Cosmic Era 63, Summer, Orb Union
The rain poured down in torrents.
When Nangong Wentian emerged from a small mechanical processing factory, the sky had already turned completely dark. He hadn't expected the rain to arrive so suddenly. Since evening, dark clouds had been pressing in from the sea, and now the entire Orleans was shrouded in a curtain of rain.
He looked up at the street. Rainwater converged into streams on the road surface, the halos of streetlights dispersing in the misty rain, blurred and dim yellow. There were almost no pedestrians on the street, only the occasional vehicle passing by, splashing water as high as a person.
"I need to get back quickly," he said to himself.
He opened his umbrella and rushed into the rain curtain.
From the factory to his temporary residence, he had to pass through several alleys. He had walked this route many times; it was safe during the day, but at night, combined with the heavy rain, it became somewhat dangerous. He quickened his pace, his shoes splashing in puddles with a splat-splat sound.
When he turned into the second alley, he stopped.
There was movement deep in the alley.
Not the sound of rain, not the sound of wind—it was a heavier, more chaotic sound. Someone was running, someone was panting, and someone was shouting.
"Don't let him get away!"
"This way! I saw him!"
Nangong Wentian instinctively retreated to the wall and turned off his flashlight. His heart pounded violently in his chest, but his mind remained exceptionally calm. This was a skill he had honed during his years in the orphanage—when faced with danger, observe first, then act.
The sounds grew closer. Through the rain curtain, he saw several figures running from the other end of the alley. They wore dark clothes, holding something in their hands, moving swiftly in the rain.
Then he saw the third person.
It was a smaller figure, stumbling as he ran ahead. His movements were uncoordinated, as if he were forcing himself to hold on to his last breath. Rain beat down on him, his clothes already soaked through, clinging to his thin frame.
When he reached the middle of the alley, his legs gave way, and he fell to the ground.
"Grab him!" The pursuers accelerated their charge.
Nangong Wentian didn't hesitate.
He threw away his umbrella and rushed into the rain. In a few steps, he reached the fallen person's side and grabbed his arm. "Get up!" he growled.
The person looked up.
Rainwater washed over a young face. Silver short hair clung to his forehead, his complexion as pale as paper. But those eyes—those eyes made Nangong Wentian's heart tighten.
These weren't the eyes of an ordinary person. They held fear, anger, and a kind of light only seen in beasts pushed to the brink. He had seen that light before—in the eyes of children abandoned by their parents in the orphanage, in the eyes of those forgotten by the world.
But deeper still was something familiar to him. That extraordinary sharpness, that genetically modified, perfect outline. He instantly understood—this was a Coordinator. And not an ordinary Coordinator.
The footsteps of the pursuers grew closer.
"Can you stand?" Nangong Wentian asked.
The youth gritted his teeth, trying to stand, but as soon as he pushed himself up, he collapsed again. Nangong Wentian saw bloodstains on his back, diluted by the rainwater but still shocking to behold.
"Leave me alone..." The boy's voice was hoarse, as if he had used up all his strength.
Nangong Wentian ignored him. He crouched down, slung the boy's arm over his shoulder, and stood up abruptly. The boy was lighter than he had expected—abnormally light. His frame was small, with almost no muscle, as if he had suffered from long-term malnutrition.
"You..." The boy tried to struggle.
"Shut up," Nangong Wentian said, supporting him as he headed deeper into the alley. "Stay quiet if you don't want to die."
The sound of pursuers' footsteps echoed behind them.
"They went that way!"
"After them!"
Nangong Wentian gritted his teeth and quickened his pace. His stamina was good—years of training hadn't been in vain—but carrying an injured person while running in the heavy rain still left him breathless.
Left turn, right turn, left again. He recalled the map of this area in his mind—he had walked these streets countless times over the past few days, memorizing every alley and every exit. He knew where to hide and where to shake off pursuers.
After the third turn, he spotted a half-open underground garage entrance. Supporting the boy, he rushed inside, feeling his way forward in the darkness. The garage was deep, with piles of abandoned construction materials at the far end—perfect for hiding.
He placed the boy behind a stack of sandbags and crouched down, holding his breath.
Footsteps passed by outside. Someone spoke: "Split up and search! He's injured and can't have gone far!"
More footsteps followed, scattering in different directions.
Nangong Wentian waited in the darkness. He could feel the boy trembling beside him—not from the cold, but from pain and fear. His breathing was rapid, but he was trying hard to suppress it, not wanting to make a sound.
Five minutes. Ten minutes.
The sounds outside gradually faded away.
Nangong Wentian fished a miniature flashlight from his pocket, covering most of its light with his jacket, leaving only a thin beam. The light fell on the boy's face.
He was younger than Nangong Wentian had imagined. He looked only fourteen or fifteen, with silver hair plastered wetly to his forehead, a pale face, and bloodless lips. His clothes were torn in several places, revealing bruised and wounded skin. The most severe injury was on his back—a deep knife wound, still oozing blood.
But what truly caught Nangong Wentian's attention wasn't the wounds. It was the boy's body—the extraordinary muscle proportions and bone structure, even in such an emaciated state, still bore traces of careful design.
He looked at the boy's slightly youthful face, recalling memories in his mind, his eyes revealing a hint of complexity.
"Are you... Kanade?" he asked softly.
The boy's eyes snapped open. Fear and anger intertwined in his gaze, like a wounded beast. "How do you know that name?"
Nangong Wentian didn't answer. Of course, he couldn't say he knew it from an anime in his past life. He took off his jacket, tore off the lining, and began tending to the wound.
"Don't touch me!" The boy tried to push him away, but his arms were weak and limp.
"Stay still," Nangong Wentian pressed him down. "The wound is deep. You'll die if it's not treated."
The boy gritted his teeth, staring at him. His eyes were filled with distrust, as if ready to retaliate at any moment.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice raspy.
"Just a passerby." Nangong Wentian pressed the cloth strip against the wound. "Someone who happened to be passing by and saw you fall."
"Why did you save me?"
"Because I happened to be here."
The boy fell silent for a moment. "Aren't you afraid of those people?"
"I am," Nangong Wentian said. "But even if I'm afraid, I still have to do it."
He tightened the cloth strip to stop the bleeding. The wound was deep, but fortunately, it hadn't hit any vital areas. His movements were gentle and steady, like when he used to bandage injured children at the orphanage.
The boy stared at his hands. They looked young, yet their movements were practiced, as if he had done this many times before.
"Are you a doctor?"
"No." Nangong Wentian finished treating the wound, took off his own shirt, and draped it over the boy. "I'm an orphan."
The boy was taken aback. He looked at Nangong Wentian—black hair, ordinary features, appearing a little older than him, but not by much. But those eyes... there was something in them he had never seen before. Not fear, not pity, but a calm, resolute light.
"Orphan..." he repeated the word, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Me too. Since birth."
Nangong Wentian didn't respond. He knew what the Super Coordinator Project was—children created through genetic engineering, with no parents, no home, only code names and experimental data. Canard Pars was the most successful product of that project, and also its most unfortunate sacrifice.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
Canard tried to move, wincing in pain.
"No."
"Then I'll carry you."
"No need—"
"Stop arguing." Nangong Wentian crouched down. "The people chasing you are still nearby. We can't stay here overnight."
Canard stared at his back, hesitating for a long time. Finally, he climbed on, wrapping his arms around Nangong Wentian's neck. His body was light, heartbreakingly so.
Nangong Wentian stood up and walked out of the garage. The rain was still falling, but lighter than before. He checked the direction and headed toward the temporary shelter.
Canard lay motionless on his back. Raindrops fell on them, trickling down their clothes. Nangong Wentian could feel his heartbeat—fast and erratic, like a frightened rabbit.
"Why..." Canard's voice was soft, almost drowned out by the rain.
"Why what?"
"Save me. You don't know me, you don't know who I am, you don't know what I've done. Aren't you afraid I'm a bad person?"
Nangong Wentian didn't answer immediately. He walked a few steps before saying, "If you were a bad person, you wouldn't be the one being chased. Bad people usually do the chasing."
Canard fell silent for a moment, then let out a soft laugh. There was no joy in it, only bitterness.
"How do you know I'm not running for my life? Maybe I killed someone. Maybe I committed a crime."
"Maybe," Nangong Wentian said. "But that's for later. Right now, you're an injured person who needs help."
Canard didn't speak again. He buried his face in the crook of Nangong Wentian's shoulder, his body no longer trembling.
The rain gradually lessened. The halos of streetlights diffused through the mist, dyeing the streets a dim yellow. Nangong Wentian carried Kanade on his back, walking step by step down the empty street. His shoes had long been soaked through, his pant legs splattered with mud, but his stride remained steady.
On his back, Kanade felt the warmth of this unfamiliar youth. The heat seeped through their drenched clothes—not exactly warm, but real. He recalled the white walls of the laboratories, the people in white coats, the cold instruments and syringes. He had never been carried like this before, never been held like this.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Nangong Wentian."
"Nangong... are you a Natural?"
"Yes."
"Naturals can run like that?"
Nangong Wentian smiled. "Trained."
Kanade didn't ask further. He closed his eyes, listening to the rain and the heartbeat of this stranger. That heartbeat was steady, powerful, as if telling him—it's okay now, you're safe.
He didn't know who this person was, or why he had saved him, but an inexplicable sense of trust welled up inside him. On this stormy night, in this unfamiliar city, he had, for now, found someone to rely on.
Even if only for now.
Nangong Wentian stopped at the entrance of his temporary residence, gently setting Kanade down. It was an old apartment building; he rented a small room on the top floor—hidden, safe.
"We're here," he said, supporting Kanade. "There are a few more flights of stairs. Can you manage?"
Kanade nodded, gritting his teeth as he climbed. With each step, the wounds on his back throbbed with pain, but he endured it. He didn't want to show weakness in front of this stranger.
Nangong Wentian followed behind, ready to catch him if needed. Watching the silver-haired boy's back, a strange feeling stirred within him. He knew Kanade's fate—in the original story, this manufactured Super Coordinator would ultimately become a tragic figure. Used, abandoned, spending his life in hatred and loneliness.
But now, he was here. On this stormy night, right before him.
"I won't let you walk that path," he silently vowed.
One after the other, the two disappeared into the stairwell. Outside the window, the rain had stopped. A crack split the clouds, and moonlight spilled down, illuminating the wet streets.
In a distant alley, several figures in black were still searching. They didn't know that the person they sought had already been carried away by a youth, hidden somewhere in this city.
They knew even less that this youth would one day change the fate of the world.