Chapter 47 Yiran
Yiran
If someone had told him even a week ago that he would be watching his suddenly-not-dead father preparing breakfast for him,
Yiran would have called that person delusional. But here they were, sitting in the kitchenette of a small suite at a local
bed-and-breakfast along the coast.
This place wasn’t too far from the quaint town his mother lived in, and they’d come here the evening before instead of making
the long drive back to the city. Yiran had been so exhausted that he’d lain down on one of the beds right away and slept through
the night.
It was surreal now in the muted morning light, watching his father casually flip a pancake as he asked Yiran about his time
at Xingshan Academy. The room smelled warm and golden. It felt like a normal weekend, or a normal family getaway, and Song
Liming was a normal father who cared about his normal son’s well-being. Yiran hated to admit it, but it was nice. Normal was
nice.
Liming was relaxed, charming, genuinely interested in what he had to say. Unlike Song Wei, there was no air of judgment or
scrutiny. Conversation seemed to flow so easily between them. Was this what Yiran could have had? Was this the childhood that
had been brutally stripped away from him? Yiran fiddled with his glove, grappling with the resentment building up inside him.
The bitterness he felt for his grandfather was a fire in his chest—unrelenting and consuming.
“Eat up,” his father said, placing a plate in front of him.
Steam rose from the stack of pancakes. They were golden, fluffy, and drizzled with honey, reminding Yiran of the ones his
mother used to make as a treat. He didn’t want to think about how his father might have cooked this for her at some point.
The first bite went down sweet and smooth, and he was about take another when his father sat across from him.
“That glove of yours,” his father said, pouring himself a cup of coffee, “the craftsmanship is exquisite.”
Yiran put his fork down. “Tesha Mak made it.”
“Ah yes, the Mak clan is famous for their weapon work. The twin heirs are each gifted in their own way.” His father’s eyes
narrowed as he sipped his drink. “It seems there are a fair number of other gifted cadets at present. Lin Ru Yi is exceptional,
I hear.” He trailed off, seemingly deep in thought.
Did his father know that Rui was his old friend’s daughter? He had to.
Before Yiran could ask, his father said, “Why don’t you try it without the glove?”
Yiran knew at once he was talking about channeling, and he felt his body winding into a tight coil. “Now?”
His father nodded encouragingly, but there was something in his eyes—something a little too wild and hungry—that made Yiran
pause. His father shifted in his seat, and the look vanished, gentle encouragement surfacing in its place.
You cast magic in the Simulator, and you cast it when you had the girl’s spiritual energy, didn’t you? There’s more to you.
Yiran drew in a slow, deliberate breath, letting the rhythm of it smooth his nerves. He changed his breathing pattern, and
he thought he felt something stir inside him. His fingertips tingled. Was this a positive sign?
Release it.
Hoping desperately, Yiran exhaled.
Nothing happened.
He stared at his hands—hands that should’ve answered the call. But all he saw were the uneven ridges on his fingertips. Afflictions
of a childhood he wanted to forget.
“I can’t do it,” he said, voice strained.
For a moment, it looked like his father would insist he keep trying. But he only said, “It’s all right. You need more rest,
that’s all.” His tone was light, but Yiran sensed his disappointment.
His father brought his cup to the sink. “Finish your food. We’re leaving in thirty minutes.”
“Where are we going?”
His father smiled thinly. “It’s time you met the rest.”
Nodding, Yiran scarfed down his food, trying not to think about how that fervor he’d witnessed at the assembly hall had returned
to his father’s eyes, and how the pancakes now tasted like dust on his tongue.