Returning to Calm (3K)

Tang Wulin was jolted awake by a piece of rubble.

More precisely, it had landed beside his head, spraying dust into his mouth.

He coughed and opened his eyes. A slanted concrete beam filled his vision, less than half a meter from his face.

He stared blankly for two seconds before his memories came rushing back like a tide.

Evil Soul Masters, an explosion. He'd been running when the shock wave hurled him through the air, and then everything went black.

"How long was I out?"

Muttering, he crawled out from beneath the beam. His whole body ached, but when he felt around, no bones seemed broken. His clothes had several holes in them, his backpack was long gone, and only half of his left shoe remained.

He stood up amid the rubble and brushed the dust from his hair. Then he took in the street before him, and froze.

This was Red Mountain Street, where he'd lived for so many years. He walked this street to and from school every day.

Old Liu, who ran the grocery store on the corner, was always sitting out front reading the newspaper. The bun shop next door sent steam billowing from its baskets every morning, and sometimes the owner's wife gave him a sweet bun as he passed.

Now half the grocery store had collapsed, and the bun shop's steamers lay scattered across the ground, trampled to pieces.

The road was pitted and scarred with blast marks, and shards of glass glittered harshly in the morning light.

He couldn't quite place the smell in the air, something like burnt rubber mixed with something sickly sweet and metallic. The wreckage of several hover cars lay across the road, and one was still smoking.

The street was full of soldiers.

Dressed in standard Federation combat uniforms, they formed two lines and carried people out of the ruins.

Some were still alive; others weren't. The survivors were carried into makeshift medical tents, while those who hadn't made it were covered with white sheets and laid in neat rows by the roadside.

When Tang Wulin saw how long the row of white sheets was, his heart lurched. He didn't dare count.

An officer stood at the intersection, directing the troops. His voice was hoarse but still strong.

"Third squad, continue the search and rescue east of Red Mountain Street! Second squad, search the residential area for any unexploded soul-guidance bombs..."

He paused, then shouted into his communicator, "What do you mean the residual energy from the level-nine shells is above the safe limit? Search anyway!"

As Tang Wulin ran past him, the officer didn't even glance his way. A dust-covered child was nothing unusual on this street.

Tang Wulin sprinted toward home. After running two blocks, he nearly collided with someone at the corner... Mang Tian.

More precisely, Mang Tian recognized him first. A rough hand grabbed him by the collar from behind, nearly lifting him off his feet.

"Kid!" Mang Tian's voice was hoarse and urgent. "Where are you going?"

Tang Wulin turned around and almost didn't recognize him. Mang Tian's usually neat work jacket had one sleeve torn off, there were two streaks of blood on his face, and a bandage wrapped around his forehead was stained red with blood.

He was using a steel pipe as a crutch, and clearly didn't dare put much weight on his right foot.

"Master? What are you doing here? Where's Brother Qingzhou?" Tang Wulin blurted out.

Mang Tian's expression changed at once. He gritted his teeth and didn't answer, only saying, "Come on. We'll talk as we go."

They made their way forward, supporting each other. Mang Tian's right foot had been struck by a chunk of flying concrete. He'd brushed it off as "not broken," but sucked in a breath with every step. Tang Wulin tried to help, but Mang Tian shoved him away. "Worry about yourself."

When they passed the street where Lin Qingzhou lived, Mang Tian suddenly stopped.

All the villa's windows were shattered, and broken glass carpeted the path from the entrance to the lawn.

Several cracks split the front wall, the widest stretching from the doorframe all the way to a second-floor window.

The tree in the yard, beneath which Lin Qingzhou often watched Na'er play, had been cleaved in two. Its upper half lay across the lawn, and its leaves were already beginning to curl.

But what unsettled Tang Wulin most was the front door... It was gone entirely, and the warped doorframe looked as if something had smashed straight through it with tremendous force.

He could just make out a sunken crater in the porch floor, stretching inward from where the door had been.

"I wanted to come here last night."

Mang Tian's voice suddenly turned rough.

"That kid sent someone to tell me the Evil Soul Masters were coming and that I should hide. I was repairing the soul-guidance circuits in the garrison's armor near the Spirit Pagoda. I figured they had a Titled Douluo stationed there, so the Evil Soul Masters wouldn't be able to break through. I didn't hurry to leave."

"Then the shells started exploding, and everything went to hell. I was trapped all night and didn't get out until just before dawn."

As he spoke, his voice sank lower and lower, until it took on a tone Tang Wulin had never heard from him before, thick with self-reproach.

"If only I'd come sooner... That kid doesn't have a Martial Soul, but he's strong, and he's not stupid. If he couldn't fight them off, he'd know to run. But that little girl..."

Mang Tian stopped and stared at the door that was no longer there. His throat bobbed. "She's so young."

Tang Wulin opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but it felt as though his throat had closed up.

He remembered the first time Lin Qingzhou had brought Na'er to the workshop. The little girl had hidden behind Lin Qingzhou's leg, peeking out with only half her face, her purple eyes watching him timidly.

Lin Qingzhou had crouched down and said something to her. Only then had she cautiously stepped halfway out and called, in her soft, sweet voice, "Brother Wulin." He could still remember the sound.

But now, there was nothing in the house. No voices, no movement, only the curtains flapping in the wind through the broken windows.

"Master."

Tang Wulin swallowed. His voice came out steadier than he'd expected.

"Brother Qingzhou isn't stupid. He's not stupid. The city's a mess, so he must've taken Na'er somewhere safe. Maybe they went to a shelter. The signal's down, so we can't get in touch."

Mang Tian didn't say anything. After a long while, he struck the ground hard with his steel pipe, producing a sharp clang.

Then he turned and limped onward. "Come on. Let's check on your parents first."

Tang Wulin ran the rest of the way.

The apartment building where his family lived was still standing. There were soot marks on the exterior, but it hadn't collapsed. Relief loosened the knot in his chest, and he picked up his pace.

The stairwell reeked of dust and smoke. A notice from the residents' committee was posted on the wall, dated yesterday, warning people to evacuate because of the typhoon.

The typhoon never came. What came was a group of people far more terrifying than any typhoon.

Fourth floor. His door was ajar.

His hands were shaking as he pushed it open. Not because he was afraid.

No, it was because he was afraid.

The apartment was a mess. A chair had been knocked over, and a teacup on the coffee table was broken. But there was no blood and no obvious sign of a struggle. He rushed into his parents' bedroom. No one.

The bathroom was empty, too. The clothes hanging on the balcony were still dripping, which meant his mother had been doing chores that morning—or the night before.

"Dad! Mom!"

He shouted from the middle of the living room. His voice bounced off the walls and came back hollow.

He ran outside and knocked on the neighbors' door. No answer. He tried the door downstairs. Still no answer.

A soldier sweeping the stairwell told him that most of the residents in the building had been evacuated the night before. "Your family may be at a refugee camp. Check the list at the temporary shelter to the east."

Tang Wulin went there. He read the list from top to bottom, then from bottom to top, three times. Neither Tang Ziran nor Lang Yue was on it.

The soldier gave him a sympathetic look and told him to wait a little longer. Some people were still being searched for.

Tang Wulin nodded and sat on a bench at the shelter for a while.

He didn't cry. He just sat there. He remembered how his mother had burst into happy tears two nights ago when he received his acceptance letter from Eastsea Academy, while his father had patted his shoulder and told him, "You've made something of yourself."

He remembered his mother packing his things and stuffing several packets of homemade dried meat into his suitcase, saying that Eastsea Academy was in another city and the food there might not suit his taste.

He remembered the last time he'd seen his parents, the night before.

Before he left for the workshop, his mother had chased after him and told him to put on another jacket. He said he didn't need one and ran off.

He hadn't listened to her.

The East Sea, the waters to the east.

An unmarked transport ship sliced through the waves at a speed far greater than that of a normal cargo vessel. A line of black-clad people stood on deck, their hoods covering most of their faces.

More than a dozen people of various ages were locked in the hold. Every one of them was an ordinary person.

They weren't Soul Masters. They had no combat ability and no way to resist. Like livestock penned up for slaughter, they sat quietly because fear had drowned out every other emotion.

Tang Ziran crouched in a corner, one arm wrapped tightly around Lang Yue's shoulders. Her face was pale and her lips were cracked, but she didn't cry. She only murmured the same words again and again, softly, as if she were saying them to herself.

"Wulin's all right. He wasn't home last night; he was at his master's. He's all right."

Tang Ziran didn't reply. He didn't know whether their son was safe, but he knew at least that he wasn't here. That brought him both relief and torment. He was relieved that their son had escaped disaster, but tormented by the thought that he might never make it home alive to see him again.

The ship lurched. The Evil Soul Masters on deck cursed as they adjusted their course. They didn't intend to kill these people—not yet.

Living ordinary people were worth more than dead ones. They could be used as laborers, test subjects, or sacrifices. There were plenty of uses for them, and no need to rush.

Tang Ziran tightened his grip on Lang Yue's cold hand. He looked out the porthole at the endless gray-blue sea, where morning mist and waves churned together.

Aolai City was already out of sight. Nothing was visible anymore.

Three days later, on the Federation News Channel.

"...The attack on Aolai City has claimed the lives of more than 1,400 civilians, with over 300 people missing. The Federation military has stated that the attack was planned and carried out by a roving organization of Evil Soul Masters. Its key leaders were killed in the fighting."

"Reconstruction efforts are now fully underway. The Federation government has promised to restore Aolai City's water, power, and basic transportation within a month. A list of missing persons has been posted on the Spirit Pagoda's official website. Anyone with information is asked to..."

Tang Wulin turned off the screen.

He sat on a folding bed at the temporary shelter, wrapped in a gray army blanket. An elderly woman he didn't know sat on the bed across from him, slowly sipping a bowl of hot soup.

The shelter was noisy. Some people were calling to let their loved ones know they were safe; others were crying quietly, while volunteers pushed food carts around and handed out meals.

His old communicator was clenched in his hand. Lin Qingzhou's number was still saved on the screen. He'd called six times, and every time the line had been busy.

He put the communicator under his pillow without turning it off. You never knew. Maybe it would ring once service was restored, and Brother Qingzhou's voice would come through, saying that he and Na'er were doing fine, and their phones just had no signal.

He lay down and stared at the ceiling of the shelter.

The fluorescent light hummed with a faint electric buzz, so soft he could barely hear it.

But he still heard it, just as he could still hear last night's explosions, still see the ravaged streets, still feel the dazed shock of the rubble landing beside his head.

He closed his eyes and told himself:

Dad and Mom were just evacuated somewhere else. Once they were registered, they'd get in touch. Brother Qingzhou and Na'er were just hiding. They'd call when the signal came back. Everything would be fine.

He didn't know whether he believed it. But he had to find something to hold on to. Otherwise, before the sky was even fully light, he'd fall apart.

"Kid, leave your parents to me. I'll look for them. In a week, I'll have the arrangements sorted out. You're going to Eastsea City to go to school."

Mang Tian stood before Tang Wulin, his eyes shining and trembling in the dark.

Tang Wulin tried to say something, but Mang Tian laid a large hand on his shoulder and patted it twice. After that, Tang Wulin couldn't get another word out.

His lips trembled twice, then fell still. He lowered his head in a deep nod.