Chapter 15 Yiran
Yiran
Someone was slapping his cheek. A shock of icy water smacked his face, the force of it waking him completely. Coughing, Yiran
spat out water that had gotten into his mouth.
At first, he thought he’d died and gone to some form of an afterlife. A spotlight shone down on him, as if he were on trial
for his crimes. He couldn’t see much farther than an arm’s length away. The slightest breeze wafted in from some unseen opening,
carrying the scent of soil and grass and metal. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was being on the rooftop with Yuki.
Was this the Hybrids’ lair? Why would they risk bringing him in like this?
Because you’re not expected to leave here alive.
But his hands and legs were surprisingly unbound. The chair he was sitting on was fairly comfortable, more suitable for a
visitor than a hostage. There was even a bottle of water on the floor next to him. It didn’t add up. He was free to run. To
escape. Still, stumbling around in the dark was stupid, he decided, and his head was spinning. He had to get his bearings
first.
The bottle of water was nondescript, a mass-market brand found in every grocery store. He grabbed it. The seal on the cap
was unbroken. There were easier, more satisfying ways to kill him, so taking the chance, Yiran drank, quenching his desert-dry
throat. His head felt better at once. He touched his scalp gingerly, and his fingers came away with dried blood where he’d
been struck. Yet he didn’t feel as run-down as he should. Strange. At the very least he should’ve had a concussion. There
was, however, an odd sensation across his whole body. It was hard to describe, almost fizzy, like bubbles rising in a can
of soda.
Healing magic. A light residual layer that was dissipating. Why would the Hybrids heal him? He was the grandson of the Head of the Exorcist Guild. He was their enemy.
“Hello? Yuki?” he called out hoarsely. “Where am I?”
“Go tell the boss the boy’s awake,” came a voice from the dark. It didn’t sound like Yuki.
A shaft of light streamed in.
As Yiran’s eyes adjusted, he glimpsed figures standing not far from him. There were others sitting at different heights, and
a few who were moving around restlessly. Yiran counted a good twenty-five or so Hybrids watching from the shadows.
“Did the Blight make you ugly or what?” he said. “Come on, show yourselves. Don’t be shy, I don’t bite. Not very hard, anyway.”
Hostile hisses spread among the silhouettes, but one Hybrid laughed. “He’s got quite a mouth on him, doesn’t he?”
“We’ll see if he gets to keep that mouth,” growled a less friendly voice.
“Quiet—”
A hush fell over the Hybrids as footsteps came from above. Yiran heard the snap of fingers. The spotlight’s glare widened,
and two other lights in front of him flickered on.
He was on an elevated stage, looking down at a school assembly hall. The place was a wreck: dirt-smeared walls, peeling wooden
floorboards, dust motes floating in the air.
It was unreal to see the Hybrids gathered on a set of bleachers. They looked like normal humans, albeit more attractive than
the average person. The Blight had transformed them into monsters. Beautiful ones. A handful of them were surprisingly young,
around the same age as Yiran himself. Had they been randomly infected by the Blight, or were they willingly transformed by
the spell?
The Hybrids stared back. A few with interest, others with something closer to disgust. A woman in a green jacket was glowering at him with intense hatred.
Her dark hair was looped into a thick ponytail, and there were reddish pit marks on her forehead and neck, scars made by yangqi burning into her flesh.
Yiran wondered which Exorcist had left them.
“I hope you’ll forgive the manner in which you were transported here,” said a voice above him. It was commanding and precise.
Yiran glanced up. With the spotlight’s glare obscuring his view, he could barely make out the imposing figure standing in
the rafters. The person carried himself with an almost kingly air, like someone used to their own superiority.
The leader of the Hybrids.
Yiran forced himself to drink from the bottle, and the cool water seemed to calm him. If he was going down in a den of Hybrid
Revenants, unarmed and magic-less, at least it would be a respectable demise, unlike cowering in a safe house while others
fought and died in his stead to protect him, if and when the Hybrids stormed the city.
Besides, he was curious about the one who had bested the Exorcists for so long. “I’ll forgive you when you let me out of here
unharmed—now,” he said steadily.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” the leader said. “But the extent to which you will be harmed depends solely on you.”
Yiran played along. “In that case, pray tell, why did you bring me here?” As he spoke, he scanned the hall again. The drop-off
from the stage to the wooden boards below wasn’t too high. More importantly, he saw a clear path to a door.
The exit.
“You fascinate me,” the Hybrid leader said. “So I thought, why not invite him for a chat?”
“As flattered as I am by your interest, you brought me here by force and deception,” Yiran rebutted. “That’s hardly an invitation.
And if you think I’m still able to cast magic, you’re deeply mistaken.”
“You might discover that you are the one who is mistaken.” There was an arrogance in the leader’s tone that grated on Yiran’s nerves.
A movement by the bleachers caught his attention. Yuki. Their eyes met for a brief second, then Yuki blinked away. Yiran couldn’t read his expression. But the sting of his betrayal never came.
Instead, Yiran felt a release. It had been a farce all along. An act that led to a trap. Yuki had drawn a line between them
like the river dividing the city in two. He had chosen a side—the one opposite Yiran—and that made it easier for Yiran to
forget about whatever they might have shared. What they could have shared.
Mustering as much contempt as he could, Yiran said, “I’m still unclear as to why my presence is needed here in this dump,
boss. If you’re holding me for ransom, it’ll get you nowhere. The Guild doesn’t give two shits about me.”
“I’m sure at least one person cares. Nevertheless, you are here for a different reason.” The leader snapped his fingers, and
the hall plunged into darkness.
Gogogo.
Hybrids couldn’t see better in the dark than normies; there was no advantage here. Slim as it was, Yiran had a chance. He
ran to the edge of the stage and leaped. His feet found the ground, but it was soft and uneven. His fingers reached down,
sinking into a mound of grit. Sand?
The lights came back on.
Yiran blinked. Nothing made sense. The ceiling was blue sky, the ground beige sand, and there were rock formations around
him. It was all too familiar. But how did the Hybrids have the resources and know-how to build a Simulator? Fear gripped him. If he was now in a simulated program, it could only mean two things. One, even though he couldn’t see
the Hybrids, they were watching him.
Two, a fight was coming.
As if on cue, the boulder to his right shimmered and the air tore like the edge of a curtain being drawn.
A boy stepped through. He was wearing an old tank top with an indie band’s logo printed on it.
A deep scowl was carved between his thick eyebrows, and his head was freshly shaven.
He was a few years younger than Yiran—a child, really, but his eyes were already hardened by life, and his right arm was sleeved with tattoos, the ink covering old scars crisscrossing down his forearm.
The boy shook himself like a dog and scratched at his back, like something at the base of his spine was bothering him. He
bared his teeth. It would’ve been funny if he didn’t look so rabid.
There was a whirring sound. Two dummy swords flickered into being between them.
Sensing that the boy would thrive on his fear, Yiran tried his best to keep his composure. “What’s the meaning of this?”
The boy rolled his shoulders back, cracking his neck. “We fight.”
“Why?”
“I’m new.”
“Not one for words, are you?”
The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Gotta prove myself if I want to stay.”
Yiran looked up at where he thought the rafters might be. “I’m not fighting a kid. I’ve got nothing to prove to you.”
The Hybrid leader’s voice boomed overhead. “It’s interesting how you think you have a say in this, Yiran.”
Yiran flinched. Something about the way the leader said his name gave him the creeps.
“You seem confused,” the leader continued. “Let me explain the situation. You’re in a Simulator. You are familiar with Simulators, I assume? Take a sword, and your match will begin. If you beat Noah, you get to walk away. No one
will touch a single hair on your head.”
“This is ridiculous. I told you I can’t channel anymore, which means I can’t use that damned sword.”
“This isn’t exactly like the Simulator at Xingshan Academy. We’ve made a few interesting tweaks. Try it. You might surprise
yourself.”
“No thanks, I’m good.”
The leader laughed. “Don’t worry, Noah isn’t allowed to use his special Hybrid weapons, if that’s what you’re worried about. This fight has rules, dummy swords and physical combat only. That should ease your mind.”
Yiran snorted. “Liar. Don’t you know that in the movies when the villain says don’t worry, it actually means the opposite?”
“Noah?” the leader snapped.
The boy perked up, his expression eager to please. “Yes, sir?”
“I know I said you’ll have to win your match to be one of us, but I’m feeling generous today and I’m not particularly fond
of mouthy teenagers, so let’s add another reward—if you beat him, you get to eat him.”