Chapter 45 Yiran
Yiran
The mellow scent of milk and black tea drifted into his dreams, and Yiran shivered awake. Dawn arrived with roads sleek with
dew and fog covering the tops of the skyscrapers. He was thankful to have found a sheltered bus stop with a heating unit at
some point in the night.
He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. There was a cup of tea on the seat next to him. It was still steaming, but he was the only one at the bus stop. He sat up, catching
a charcoal-gray wool jacket before it fell into the ground. Yuki’s. He must’ve draped it over Yiran to protect him against
the cold. A farewell act, no doubt.
It was just as well that Yuki left. They could never work out. The night before proved it.
Yuki had returned to his senses quickly, and he’d become strong enough to push Yiran off even though he wasn’t fully satiated
on spiritual energy. He’d drunk the bare minimum, but it had left Yiran drained and feverish. Sooner or later, the Hybrid
would have to feed properly, or he would relapse again.
Yiran had seen up close how easy it was to flip the switch between man and monster. And while he’d chosen to save Yuki’s life,
he wasn’t sure if he could come to terms with the fact that the one he’d saved might go on to kill another someday.
But he did know that he had come to a decision. A few decisions, actually.
Sighing, he glanced down the street. There was a figure in a billowing white shirt standing some distance away, chin tilted
up toward the sky. The silly Hybrid was catching snowflakes on his tongue.
There was a funny feeling in Yiran’s chest. Yuki hadn’t abandoned him after all.
It didn’t take long for Yuki to realize he was being watched, and he jogged over.
For someone who had been on the verge of death not long ago, he seemed to be in remarkably good spirits—and somewhat changed.
There was no teasing veneer or pretense in his expression or manner, just him, slightly awkward, standing under the scaffolding and looking at Yiran expectantly.
It took all of Yiran’s self-control not to pull him into his arms.
“Good morning,” Yuki sang. “Did you sleep okay? I was going to get you food, but I only had enough cash for the tea, and I
didn’t want to take your wallet without asking. Do you want to get breakfast?”
“I want to talk to my father.” Yiran kept his tone distant. Formal in the way you would an acquaintance you’d only met once.
“Your father?” Yuki said, caught off guard.
“That’s why you’re here, right? As a spy and errand boy for my father. You’re here to make sure I have a way to contact him
again.”
Yuki didn’t react at first. He stood and stared back at Yiran for a long minute, then at the untouched cup of tea. The light
in his eyes seemed to fade, but he smiled. The same sly and slanted smile he wore on the highway when they first met, the
calling card of a character he chose to play.
“Give me an hour, Song er shaoye, and I’ll make something happen.”
Yiran closed his eyes, pretending to go back to sleep. He was frustrated with himself, angry at his grandfather, disappointed
in Ash, and way too curious about his father. He was mad at everyone and everything but the one person whose footsteps were
growing softer. Farther.
Out of reach.
A black SUV pulled up to the bus stop, the tinted windows rolling down. Unexpectedly, Song Liming was in the driver’s seat.
There was no one else in the car. No bodyguards, no posse. Dressed casually in a navy crewneck sweater and gray pants, he
looked so ordinary it was bizarre.
Yiran got in, slamming the door as hard as he could just for the heck of it.
There was a hint of condescension in his father’s chuckle. “I’m glad you decided to take up my offer to further our conversation.”
As the car began to move, it crossed Yiran’s mind that he’d gotten in with no precautions. He’d simply accepted that his father
meant him no harm. He hoped he was right.
“I have questions,” he said, relieved his voice had come out steady.
“Like I said, I only wish to share the truth with you,” his father said in a reasonable tone.
“Do you know where my mother is?”
“Yes.” There was no hesitation in his father’s answer.
Yiran stared ahead, ignoring the jump in his pulse. “I want to see her.”
His father turned the steering wheel sharply. The car veered, cutting to the farthest lane. The entrance to a highway leading
out of the city.
Anxiety rode in waves through Yiran’s mind. He hadn’t seen his mother since the day she’d left him at Song Mansion. They hadn’t
had much, but he remembered being happy. There’d been no judgment or any sense that he hadn’t lived up to someone else’s expectations.
But that was the lens of a six-year-old boy, and he wasn’t sure if he could trust it. His mother had never made a single attempt
to contact him. Maybe that lens was distorted. Maybe he’d deluded himself over the years and painted something happier over
his memories, the same way he did about his inherent ability and what his grandfather had put him through.
Maybe his mother had never loved him at all.
Wanting to take his mind off her, Yiran asked, “Why don’t you cast the spell on yourself and become a Hybrid to lead your
little army of miscreants? Why do you remain human?”
His father’s brow furrowed at Yiran’s belligerent tone. “We don’t know if the transfer of yinqi would work on someone who
possesses a high level of yangqi, and we don’t know what it would do to their innate ability to wield magic. It hasn’t been
tested or proven yet.”
It was the yet that caught Yiran’s attention.
The rogue spell must’ve been used on people with ordinary spirit cores only.
Normies. According to Yuki, not all test subjects had survived.
It made sense, since Yiran was quite sure that Song Liming regarded normies as expendable objects.
People with strong spirit cores were rare and born in fewer numbers, and they were a special resource.
They also tended to be recruited by Xingshan Academy and the Exorcist Guild.
Yet.
The word poked at Yiran’s brain. Was his father planning to test it on people with magic at some point? Where would he find
such test subjects? Yiran couldn’t imagine any Exorcist or even a member of the underground magic community who would be willing
to take such a risk.
He sneered at his father. Despite Song Liming’s desire for a grand revolution toward a supposedly better world, was he reluctant to make sacrifices?
“Too chicken to try the spell on yourself?” Yiran goaded. “If it works, wouldn’t it give you an advantage? Make you more powerful?”
Unbothered by his son’s provocations, Liming replied calmly. “Revolutions live and die by their leaders. The idea sparks the fire, but for the spark to turn into a blaze, you need strength and the will to do what needs to be done.
However unsavory. I believe I have that will, and if I am to lead it—even as a martyr eventually—then first it is my duty to convince others that my cause is just. It would be
shortsighted to try the spell on myself while our movement is still in its infancy.”
“Sounds self-serving and cowardly to me.”
“Like I said, I need to first convince many others of the legitimacy of what I’m pursuing, including my own son.”
My own son. Yiran shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“I do find it interesting that you would consider casting such a spell on yourself to gain more power,” his father said.
“I was calling out your hypocrisy. How can you lead when you’re not the one taking risks? How can you be okay with exploiting
other people for your so-called movement?
” Yuki had suffered from the hunger the night before, and Yiran was certain that normies like Noah suffered just as much after they transformed.
“You’re preying on the vulnerable and desperate,” he said.
“Are they even aware of the life they’ll lead after turning into Hybrids? ”
“It’s predatory only from your perspective. We don’t coerce anyone. Any Hybrid or person with an ordinary spirit core is free to join us if they wish. They
do so of their own free will because they believe in the cause.”
“But Noah—”
“Noah knew what he was getting into,” his father cut in. “He makes no excuses for himself.”
Yiran wondered if his father was implying that Yiran was making excuses.
“You choose to impose your views, your norms, your morality and principles on others without walking a day in their shoes,”
his father continued. “What makes you think you know better? What makes you think Noah would’ve wanted otherwise? The vulnerable,
the exploited and the powerless—all I’m doing is giving them an opportunity to fight back and take control of their lives. Take Yuki—he was in a bad state
when we took him in and gave him shelter when he needed it most.” His father’s expression turned contemplative. “And what
a special one he’s turned out to be.”
Yiran hated how reasonable Song Liming sounded. He turned toward the window, refusing to talk anymore.
Soon they left the skyscrapers and glitzy condos of the city. Blocks and blocks of apartments, looking like carbon copies
of each other, zoomed past, eventually giving way to factory buildings. As they went north, the landscape changed from gray
to a brownish green speckled with snow.
Yiran had never gone this way up the peninsula before. Song family vacations, if there were any, were always on the eastern
shoreline with its golden sands and gentle tides. The west coast was more rugged. Storm-blue waters ran parallel to the coastal
road they merged onto, crashing against the cliffs. Not long after, they entered a small town by the restless sea, and his
father pulled the car over on a street.
Song Liming’s demeanor had changed. He didn’t seem like the man Yiran had first met in the assembly hall, the one who’d exuded such ambition that it seemed he expected the world to yield to his command. He seemed softer. More human, like the young man Matthias Lin had described.