the empty cigarette pack in his hand. "I'll get some sleep too then. You've earned your rest, Liu."
Liu shook his head. "When do we head back to Jiangcheng?"
"We'll stay a few more days. Leave once we're recovered." Li Xingyuan offered a tired smile. "Liu, you're not from Jiangcheng. No obligation to return with us. You should go home."
"I need to report back to my unit," Liu replied, his tone measured and final.
Li Xingyuan said nothing more. He respected the man's choice.
The Helios Station had provided a rudimentary guesthouse for outsiders. The accommodations were spartan at best, but in these times, one couldn't afford to be choosy. The prefabricated room contained little more than a chair, a table, and two sets of iron bunk beds draped in military-issue olive-green blankets. The air hung thick, heavy with the mingled stench of sweat and unwashed feet.
Pan Shuai lay on the lower bunk, turned toward the wall. On the nearby table, a kettle hissed and gurgled as it came to a boil.
Li Xingyuan pulled out the chair and sat down. Despite his fatigue, sleep felt distant. His mind was a tangled mess, churning with the fragmented memories of recent days—the horrors he'd witnessed, the truths Chen had unloaded upon him...
The deep sea... its warped physical laws manifested in his mind's eye as a roiling, ink-black tide, a suffocating wave threatening to drown him completely.
The sound of boiling water snapped him from his reverie. He glanced at the kettle; it had finished.
After sitting for a while longer, his body, which had merely been tired, now felt stiff and painful, like a corpse seized by rigor mortis. He lifted the kettle and poured a cup of scalding water.
"Pan Shuai," Li Xingyuan called out, his voice weary. "Wake up. Have some water before you sleep."
Their water supply from the journey had run out long ago. For Li Xingyuan, Pan Shuai, and Liu, it had been hours since their last drink. The land for hundreds of miles around Helios Station was barren, and the wild water sources—no one dared risk them.
Pan Shuai didn't stir, likely lost in deep sleep—until Li Xingyuan realized something was wrong. The familiar sound of Pan Shuai's snoring had ceased.
"Pan Shuai... Pan Shuai..." Li Xingyuan's voice turned dry and raspy in his throat. Then, suddenly, he shouted, "Liu!"
Liu was at the door in an instant. His face was a tight mask, his eyes burning like coals in a forge. He strode across the room, his gaze sweeping the space before settling on the bed. He moved to Pan Shuai's side and placed a firm hand on his comrade's shoulder.
His own body went rigid for a heartbeat, then the tension slowly drained away. He sank onto the edge of the bunk, gathering Pan Shuai into his arms. He turned his head, meeting Li Xingyuan's eyes.
"He's gone."
Pan Shuai was dead. The youngest of their trio.
Li Xingyuan stared at the face before him. He had seen more death in these past few days than in all his previous years, yet each new horror was seared indelibly into his memory. Pan Shuai's features were grotesquely swollen. One eyeball had distended, forcing the eyelid partially open, the pupil clouded with a sickly yellow film. The image reminded Li Xingyuan of a certain bloated whale carcass they'd passed. Cradled in Liu's arms, with patches of black hair littering the blanket like shed feathers, he resembled a withered, ancient infant. It was strange—after mere minutes, Li Xingyuan could scarcely recall what his friend had looked like in life.
Pan Shuai had gone to bed fully clothed, but the garments now hung loosely and grotesquely on his distorted frame. Beneath the fabric, his skin was a landscape of irregular, bulging tumors. It was the hallmark of the bizarre radiation sickness that had become frighteningly common—a sudden, brutal death where, in a single moment, the body's very cells seemed to rebel, mutating flesh and blood into cancerous growths.
If a typical terminal illness was a slow, stalking reaper, this sickness was a meticulous cleaner. It followed a cold, orderly schedule, sweeping the human stains from the room, one by one, into death's embrace.
Li Xingyuan reached out and placed a hand on Liu's shoulder. "Let him go," he said, his voice low. "His suffering is over."