Snow was rare here.
It fell lightly that morning, uncertain and thin, melting the moment it touched the ground. Just enough to dust rooftops and cling briefly to railings before disappearing. People slowed to take photos. Traffic hesitated. Someone laughed near the bus stop, treating it like a novelty.
The man watched it through the bus window.
Neon reflections slid across the glass in uneven streaks—shop signs, crossing lights, the glow of screens held too close to faces. Old buildings pressed against newer ones, concrete patched with metal, banners strung beside LED boards. Tradition hadn't vanished. It had simply learned how to coexist.
His hands were full.
Two bouquets of flowers rested against his knees, their wrapping pressing faintly into his palms each time the bus braked. White lilies in one. Chrysanthemums in the other. Fresh enough that the water still smelled green.
They felt heavier than they should have.
He adjusted his grip and looked outside again.
A familiar street corner passed by. A shop had changed owners—a new signboard, brighter font, someone else's name where another had been taken down. The replacement was clean. Efficient. As if the space had never been empty at all.
The bus slowed at a red light.
He closed his eyes and exhaled.
And, uninvited, the memory began to surface.
---
Music thundered through the arena.
Bass rolled across the stage, deep enough to be felt through the floor, vibrating up through bone and muscle. Above it, light fractured—gold and white tearing across massive screens as a hologram burst into the air. A creature took shape mid-flight, stylised and luminous, wings unfurling in a sweep of fire and light before dissolving into sparks that rained down over the stage.
The crowd roared.
At the back of the stage, the team waited.
Five figures stood just beyond the curtain line, half-shadowed by the glare spilling from the arena. The noise was constant here—music, cheers, the MC's voice rolling in waves—but it felt distant, filtered, like sound heard underwater.
Someone bounced lightly on their heels.
"Bring it home," another muttered.
A hand came up between them.
"One, two—"
"Hah!"
"Hah!"
"Go."
The chant was short. Familiar. Almost perfunctory.
They weren't the only ones doing it. Other teams did the same—different words, same rhythm. A ritual stripped down to function.
The MC's voice cut cleanly through the noise.
"Ladies and gentlemen—are you ready?"
The crowd answered for him.
"Then let me introduce—"
The screens shifted. A sharp edit rolled across them, each player rendered larger than life—angles tightened, colours sharpened, posture exaggerated just enough to look mythic.
Names followed. One by one.
Cheers rose. Fell. Rose again.
Then the final name hit the air.
"—your sun of Gilded Horn—CYRUS!"
The sound changed.
It didn't just grow louder—it spiked. A sudden surge of cheers broke over the arena, higher-pitched, more chaotic. Whistles cut through the roar. Voices shouted his name again and again, overlapping until it blurred into something closer to a chant.
He stepped forward into the light.
Black hair caught the glow, falling loosely against his forehead. His build was lean and balanced, athletic without bulk, posture relaxed in a way cameras loved. Warm-toned skin stood out beneath the blaze of stage lights, and when he lifted his gaze, narrow monolid eyes reflected the screens without flinching.
He didn't smile.
He didn't wave.
He simply stood there, calm and composed, letting the noise pass through him.
The cheer swelled once more before finally settling, folding back into the larger roar of the crowd.
On the screens behind them, all five stood together now—edited, sharpened, rendered larger than life.
The MC continued, voice rising with practised cadence.
"A team known for discipline, precision, and control—"
The emblem flared behind them, gold cutting through black.
"—give it up for GILDED HORN!"
The arena answered in full.
And for a moment, suspended in light and sound, the past felt solid again.
---
"Destination D4, next D6."
The driver's voice crackled through the speaker, flat and practised.
The sound broke through the lingering haze in his mind, dragging him back from the echo of lights and noise. He blinked, disoriented for half a second, then reached for his phone.
5:54 p.m.
The screen lit up fully as he unlocked it.
The wallpaper filled the display at once—five figures on a stage, arms raised, fingers gripping a trophy held high between them. Bright lights washed the image in gold and white, the crowd behind them blurred into motion.
He stood in the middle.
Not posed. Not prepared.
Caught mid-laugh, head tilted slightly back, eyes crinkled at the corners. The smile was open and unguarded, the kind that never survived mirrors or cameras for long.
Then the screen went dark again.
The bus hissed softly as it slowed, doors opening with a familiar sigh. He stepped into the aisle, careful not to brush the bouquets against the seats, murmuring quiet apologies out of habit as he passed.
Near the front, a man glanced up from his seat by the door.
"Oh—Lin Ziyang," he said, recognising him immediately. "You went to see your parents again?"
The question was casual. Familiar.
"Merry Christmas," the man added, with a small smile.
He paused, then nodded once.
"Yes," he replied. "Merry Christmas to you too."
He stepped down as the doors opened. The bus pulled away behind him, engine humming as it merged back into traffic.
The temple sat just above the graves.
Its doors were open, incense already burning inside. Smoke drifted toward the eaves, carrying the faint scent of ash and damp stone. A few candles flickered near the altar, their flames steady in the still air.
He stepped inside.
From his pocket, he took a bundle of incense sticks and lit them carefully, shielding the flame with his palm until they caught. When the smoke rose, he bowed—once, twice, then a third time, slower than the first two.
He placed the incense among the others and stood there briefly, hands together, eyes lowered.
There was nothing urgent to say.
When he turned and walked back out, the path led downward, away from the temple and towards the graves below.
They were set side by side—simple stones weathered just enough to show time had passed. Names. Dates. A quiet space between them for offerings.
He knelt and set the bouquets down, one before each stone. Adjusted the stems so they faced the same way. Straightened the wrapping, the motion familiar enough to need no thought.
Then he bowed again, hands together, head lowered.
He stayed like that for a few breaths before straightening.
Incense smoke drifted faintly down the path. Leaves stirred nearby. A bird lifted once into the trees.
"I'm doing alright," he said quietly.
Not as a confession. Just an update.
"Work's steady. I eat on time. I sleep." A pause. "Most days."
His gaze dropped to the flowers.
"I still forget things," he added. "But I remember the important ones."
Another pause.
"I came today because it's easier when there's a reason." His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile. "Christmas is a good one."
He remained kneeling for a moment after the last bow, palms resting lightly against his thighs, then rose slowly, brushing the dirt from his knees with the heel of his hand.
The flowers stayed where he'd placed them.
He took one step back—
And the world flickered.
Blue light surfaced at the edge of his vision, thin and translucent, hovering just above the ground in front of him. It did not glow. It did not pulse. It simply existed, sharp-edged and impossibly clean against the muted colours of stone and earth.
Text followed.
[Do you want to start a new save?]
[YES] [NO]
He blinked.
Once.
Then again.
The blue remained.
"…What?"
The word came out quietly, more confused than alarmed. He lifted a hand and passed it through the space where the text hovered.
Nothing.
No resistance. No sensation at all.
But the surface rippled faintly, the letters warping as if disturbed by air, like light reflected on shallow water.
He drew his hand back.
"A hologram?" he muttered.
That didn't make sense either.
"This isn't AR either."
He took a step back. The screen followed, maintaining its distance, perfectly aligned with his line of sight. One step forward—it adjusted. To the side—it shifted again, precise and unbothered.
He glanced around.
The graves were still there. The temple path was empty. Incense smoke drifted lazily downhill, thin and indifferent. No one else reacted. No one else noticed.
His gaze returned, despite himself, to the blue text.
Then, briefly, to the stones behind it.
"…Don't tell me this is from heaven," he said, dry.
The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile. More disbelief than amusement.
"No," he added, almost immediately. "That's not how that works."
He looked again.
The words hadn't changed.
New save.
Save what?
He frowned, thoughts beginning to turn despite his resistance. What happened if he chose no? What exactly was being saved? And if he chose yes—
He stopped himself.
Slowly, he exhaled.
Curiosity settled in, unwelcome but persistent.
The screen waited.