“ID number 21301222, long time no see.”
by M1zushiThe orphanage was located in the north, in an onion-like arrangement similar to the Bait Cities.
In other words, it was a Bait City enclosed by high walls with limited functionality.
Just before entering, Qin Zhilu gave a final reminder: “This mission will definitely involve super-aberrants. The soldiers and Protectors who were sent in initially re-emerged outside the doors after they forced entry. This place rejects outsiders, so keep a low profile.”
Everyone listened to his instructions.
“Additionally, though the orphanage stopped reporting seven days ago, after reviewing the situation, it was found that the orphanage had been reporting the same information for several years. This sudden halt occurred because the Main City reconfigured the reporting interface in this area seven days ago, and all other regions followed suit. Only the orphanage continued reporting the same content at the same frequency as before.”
Fengjian Tianyu asked in surprise, “And High Peak didn’t catch on to this?”
“The orphanage is different from the Bait Cities. It is an independently operated organization that communicates with the Main City once every two months and only needs to report if the conditions are normal or abnormal. This time, High Peak specifically investigated and discovered that past reports included date stamps, but in recent years, only the word ‘normal’ was left.”
An Yu looked up at the orphanage in front of him.
— The wall, which was tens of meters high, was pale white, almost mumbling in the snowstorm. There was only one gate for entrance and exit. Just like Qin Zhilu’s room, the gate bore no decoration, fitting perfectly into the wall.
He asked softly, “When did the reports start showing abnormalities?”
Qin Zhilu gave him a meaningful look, “Ten years ago.”
Ten years ago—the year An Yu left the orphanage.
The howling wind lifted the hair from An Yu’s forehead, revealing his clear golden eyes.
Those eyes no longer seemed as empty as before. Even when they were indifferent, a faint spark seemed to flicker deep within his gaze.
In District 53, the Ten-Eyed Frog Tongue once said it had passed by District 53 many times, never realizing there was a human city there—until An Yu left District 53.
His golden eyes suddenly looked up as he stepped forward amidst the snowstorm, pressing the hidden button embedded in the high wall.
A cold, synthetic female voice sounded: “Identity verification in progress.”
A red light slowly scanned An Yu’s right eye.
After a moment, the voice shifted to a more emotive tone, “ID number 21301222, long time no see. No matter how long you are away, the orphanage welcomes you home.”
The six of them lined up and stepped inside as the door opened.
The world after the door was bright white and empty, with nothing in it.
Suddenly, a tearing pain came from deep in his eyeball, and a piercing noise split his brain. An Yu suddenly realized he’d been hit by an intense flash of light just now.
The light vanished instantly, and the world plunged from the dazzling white into endless darkness as if it had taken his sight permanently.
His heartbeat spun out of control, and he touched his right eye in panic.
The warm leather suddenly gripped his fingers.
“Don’t worry,” Qin Zhilu took hold of four of his fingers, gently squeezing them in his palm, “I can’t see either. It’s not targeted at you; it’s likely just a temporary effect from the flash. Experiencing something like this the moment we enter a disordered zone strongly suggests…”
Before he finished speaking, An Yu’s vision began to return.
The darkness faded, and an empty and dilapidated space slowly emerged into view.
An Yu turned his head and met those black eyes.
There was no one else around them.
“It strongly suggests that we’ll get separated,” Qin Zhilu finished his thought.
They looked up together—a massive screen hung above, like a monitoring center, dividing the orphanage into countless small grids, and each small grid reflected the corresponding scene.
But there was something strange about this giant screen. An Yu looked at it for a long time before he realized the problem – it didn’t have any sense of technology. There was no edge, no metal, and the picture had no traces of pixels, nor was it as dazzlingly clear as the high-level screens.
It looked more like an enormous mirror.
A burst of static interrupted the silence, followed by Fengjian Tianyu’s disjointed voice in their earpieces. “Seems like our comms are still working, though the signal is unstable… Did you see the mirror monitor above? It follows our movements, showing a view of the entire orphanage above us. Unfortunately, every scene looks about the same. I can’t even find myself in it… Based on the terminal coordinates, I’m at—995, 16. Jiao Xiao’s here with me.”
One by one, the others checked in over the comms.
Pat: “899, 933.”
Slade: “15, 16.”
An Yu wasn’t familiar with using the terminal’s coordinate system, but before he could work it out, Qin Zhilu announced, “Corner and I are together. 21, 716.”
Jiao Xiao said, “Based on the coordinates, we’re all at the four corners of the orphanage. Fengjian and I are the farthest from An Yu.”
Fengjian Tianyu sighed, “We’re not just far—we’re diagonally across from the two of you. Why don’t we choose a midpoint and meet there?”
Qin Zhilu turned to An Yu. “What do you think, Corner?”
“I think…”
An Yu’s gaze moved over the mirror monitor in the sky.
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The only difference was that this onion had no “core”—all administrative areas were scattered across it without a pattern, making it easy to get lost.
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Before An Yu finished speaking “You should sspecially hide if you see adults”, a woman’s voice rang out over the comm, loud and clear.
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The woman in the comm suddenly let out a shrill scream, “Intruders!!”
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He silently closed the channel.
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“Patrol instructors. They’re all over the orphanage, constantly scanning for aberrants.” An Yu sighed. “With Jiao Xiao’s skills, they should be okay, but they will probably have trouble moving forward.”
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“Hm?” An Yu looked confused. “What does that have to do with me?”
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“Post?” Qin Zhilu paused, then shook his head. “I just know that high-ranking damage dealers are bound to target you. Healers are the most core resource of the entire Spire and now they are almost becoming your monopoly.”
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That makes sense, but…
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“There’s strong resistance to intruders here. Adults stand out and could be questioned at any time.” An Yu paused. “Let’s give it a try—I might be able to locate the archives room.”
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He’d need to give the Commander a new identity, turning Qin Zhilu, the highest leader of the Protectors, into Qin Zhilu, a high-risk mutation orphan.
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A gust of wind blew snow and dust, carrying a faint, eerie song into his ears.
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Borrow bodies to steal some light,
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Qin Zhilu listened for a while, frowning. “Why does this rhyme feel a bit… inappropriate?”
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Suddenly, An Yu thought of the [Super-Aberrant Kindergarten] that his Commander often talked about with him.
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“What are you looking for?” Qin Zhilu asked.
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Qin Zhilu frowned. “Hide? How?”
An Yu licked his lips, thinking.
The Commander probably wouldn’t agree to it, so it seemed useless to haggle over the details.
A minute later, an adult woman jogged over from the aberrant children’s group and stopped in front of An Yu.
She was a tall, stout middle-aged woman—one of the patrol teachers scattered around the orphanage.
She frowned and glanced around An Yu suspiciously. “I could’ve sworn there were two people here.”
“Two?” An Yu blinked, his golden eyes pure and innocent. “How can there be two people? Don’t scare me, I haven’t been back for a long time…”
“Maybe it’s just the snow… Oh, are you here to visit? No wonder you look like an adult.” The patrol teacher said, “Please comply with the ID check.”
An Yu, skillful and compliant, let her scan his iris.
“ID No. 21301222, genetic entropy 0.2.”
The woman frowned. “You’re… really bad off… Okay, genetic test.”
An Yu held out his hand for the device to scan his wrist.
“Why isn’t the reading moving at all?” The patrol teacher frowned, tapping the equipment. But no matter how she tapped, the screen remained stubbornly at a mere “0.”
“My genetic entropy is really low. Old equipment like this often has trouble reading it.” An Yu looked down at the ground, his voice so soft it nearly disappeared in the wind. “I’m really sorry… my genes are just too weak…”
“Sigh…” The patrol teacher sighed, “It’s not your fault, poor thing. Look at you, so beautiful, even if that beauty gene is of no use at all.”
“…Thank you for the comfort.” An Yu forced a smile. “What a coincidence, my neighbor said the same thing after I moved to Bait City.”
The patrol teacher didn’t seem the least bit aware of the irony of checking for mutations while leading a group of aberrant children singing cheerful songs. After examining An Yu, she reorganized the unruly little aberrants and walked off, still singing their song of mutation.
An Yu let out a sigh of relief.
Suddenly, an annoyed voice came over his earpiece.
“You have no sense of respect.”
“Uh…” An Yu was surprised, “So space folding doesn’t interfere with communications… By the way, I’ve always been curious: what does it feel like in folded space?”
Qin Zhilu stayed silent for almost a minute, then answered coldly, “It’s the same as normal space, except there is an extra edge of space.”
He paused, then continued, “But the bottom of the space here seems to be vibrating regularly, and there are sounds. Where did you put me?”
“Sorry, I didn’t bring my jam jar with me, and I really couldn’t find a container to put you inside.” An Yu murmured, his left hand brushing lightly over the bandage wrapped around his right wrist.
“So, the little space you are just standing on is now inside the bandage on my wrist,” he said softly, “So maybe the sound you’re hearing is… my heartbeat.”
Qin Zhilu fell silent again.
An Yu gritted his teeth and continued to move forward, feeling more and more guilty the further he walked.
The Commander remained silent, which made him feel like he was really doomed.
He suddenly wondered: if the Commander’s anger couldn’t be appeased, should he still release him?
If the Commander starved to death in his bandage, perhaps no one would ever discover the truth.
Before he could ponder further on this unsettling thought, a faint laugh came through his earpiece.
“You’re really panicking now.”
The voice carried a hint of humor. “Can you hear it through the earpiece? Thump-thump-thump.”
An Yu blinked, surprised. “What’s thump-thump-thump?”
“Your own heartbeat,” Qin Zhilu said casually, “It wasn’t even beating this fast when the patrol teacher was here.”
[23 High Mutation Risk Orphanage]
The High Mutation Risk Orphanage was established in 2122, the same year the disaster first occurred.
During its first eight years of operation, roughly 10% of the children admitted exhibited signs of gradual mutation during their growth. These cases were promptly detected and dealt with.
And among this 10%, most were infected due to external aberrant organisms invading the facility—something that could not have been entirely avoided, even in regular Bait Cities.
At the time, this proportion was not considered alarming and was deemed completely acceptable.
In the subsequent eight years, a curious phenomenon occurred: due to the miraculous absence of any external aberrants invading the orphanage, its mutation rate dropped to below 1%.
Until something happened at the orphanage.
Whether humanity had been too slow to realize what was happening, or whether the events that transpired there were simply too bizarre, remains unclear.
What is known is that this once-overlooked corner of the world transformed to the most terrifying existence overnight.
Later, as humanity reflected on Age of Resistance, they were surprised to find that it was this incident which marked a turning point—a new and chaotic chapter in the world’s story.
—From Genetic Upheaval, humanity entered a Unpredictable Prairie Fire.
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