The Mirror’s protection mechanism

The dim‍‍​‌‍⁠‌‍⁠‌‍‌​‍‌‌‍‍⁠‌​⁠‍‌ yellow glow faded behind them, leaving only the snowstorm on the pitch-black street.

“Commander, could you loosen this a bit?”

An Yu glanced at the octopus tentacle wrapped around him. “It’s getting hard to breathe.”

The tentacle eased slightly in response as Qin Zhilu replied, “Buy yourself some proper clothes when we get back.”

An Yu hesitated. “Um…”

“I’ll pay,” Qin Zhilu added, casting a sidelong glance at him. “In exchange for a baked loaf.”

“Understood, Commander,” An Yu immediately agreed. “Seems like you were satisfied with the last one.”

Amidst the whistling wind, Qin Zhilu let out a soft “Mm.” “It made for a decent midnight snack.”
After a pause, he added, “I reminded Slade to spare Chen Nian, but even without a fatal blow, ‘it’ might still see it as crossing the line.”

An Yu thought for a moment. “It’s unlikely. Fights are very common in the orphanage. If ‘its’ protection mechanism for Chen Nian were that easily triggered, someone getting killed for trying to harm him wouldn’t be news. But most people seemed genuinely shocked by what happened to that boy earlier.”

Qin Zhilu asked, “Did you often experience physical conflicts when you were young?”

An Yu shook his head. “I was hardly noticeable. I could eat half a biscuit without breaking it, never competed for books or toys. I didn’t have friends, but I also didn’t make enemies.”
He had been the least threatening presence in the orphanage, even favoring corners that other children found unappealing.

For as long as he could remember, he had followed his own set of survival principles: the more invisible you are, the safer you are, so avoid attracting attention; survival is the top priority, and as long as it doesn’t lead to death, pain and losses can be tolerated. Sometimes, he sensed that these principles stemmed from an innate subconscious, a seed planted deep in his awareness, constantly whispering to him— wait.

But wait for what? He didn’t know.

Snow swirled around them, icy flakes stinging his face. A thick, black tentacle extended above An Yu’s head, shielding him from the snowstorm.
“Thank you, Commander,” An Yu said. “What did you do in your childhood?”

The tentacle, which had been gently brushing snow away from his forehead, paused for a moment before resuming its movement.

Qin Zhilu’s voice seemed to be swallowed by the snowstorm.
“The Black Tower. The Brain. Occasionally, home.”

Yan Xi had mentioned once that Qin Zhilu’s mother was a writer but hadn’t elaborated on her current circumstances. Nor had he mentioned Qin Zhilu’s father—the soldier who now stood immortalized as a statue in the Spire.

For some reason, An Yu felt that the Commander didn’t enjoy talking about his past, much like that night under the bridge in District 53.
Perhaps it was the perpetual cold surrounding him, making the word home sound faintly surreal when spoken by him.

Qin Zhilu suddenly slowed his pace. “There’s someone ahead.”

An Yu squinted, finally making out a small figure in the dark, snow-filled street.

A boy, around four or five years old, was crouched by the roadside, his head and back covered in a thick layer of snow. Sensing someone approaching, he tried to run but collapsed as his legs gave out.

Qin Zhilu effortlessly lifted him. His terminal showed the boy’s genetic entropy was only 2.4.
The boy’s small, battered face was bruised and swollen, with one eye nearly closed. He clutched a half-eaten biscuit in his hand, and when he fell, another half rolled out of his pocket. Instead of picking it up, he hurriedly hid the one he still held behind his back.

Though his movements were timid, his swollen, half-closed eyes glared fiercely at them like a wolf cub’s—a survival glare An Yu recognized from the orphanage. These children weren’t so much human as feral, becoming more aggressive the more frightened they were.

Qin Zhilu asked, “Why are you eating outside?”

“This is my biscuit,” the boy replied defensively.

“I know. No one’s taking it from you.” Qin Zhilu glanced toward a house faintly glowing in the distance. “I’m asking why you’re eating out here.”

The boy stared at him warily. “They’re doing health checks inside. I don’t want to go.”

Qin Zhilu paused. “Health checks…”

Orphanage children underwent weekly health checks. There was no set schedule; names were suddenly called, and those selected had to comply.

To An Yu’s surprise, Qin Zhilu didn’t walk away but bent down, picked up the fallen biscuit, brushed off the dirt with his gloved hand, and handed it back.
“Running out like this—won’t that get you in trouble?”

The boy quickly stuffed the biscuit into his pocket, muttering under his breath, “I’ll go back after I finish eating… It’s not my turn yet. I just wanted to eat my biscuit in peace.”

“Mm.”

After they had walked a good distance away, Qin Zhilu spoke in a low voice. “A few years ago, there was a proposal to replace weekly health checks in orphanages with subdermal chips to monitor entropy levels in real time. The Brain agreed to cover the costs, but the proposal never received a reply from the orphanage. The Main City didn’t pursue it further. Looking back now, it seems the orphanage had already started to fall apart.”

An Yu touched the inside of his wrist. Billy had once mentioned that each chip cost 500,000 credits.
With tens of thousands of children in the orphanage, constantly coming and going, An Yu did the math and was stunned by the number that exceeded his comprehension.

He murmured, “Such a huge cost… Was the proposal made by someone from the Brain to the Black Tower?”

“No,” Qin Zhilu glanced at him, “You dislike health checks too, don’t you?”

“They’re actually not that bad,” An Yu hesitated and then added softly, “But if I had to spend 500,000 to replace them with a chip, I don’t think it’d be worth it.”

Qin Zhilu stared at him for a long moment before letting out a quiet chuckle—half-irritated, half-helpless.
“So, as long as health checks don’t kill you, they’re fine?”

“Um… yes.”

An Yu felt like his social skills had improved a bit. At least he could hold a conversation with the Commander for more than a few exchanges now. If Ling Qiu were still around, he would probably be proud of him.
Yet every time he spoke with the Commander, he couldn’t shake the feeling that those brief replies carried an unspoken depth. He couldn’t decipher the emotions buried in those dark eyes, but even a short exchange left him feeling satisfied with himself.

The orphanage’s dormitory area resembled a massive beehive. Staircases crisscrossed the outer walls, leading to individual sleeping pods. The doors to the pods were frosted glass, and inside was just a thin mattress. The height of the space was about a meter—small children could stand upright, but older ones had to hunch to get in and out.

The cramped and suffocating design, which blocked air circulation, was something An Yu found comforting, though other children despised it.

An Yu stopped in front of the massive hive-like dormitory in Zone A. “Commander, I think we got separated.”

Qin Zhilu shot him a silent look, as though he had already seen through An Yu’s intentions.

An Yu swallowed cautiously. “I’ve regained some strength. Could you go back into the bandages for now?”

“Your heartbeat is noisy,” Qin Zhilu remarked.

“Uh…” An Yu paused, “I can find a quieter spot.”
As he spoke, he lightly touched the bandage wrapped around his neck.

A few minutes later, Qin Zhilu’s indifferent voice sounded in his earpiece. “Here’s a fact for you: the carotid artery pulses more strongly than the radial artery.”

An Yu was perplexed. “But you’re positioned near my throat, not directly over the carotid.”

“Exactly. You placed me in the most vulnerable, easily targeted spot.”

“…You’re overthinking it. I just randomly chose a location while folding space,” An Yu defended softly. “Besides, having you pressed against my throat makes me a little anxious too… I hope Slade finishes quickly.”

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The calm, steady way he walked reminded An Yu of Ning.
“Commander,” An Yu asked in a hushed voice, “what genotype do you think Chen Nian is?”

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“He doesn’t appear injured, but he seems much weaker than in the cafeteria,” An Yu observed.

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Chen Nian walked alone under the streetlamp and came to a sudden stop.

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Chen Nian turned around to face the cold, scrutinizing eyes behind him.

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On the private channel, Qin Zhilu said thoughtfully, “That’s the first time someone has described you like that. Most Protectors and aberrants only feel an inexplicable attraction toward you.”

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Slade frowned at Chen Nian’s cryptic comments about An Yu. “What exactly is your genotype? And how much do you know about the orphanage’s distortions?”

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Under the streetlamp, his elongated shadow gradually shortened until it disappeared as he melted into the darkness.

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“A1920,” Slade called out, raising his voice. “You lived in that tiny compartment for a long time. It’s filled with your scent.” He added, “Your daily routine is incredibly consistent. The scents leading from A1920 branch out in only a few fixed directions. Over time, it’s as if a set of clear paths have been etched into the air.”

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“Then, can he also—”

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“Making enemies is unavoidable, but don’t be careless,” Qin Zhilu instructed coolly. “There are no amateurs at the top of the ladder.”

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The atmosphere shifted subtly; even the wind seemed to die down. He took two steps back, letting his shadow return under the streetlamp. Then he turned to face Slade. “What are you trying to say?”

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The calm in his gaze evaporated, replaced by a sharp ferocity. He barked, “What else have you found?”

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Slade sidestepped the attack, his voice cold. “You dare to strike first? You’re courting death!”

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“Deliberate,” Qin Zhilu interjected softly.

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Slade landed a heavy blow to Chen Nian’s shoulder. He’d expected the latter to dodge, but Chen Nian didn’t. The impact sent him sprawling to the ground, where Slade quickly pinned him down.

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Slade froze for a split second, cold sweat soaking through his clothes. It dawned on him that Chen Nian wasn’t looking at him but at—

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But at that moment, his reflection stood alone—no dormitory behind him, no streetlamp, no Chen Nian. The image was unnervingly close, as if it had been plucked from a camera’s zoom lens, isolating him entirely.

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An unprecedented sense of doom loomed over Slade. As a seasoned top-level Ladder member, he had survived countless missions, even against aberrants with genetic entropies in the tens of thousands. Yet now, for the first time, he felt powerless.

He recalled Feng Jian and Jiang Xiao’s warnings about mirror deaths. An unseen, inexplicable force killed its victims without ever showing itself. And now, he was about to—

A violent spatial distortion erupted!

The air rippled like the heart of an explosion—silent yet immense. Slade braced himself, convinced he was experiencing the onset of mirror death. But the tremor passed without inflicting any pain.

In an instant, the world went dark.

Hundreds of meters away, a patch of snow-covered ground suddenly lit up.

却让一个面对畸变巨物都未曾退缩的强势Protectors者心悸如雷，又如堕冰窟。

The streetlamp that had been beside him inexplicably moved to that distant spot.

Slade stared blankly for a long moment before he slowly raised his head. The glowing mirror-like surveillance monitor that had lit up moments ago was now gone.

The world was utterly silent, save for the howling wind swirling in the air.

Chen Nian, still pinned to the ground by Slade, turned his head to look toward where the streetlamp had relocated.

From the shadows emerged a figure clad in white, with snow-white hair.

The figure stepped slowly into the light of the streetlamp, the only illumination in the pitch-black night. An Yu stood in that pool of light and his face was pale from the snowstorm, making him seem frail and vulnerable—like someone who might lose his life at any moment in a place like this orphanage.

Yet, in those golden eyes of his, there was an unmistakable sense of subtle but undeniable pressure.

“So, this is the mirror’s protective mechanism…” he murmured, as though talking to himself—or perhaps addressing someone who didn’t exist. “You can’t attack someone under its special protection. If it catches you, it’ll kill you, just like a shattered mirror. But the key is—it has to catch you first. The mirror works by reflecting light. Without light around the protected person, the mirror won’t detect them, and this mechanism won’t activate.”

Through his earpiece, Qin Zhilu’s voice came, tinged with admiration. “Your reaction time is remarkable. It seems that the Brain’s evaluation of your intelligence is not accurate enough.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” An Yu replied softly. After a pause, he added, “I just experienced what felt like an unusually long moment.”

When Chen Nian first showed his intent to kill Slade, he had stopped in his tracks and deliberately stepped back into the halo of the streetlamp’s light, ensuring his shadow returned to its glow.

Reflecting further, he realized Chen Nian had likely known he was being followed for some time. Yet, Chen Nian had waited until he stood under the streetlamp to turn back and confront his pursuers.

—The mirror can only “see” what light reflects into it. If the surroundings are pitch black, it cannot detect anything and thus cannot act.

An Yu seemed to have figured all of this out in an instant. Yet in that moment, time itself seemed to slow ever so slightly. In that fleeting yet elongated instant, he thought he could almost hear the sound of something deep inside Slade beginning to fracture.

Before Slade himself could sense the pain of shattering, An Yu gently moved the desk lamp away, far enough from Chen Nian.

As expected, the eerily glowing surveillance mirror above him flickered and extinguished.

The execution was interrupted.

The earpiece was quiet. It seemed his Commander had not noticed the brief temporal distortion, leaving An Yu uncertain if it had been real or simply a figment of his imagination.

What was certain, however, was this: if time had indeed slowed, it had only been for him. In that instant, his mind had been consumed by one thought—breaking the mechanism before the “mirror death” could claim its victim.

Chen Nian did not look enraged.

On the contrary, his gaze toward An Yu was contemplative, as though he were deeply pondering something.

Slade, kneeling on the ground, was frozen in place. His rigid body trembled as he stared at An Yu’s golden eyes, now faintly tinged with red.

When An Yu suddenly glanced at him, their eyes met for a brief second before Slade quickly looked away.

As though he were no longer in control of himself, Slade lowered his head in submission, staring at the ground.

On the ground, the streetlamp cast the thin, frail shadow of An Yu.

Yet that small shadow caused a man who had never flinched before towering and monstrous aberrants to feel like his heart was pounding and his body was sinking into an icy abyss.

No one could fully explain where that overwhelming pressure came from.

Only those who had faced Him directly could ever understand.

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Author’s Note:

M1zushi: sorry for the absolutely late chapter i was dumped into exams and my study methods are absolutely garbage for the amount of input that i have to understand omfg so many names and terminologies.