Chapter 5 Yiran
Yiran
Yiran stared at the screen on his phone for a few long moments, a scratchy feeling in his chest.
There was no alert. No notification. Nothing.
Why did he even think to look at it? He wasn’t sure. It felt like he’d been expecting something. A call? A text message? Whatever
it was, it never came.
An image of Rui appeared in his mind randomly, as it did sometimes, more often than he cared to admit. He wiped it away, but
the stain remained. Even though their empathic bond had been severed, moments like these made him wonder.
His hands curled. Songs and books went on and on about the pain of romantic relationships ending, but they hardly spoke about
the death of a friendship. Sometimes, it was slow and soundless. Other times, it was like a crash of thunder against a clear
sky. Shocking and quick. A different kind of heartbreak that was no less deep.
There was no returning to what once was. Rui had gotten her magic back, and his former Academy schoolmates had theirs. Soon
they would all become Exorcists. He was left behind, stuck once again behind a locked door. His palm stung as his nails dug
in deeper, but the ache in his chest hurt more.
He stuffed his phone back into his pocket. The taxi had dropped him off minutes ago. Gripped by uncertainty, Yiran had hesitated
at the cemetery gates. He only came here once a year on Tomb Sweeping Day with Ash and his grandfather, and never alone.
He was the illegitimate son, and his mother never spoke about the man who had stolen and discarded her heart.
And when she abandoned Yiran too, the last link to the people who had brought him into this world had ceased to exist. There was no real reason to visit Song Liming’s grave beyond trifling sentiment.
His father’s body had been lost in battle, and all these years, he’d watched his grandfather and half brother pay their respects to an empty coffin.
But grief wasn’t meant to be rational, Yiran supposed.
It was sustained by the memory of the living.
Ash had tried to share about their father in the beginning. It was so Ash of him to want the little brother he never knew existed to be part of everything, to assume that Yiran had the same desire
for connection and family history. Yiran had spurned his efforts—it was more painful to relive Ash’s happy memories and feel
what he had missed out on himself than to know what kind of person their father had been. But right now, Yiran wondered if
he’d been the fool all this time.
Stone-faced, he walked on. Some of the old cemeteries had been exhumed and redeveloped a few decades ago as the city grew
and land became scarce. But this was one of the largest, and where most of the important families laid their dead to rest.
It was nestled on a gentle hill rising to the north, as if the ancestors were watching over what they had built.
Despite the winter chill, the land grew more fertile as he approached the family plot, as if generations of Songs were feeding
it well, their heightened spiritual energy making everything more vibrant and alive. One day, if Yiran was lucky, this would
be where his own body would return to nature too.
A man in a nondescript black suit stood next to the pair of stone lions that marked the start of the property line. Seemed
like his grandfather’s part-time chauffeur doubled as a security guard.
“Hey, George.”
If the man was surprised Yiran remembered his name, he didn’t show it.
“Good afternoon, Song er shaoye.”
“Feel free to call me Yiran.” Then, in a more cordial tone, “Congrats, by the way. How’s your wife doing? And the baby?”
Now George looked surprised. He smiled, regarding Yiran with a bit more warmth.
Know your people. Treat them well and with respect, and they’ll be loyal to you. Yiran was pleased he’d remembered Ash’s advice.
“Thank you. They’re both healthy and doing well.”
Yiran clapped the man on the back as he walked past. “Glad to hear that. I’ll send some ginseng bird’s nest soup over for
the wife.”
“That’s very kind of you, er shaoye.” Yiran was barely a few steps down the path when George called out, “You know, your father
was a good man.”
Pebbles crunched. Yiran’s boots ground to a halt. A robin flew by, chirping loudly in the silence.
“I’m sorry you never got to meet him.”
It was too damn much.
“Have a good day, George,” Yiran said, sounding and feeling as though he’d swallowed a rock.
He quickened his pace and headed deeper into the cemetery, eager to leave the unwanted sympathy—the pity—behind. He’d had enough of it to last a lifetime. But he wasn’t angry with George. He was angry at himself for coming here
to seek a solace the dead could not provide.
His thoughts were still swirling when he saw someone else standing by his father’s tomb. The man’s head was bowed, and he
was staring at the polished granite monument bearing Song Liming’s name. His clothes looked a size too big, as though he was
in the process of filling them after a long illness. A light flutter of snow had begun to fall, and the white crystals settled
onto the man’s dark hair and wool coat. He didn’t seem to notice he wasn’t alone.
Yiran’s irritation grew. Why hadn’t George alerted him about the stranger? He took a step, making his presence known.
The man turned. “Li—” He did a double take and shook his head.
But Yiran could hear the words going through the man’s mind: It’s not him, it’s not Liming.
Too many people had said that Song Yiran resembled his late father, that his face was almost the spitting image from certain angles.
It was a face he’d examined closely when he was younger, searching for answers to questions he wasn’t able to articulate yet.
But eventually he discovered that people saw what they wanted to see, projecting their own fears and hopes onto others, especially those closest to them.
He didn’t look like his father. He had his mother’s eyes, and that was enough to set him apart from the older Song. Enough to make him his own person.
The stranger’s features had smoothed over by now, and his eyes were friendly behind wire-frame glasses. He looked familiar—something
about his nose and the angle of his chin. But Yiran didn’t recall meeting him at any extended family gathering before. Though
it was obvious the man knew who Yiran was. Best to take the polite route.
“Hi, Uncle—?”
The man smiled apologetically. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here today. I’m Matthias—just Matthias will do. You
must be Yiran.”
Not a relative, then. Yiran returned the smile. “I wasn’t expecting anyone either. I hope I’m not disturbing.”
“No, no, it’s me who’s disturbing. I was a friend of your father’s.” Matthias seemed momentarily torn about saying more. “He
saved my life many years ago on this day.”
Yiran had heard and read about his father’s exploits as an Exorcist, but it felt distant. They were accounts from strangers
who knew the legend and not the man himself, flaws and all. From the way Matthias spoke and the expression he wore, it was
apparent he had known Song Liming as a person, not as some lionized hero or a parental figure the way Ash did.
Curiosity piqued, Yiran said, “How did he save your life?”
“At Xingshan Academy.” It wasn’t an actual answer.
“Did you work at the Guild with him too?” Yiran nudged.
Matthias shook his head. “I’m—I was a doctor in a mundane hospital.”
Xingshan cadets went into medicine to become healers, not doctors at normie hospitals. Now Yiran had to know more. Being pushy didn’t seem to work on Matthias. He moved closer to the tombstone and bowed.
“I never met him,” he said, twisting his lips into a forced smile as if he were making a confession to Matthias. “Wish I had.”
Out of nowhere, a sharp ache unfurled between Yiran’s ribs. No. He didn’t actually mean what he said. He didn’t care. He was
only trying to get a reaction out of Matthias so the man would give him more information. But the feeling only grew.
Matthias patted him on the shoulder. Somehow it didn’t feel like the same kind of sympathy George had exuded. Matthias’s gesture
was comforting, carrying the weight of someone who had experienced deep loss in his life and understood the repercussions
of it.
“I was assigned to your father’s class when I first enrolled,” Matthias said, sliding his glasses into his shirt pocket. “I
was a nobody, new to magic and Exorcism and all that, but I knew who Liming was. Everyone did. A month after I enrolled, a
bunch of juniors trapped me in the Simulator room. Harmless hazing.” Matthias scoffed. “A tradition, they claimed. The Simulator
was still a prototype in those days, kind of an experiment they were running. There was a glitch in the program when I was
in there, and things went haywire.”
The senior class Yiran had been assigned to observe had tried to pull a similar prank on his first day at the Academy. That
said, Mai had no ill intentions, and they’d become friends afterward. Yiran had a feeling that Matthias’s story might not
have ended the same way.
“Your father happened to be there that day,” Matthias went on. “He was the one who pulled me out before I could make a real
mess. Everyone else was too frightened to do anything. I didn’t have much control over my magic at that time, and my . . .”
He paused, reconsidering his words. “Let’s just say my spirit core’s a little different.”
How different? Yiran wanted to ask, but he didn’t want to interrupt.
“You should’ve seen Liming’s face.” Matthias chuckled fondly. “He wasn’t scared of me; he was delighted. I found out later
he’d been observing me from the start because he thought I was different—special, he said. And the incident proved him right. After that, he made sure no one gave me any trouble.”
“So why didn’t you join the Guild after you graduated?” Yiran asked.
“I didn’t.”
“Pardon?”
“I didn’t graduate from the Academy.” Matthias’s sudden curtness indicated he wasn’t going to explain.
Had Yiran crossed a line? “I didn’t mean to pry,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I shouldn’t have laid all this on you. You came to visit your dad, and I’m this weird old man rambling about the
past and his misspent youth—”
“You’re not that old,” Yiran interrupted, anxious to reassure him. “Uh, I mean, thank you for sharing. I appreciate it.”
Frowning, Matthias said, “Frankly? I don’t know why I did. I guess seeing you brought back memories. For a second, it felt
as if Liming was here with me again. Even among cadets and Exorcists and magic wielders, there are those who stick out because
they’re not like everyone else. The world doesn’t always like people who are too different. Your father was one of them, and
so was I. The only difference was that he was born into the Song family, which I’m sure you have found is both a boon and
a burden.”
Yiran grimaced, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, it’s . . . a lot.”
“It’s lonely at the top,” Matthias said quietly, regarding Yiran with a certain seriousness.
“People saw your father as something else. A savior and protector, a concept and entity. That comes with high and heavy expectations, and expectations can crush a person. After a while, they stopped treating him like a person with his own dreams and fears. He became a symbol instead, the face of something he never asked to be. We kept in touch for a few years after I left the Academy, but our lives were too different and our paths diverged.” Matthias’s eyes searched Yiran’s face thoughtfully.
“We were so naive when we met. Your father wanted to change the world. What he didn’t know was that, sometimes, the world doesn’t want to change. ”
Yiran pondered the layered meaning in Matthias’s words. He wasn’t sure if he grasped it completely.
Matthias blew out a breath. “I haven’t spoken about my time at Xingshan for so long, not even to my parents or my wife, and
now they’ve passed on.” He lowered his voice, mumbling to himself, “I should tell my daughter.” Straightening, he put on his
glasses and gave Yiran a warm, sad smile. “It’s getting late; I should be going. Take care of yourself, kid.”
Yiran nodded, watching as he shuffled off into the falling snow.