Chapter 118: Constantly Retreating

“In this scenario, Grey Crow is undeniably a person of value,” Silhouette asked Qi Ran. “As for me, Qi Ran, what do you think my Syndrome is best suited for?”

Qi Ran didn’t speak, just looked at him. Her silent gaze was answer enough—just like his chosen name, Silhouette—a mere shadow—his value was destined for those places untouched by light.

“Sometimes I wonder what I exist for.”

“I didn’t take you for a philosophy enthusiast,” Qi Ran sighed.

Silhouette smiled soundlessly. “It’s not philosophy, or any of that convoluted, complicated stuff. I just occasionally drift off alone. I wouldn’t even call it thinking—it’s more like zoning out. Just sitting there, aimlessly wandering in my thoughts. Now, I think I’ve mostly figured it out. I was born into this world for one specific thing. It’s just that I don’t know what that thing is yet. But that thing exists, and I’m the only one who can do it. So, I have to live until that moment comes.”

“But you said before that you were a day-to-day person,” Qi Ran said softly. “You said you had no faith and no goal, and just wanted to survive… But what you’re saying now—doesn’t it show you actually have a goal? Your goal is to find that thing.”

“Right. Both statements are true, just from different times,” Silhouette admitted frankly, nodding. “People change. Before those people and those events, I was a day-to-day person. But after they appeared, I couldn’t be one anymore. Those peaceful days are long gone. I had to find a purpose to anchor myself to life. That purpose couldn’t be non-existent. It just had to be something I hadn’t found yet.”

“As a way to comfort yourself?” Qi Ran asked.

“Yes. Using that narrative to comfort myself. I think you’re no stranger to that feeling either, right? We’re all like this. Living a routine life, then suddenly—bang—life transforms, spirals out of control. To keep living, we have to do certain things. But once we do them, we can never extricate ourselves. It’s like being trapped in a quagmire,” Silhouette said quietly. “We don’t know why we do it, don’t know what we should do next, but we have no choice. That’s just how it is. The only thing we can do is find a few comforting words to tell ourselves. Some use logic to numb their nerves, some use fleeting thrills, some use nicotine, some use alcohol… Speaking of, do you want some ice-cold beer?”

“Ice-cold beer?” Qi Ran was taken aback. The shift in topic was far too abrupt. “Where would you get ice-cold beer?”

She was indeed a bit thirsty. An ice-cold can of beer right now would be absolutely perfect. She just couldn’t figure out how to buy iced beer on the highway. The next service area was miles and miles away.

“Look under the white cloth. There should be an ice chest,” Silhouette said. “Can you drink?”

Qi Ran rummaged under the white cloth, and her fingertips actually touched a hard surface. This pile of white cloth was as magical as Doraemon’s 4th-dimensional pocket. With some effort, she bent down and hauled out a small black ice chest. Opening it, she found it filled with ice and water. She recognized the design from some movies—it was the kind of ice chest used for chilling champagne on private jets. But this one held no champagne; it was packed with cans of beer… all very common brands. Qi Ran even spotted cola inside, making it incredibly down-to-earth.

“What’ll you have?” she asked Silhouette.

“Anything. I just want something cold,” Silhouette sighed, sitting down on the damaged edge of the cargo hold. Rain lines swept past overhead. The mountain slopes, washed clean and green, slid backward on either side, never ceasing. He stared intently at the scene; the scenery retreated endlessly into the depths of his pupils, vanishing into the distance. “I can’t taste the difference between good and bad ones.”

“You have no sense of taste?” Qi Ran handed him a can of ice-cold beer and casually picked a familiar-looking can for herself. She also sat on the edge of the broken cargo hold, her legs dangling outside. “Is it because of your Syndrome?”

“Not the Syndrome,” Silhouette smiled soundlessly. “I bet you’ve wondered: since I said I wanted to go to school, why did I only finish compulsory education?”

“I have been curious,” Qi Ran nodded.

“It’s not a very interesting story, but if you want to hear it, I suppose I can tell it,” Silhouette cautioned.

“Why not?” Qi Ran shook the ice-cold beer in her hand. “Don’t you think a scene like this would be the perfect moment in a movie to reminisce about the past?”

This was her genuine feeling. The scene before her truly had a cinematic quality. Sitting at the edge of a cargo hold, watching the curtain of rain constantly retreat, the fierce wind flipping up her bangs—it was a feeling of freedom. Nothing could hold her back; nothing could bind her. The wind swept everything away. After the alcohol, she felt no cold, only the sensation of the wind. Washed clean, her soul felt as pristine as if she had just been reborn.

Jiang Zhique sat down silently beside her, also drinking an ice-cold beer, listening quietly. After untying her hair tie, her ink-black hair scattered in the wind, revealing a slender, pale neck, its curve more beautiful than the distant green mountains.

Tao Xiao still sat quietly in the deepest part of the cargo hold, prim and proper, solitary and alone.

Her hands rested obediently on her knees, like a lonely, abandoned doll. Her gaze was fixed straight on Qi Ran’s thin silhouette sitting at the edge, but she merely pursed her pale lips, saying nothing and not moving. Grey Crow was asleep beneath the white cloth behind her, in a very deep sleep. It was clear that manifesting that avatar had been a tremendous drain on her stamina and spirit.

“You have a point,” Silhouette nodded, taking a sip of his ice-cold beer. As the icy sensation traveled down his throat, he narrowed his eyes for a moment, then placed the can on the floor beside his left hand. “Have you ever been to an internet cafe?”

“Internet cafe?” Qi Ran was stunned and shook her head. “I only know it’s a place to get online, but I’ve never been to one.”

“I’ve only heard of them,” Jiang Zhique also shook her head.

“I started going to internet cafes in elementary school. My parents were busy with work. I always finished my homework during school, then went to the black-market internet cafe next to my house after class. I liked the atmosphere there. Everyone was busy with their own things, bustling with passion, chatting and laughing into their communicators,” Silhouette said slowly. “I had no money to rent a machine, and they wouldn’t have rented one to me anyway. But it didn’t matter. I never went there to play games. I just watched, standing behind people, watching them play. So, many people found me annoying—who would like seeing a little brat standing behind them watching them game? Even if he’s quiet and doesn’t talk, just being there is enough to annoy people.”

“The manager actually let you in?” Qi Ran asked. Although she’d never been to an internet cafe, she had some common sense and knew police periodically checked ID cards there.

“He couldn’t really stop me. That cafe was a shabby old place with a bunch of arcade machines next to it, those big, dumb, bulky ones. Many young people sat there playing video games. The people going online were mostly regulars, nearly in their thirties or forties. When they got online, their kids would be left playing near the back door. Often, the kids would wander into the internet cafe to find their dads,” Silhouette said. “The manager couldn’t really stop them. You can’t forbid a kid from going in to find his dad, right? So, I snuck in every time by blending in. I guess the manager probably knew I wasn’t one of those kids, but since I didn’t cause trouble, he couldn’t be bothered to deal with me.”

“Many people found you annoying, and you’re telling me you didn’t cause trouble?” Qi Ran had to laugh at his words.

Silhouette smiled. “At least in the manager’s eyes, I wasn’t trouble. The internet cafe had plenty of people far more annoying than me, like the guys shouting into their communicators, the ones flicking cigarette ash all over the keyboard and seat, and the ones who didn’t wash their hair, making the cafe communicators all greasy… In that chaotic madhouse, a dull, mute kid really wasn’t a problem.”