The world outside was still drowned in a dark shade of indigo when I woke up at five. A habit that was unfortunately carved into my bones from a lifetime of morning drills; one that not even five hundred years of temporal displacement could break. I slipped into the ridiculously squeaking sneakers (a truly baffling invention!!!!! who would actually choose footwear that announced their every move like a clumsy rookie? Wouldn't that get them killed?) and pulled on the soft hooded garment Maruyama had gifted us. The fabric was strangely comforting, even if the style felt rather undignified.
But my true ritual began when I retrieved the locked notebook an indulgence in this bewildering world. Hongbing and Maruyama had exchanged glances when I insisted on purchasing it at the 7/11 store, but they didn't understand. If I was to be stranded in this era of flashing lights and roaring metal dragons, I would not let these experiences fade into mist. I would keep a note of them in ink.
Dear Ge,It has been four moons and thirty-three sunsets since Hongbing and I fell through the fabric of time. This morning, I am writing by the glow of what they call a "night lamp", a small sun captured in glass. How you would marvel at such things...I described everything, the image-capturing boxes called "cameras," the dazzling array of pigments in the art supply shop, even the way our local guardian had taught us to select certain things by checking the price and the expiry date before checkout. How to make instant coffee that tastes like ash and instant noodles that may or may not be healthy.The window squeaked as I pushed it open, a sound that made me freeze. Across the room, Hongbing stirred but didn't wake. An Assassin who is known to never sleep, now lay buried in blankets, exhausted by the constant assault of this loud, bright world. That sight tugged at something in my chest.
Using qinggong to leap onto the rooftop felt like remembering a forgotten language. The wind whipped my hair, too long for modern tastes, but I refused to cut it, as I moved from one rooftop to another. Below, the city hummed like a sleeping beast, its electric lights mimicking the starry sky we'd lost to so-called pollution and progress.
"Ge... if you can hear me," I whispered to the wind, "do not fear for me. I am... adapting."My stomach growled with the timing of a poorly trained court jester. The "convenience store" glowed like a lantern, its doors sliding open without touch—a sight I still found unsettling.Inside, I moved with practiced ease: select the ramen bowl (the red one with the pig illustration—spicy pork), wipe the bowl despite its cleanliness (Maruyama's paranoia had become my habit), select tea sachets (why did they imprison perfectly good leaves in paper coffins?), and wait for the kettle to scream.
It was during the boiling that the phone chimed—a sound that made my shoulders tense (They really have to make it noisy do they?). The glowing rectangle might as well have been a torturer's instrument for all the comfort it gave me. I could lead cavalry charges and negotiate with treacherous ministers who would rather have their head cut off, but this little box reduced me to a fumbling child.
After several failed attempts to open the message, my fingers finally remembered their lesson. The university group chat—and a document that might as well have been written in some barbarian tongue.
SCIENCE. COMMERCE. HUMANITIES. ENGINEERING.
The words meant nothing to me. Psychology? Computer Science? Robotics? Were these mystic arts or military divisions? I understood "Ancient Languages" and "History," but "Polytechnics" and "Hotel Management" sounded like jokes from a drunken poet.
I slurped my noodles, the spicy broth clearing my head. Maruyama had said to choose something "practical," but how could I when the options read like some mad emperor's decree?Ge, what would you have me do? I thought, tracing the characters of my brother's name in the condensation on the table. Study "Business Administration" like a merchant? Or "Philosophy" like a monk?
The form glared back at me, its final warning feeling less like an administrative notice and more like a verdict.
It is thereby noted that once this document is submitted it cannot be re-edited.
No pressure indeed. In my time, choosing the wrong path meant disgrace or death. Here, it apparently meant... what? A disappointing career? Some kind of Student debt?
I couldn't help the bitter laugh that escaped me. Five hundred years of progress, and they'd found new ways to torture young men with paperwork.The ramen suddenly tasted like dust (and I have tasted dust when I was seven). Outside, the first light of dawn began to bleed into the sky, a pale imitation of the sunrises we'd watched from the palace walls.
I returned to the dormitory, a building that still clung to the quiet of night even as the sun began to bleed gold and rose into the sky. The birds in the garden chirped with a mindless cheer that felt both alien and soothing. I kept to a leisurely pace, savoring this small pocket of strange peace.
"Hey!" a voice cut through the calm, too loud and too sudden for me.I turned, my body tensing on instinct, to see Michael loping towards me, a huge grin plastered across his face. His hair was a mess, and he moved with that unnervingly casual athleticism he seemed to possess.
"There you are," he said, his words stretched and shaped by that distinctive drawl. "I was wonderin' where you ran off to."
"Were you trying to follow me?" I asked, the words coming out sharper than I intended. The ghosts of the thousand court intrigues whispered that being sought out was never really a good thing.
"Oh, no, it's nothin' like that!" He laughed, holding his hands up in surrender. "I just saw you head out and thought I'd see if you wanted to have a run with me... you know, someone to bond with...."
"With running? " I said, unable to keep the disbelief from my voice. It seemed as practical a method for bonding as meditating during a cavalry charge. I fell into step beside him, continuing my path back to the dorm."Come on, that could be a start!" he insisted, easily matching my stride. "Remember the offer I made four months back?"My mind flashed back to the fluorescent hell of the mall, the screech of a dying metal demon, and this same boy watching us with amused eyes. "The one where we were at the shoe department in Osaka?"
"Yeah! You know, the free discounts and drinks if you call me up?" he prompted, his grin never faltering. "You never did. I was startin' to think I'd scared you off."
I glanced at him. In my world, such persistent friendliness from a stranger was either the mark of a simpleton or the opening move of an assassin. With Michael, I was becoming increasingly certain it was the former.
"My schedule has been... demanding," I replied, the understatement feeling heavy on my tongue. Between wrestling with the concept of 'weekends' and stopping Hongbing from disassembling the microwave for being 'suspiciously silent,' there had been little room for social calls.
"Well, the offer still stands," Michael said as we reached the dormitory steps. "Seriously. You and your grumpy friend seem like you could use a guide to this century. And I could use the stories. You guys are more interesting than any telly show."
He gave a final, cheerful wave and veered off, leaving me standing at the entrance. Shaking my head, I pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the quiet hallway. The squeak of my ridiculous sneakers echoed in the silence as I climbed the stairs. A new day had begun, and with it, the unexpected offer of a truce, and perhaps even a friendship, with this bewildering new world.I found Hongbing in the living room, an unexpected sight that made me pause in the doorway. He was sitting with Gabriel, the roommate whose soul seemed permanently fused to his smartphone. And between them, steam curled from the ceramic pot of brewed coffee.This was rare. Unprecedented, even.
"It affects my cultivation, so I rarely drink coffee," he had told me once, his tone leaving no room for debate, when I'd casually offered him a cup. The internal energies Qi , the delicate balance required for his assassin's arts and his pursuit of physical perfection, all of it was supposedly disrupted by such a coarse, modern stimulant. And yet, here he sat, cradling a mug in his hands like a man clinging to a raft in a storm.
'I hope he doesn't touch alcohol next,' I thought with a sense of foreboding as I walked over to them.
"Where did you run off to?" Hongbing asked, his voice wary as he took a deliberate sip from the damn thing.
"And I thought you didn't drink coffee," I countered, sidestepping his question as I settled into the seat beside him. The rich, bitter aroma filled the air. "And I didn't 'run off,' if that's what you're wondering." I reached for the pot and poured a cup for myself, the dark liquid swirling like some kind of forbidden promise.
"I was just curious. It's not like you can run away, to be honest." He paused, his gaze distant before returning to the mug in his hands. "And this... strangely keeps me calm from everything going around here..." He raised the cup slightly in a small, almost defeated gesture before bringing it back to his lips.
I leaned back in my seat, studying his profile. The usual sharp, unyielding lines of his face seemed softer, blurred by a fatigue that was more than just physical. "Planning to abandon your quest for immortality?" I asked, the question half in jest, half in genuine concern.Hongbing didn't answer. He kept his head low, staring into the empty depths of his cup as if the dregs of the coffee held some profound and disappointing truth he wasn't yet ready to share. The silence from him was louder than any complaint.
"Hey... look at me." I softened my tone, gently placing my hand on his cheek. He felt tense, the muscle in his jaw jumping beneath my palm. He seemed truly distraught now. "We can get through this, just like we did then. How about that?"
"During the skirmish with those northern dogs?" Hongbing said, his head snapping up, a familiar, cold glare fixing on me. The memory, sharp as a shard of ice, stabbed at us both.
"Let's not talk about that now..." I said, pulling my hand back and reaching for the coffee pot to refill his cup. The attempt to placate him felt clumsy. "Here, drink some more coffee." It was clearly still a sore spot for him, and if I was honest with myself, it was for me, too.
(Damn those northern bastards. If I ever get back home, I'll find Ghazan and give him a solid beating for what he did to our flank, and then I'll—Oh. Wait...
That was also five hundred years ago. Ghazan, his entire bloodline—all of it was dust. The grievance I had once carried like a hot coal in my chest for so long was now just... a footnote in a history book no one probably read. The fight was over. We had lost, not to the northern tribes, but to time itself.
Haaaaaa... I bring my hand to my face. Lord I am still not used to this.