Chapter 8: The Self That Disappeared

Room 1929.

Mu Yu stood before the hospital room door, hesitating.

“Are you sure you want to go in alone? You can’t even see—”

“It’s fine.”

Mo Yan was half-leaning against the wall, his face almost translucent in the sunlight, pale from blood loss, like a delicate, fragile porcelain doll that would shatter at a touch.

“Listen to me, we’re out of time,” Mo Yan said, gasping for breath as if every word drained him. It was hard to imagine that this was the same person who had just brandished his blade with such fearsome force that even spirits would have fled.

Mu Yu watched as Mo Yan struggled to the door, barely strong enough to open it. Only then did he notice the bandages on Mo Yan’s shoulder, long since soaked through with blood, staining his coat with a deep, ominous black.

With this much blood lost, any normal adult would already be lying unconscious, ready to become a five-pound box of dust at any moment.

Flustered, Mu Yu pushed the door open for him, not noticing that Mo Yan’s right hand never left the inside of his coat.

“What is he up to…” Mu Yu muttered anxiously. He knew Mo Yan had his reasons, but given his current state, even a regular child could overpower him, let alone those monsters they’d just escaped.

And by Mo Yan’s own logic, the two of them should stay together at all times to ensure they could react the moment a monster appeared—not get separated.

How could someone so injured, who couldn’t even see the creatures, hope to be a hero? The more Mu Yu thought, the more anxious he became, terrified something would happen to Mo Yan inside. Yet he also feared disturbing him, so he could only pace nervously outside the door.

Thud.

A heavy sound came from inside, flesh hitting the floor.

“Shit!” Mu Yu, who’d been listening intently, stomped his foot and burst in, the loud bang echoing down the corridor.

He didn’t care about the noise and dove toward the fallen figure with all the agility he could muster.

“No!!!”

Mo Yan’s already pale face twisted in terror, then turned utterly desolate as Mu Yu landed on top of him.

“Don’t be afraid! I’m here to save you!” Mu Yu declared, brimming with self-assurance after his recent string of miraculous rescues. He shielded Mo Yan with his own body, scanning the room warily.

Strangely, the room was immaculate—unexpectedly so. There was no one else, not even a hint of a monster. It really was just an ordinary hospital room.

But in moments like this, normal was the most suspicious thing of all.

Mu Yu never forgot that mantra. He remained on high alert, sweeping his gaze across the room and whispering in a low, tense voice, “Where is it? Where’s the monster?”

…

Receiving no answer for a long time, Mu Yu finally looked down. Mo Yan was feebly slapping the ground, struggling, looking for all the world as though he might die at any moment.

“Uh…” Mu Yu quickly helped him up, glancing around guiltily as if searching for an unseen threat.

“You really shouldn’t just sit on the floor like that,” he said. “Don’t look at me like that—it’s only because I was worried about you.”

He helped Mo Yan onto the bed, awkwardly turning his head away to avoid his piercing gaze.

“You truly didn’t see anything?” Mo Yan finally caught his breath. Considering how little time remained, he decided to let the matter go for now, instead watching Mu Yu circle the room as if searching for something.

“Nothing at all. What are we even looking for here? You just sat down on the floor,” Mu Yu replied, still puzzled. Try as he might, the room seemed perfectly ordinary—other than the slightly messy bed, everything was in order, as if no patient had ever stayed here.

Wait—if no one had stayed here, why was the bed messy?

Mo Yan leaned closer to the bed, curiosity piqued.

“I just fell. There’s nothing here; I made a mistake. Let’s go. We’re running out of time,” he said quickly, noticing Mu Yu approaching the other bed, his voice tense and his body rigid.

“Oh.” Mu Yu hurried back, face composed as if nothing were amiss, and helped Mo Yan up from the bed.

“Where to next?”

Mo Yan slung an arm around Mu Yu’s shoulders, only able to see his profile and hear his calm tone. He let out a breath.

“To the first floor, the parking lot out back.”

Although this was the inpatient wing, it was connected to the emergency department, and behind it lay a small lot—not for visitors, but reserved for the hospital, to facilitate quick transfers.

As Mo Yan finished speaking, exhaustion washed through him, heavy as lead. His eyelids grew too heavy to lift, and he stumbled forward in a daze, half-carried by Mu Yu.

Even with a body stronger than most, he was still flesh and blood. The blood loss, relentless fighting, and overwhelming mental strain made him want to just close his eyes and drift away.

Everything before him seemed veiled by a thin mist, dreamy and unreal.

He wasn’t sure how long he drifted in this haze. He could feel his strength ebbing away with every passing moment. He knew it was the blood loss—bandages could only do so much, and constant movement only made the bleeding worse.

His body grew heavier and heavier, from being carried to practically being dragged, his full weight slumping onto Mu Yu.

But Mo Yan knew he couldn’t sleep. If he did, he might never wake again.

So he bit his tongue, letting the pain keep him conscious, though even that simple effort was nearly beyond him.

He clung to the faint pain and the repetitive movement, barely maintaining his grasp on reality.

Just a little longer, he told himself. Don’t sleep… just a little longer.

He didn’t even know what he was holding out for anymore.

Everything would be over in thirty minutes. In his state, even if he made it downstairs, what could he possibly do? And yet…

Mo Yan forced his eyes open, even though everything remained dark. He kept his fingers hooked around Mu Yu’s shoulder, grip so weak it was barely there.

“I… still have something to do,” he murmured inwardly, as the image of a severed head lying in the wreckage floated before his fading consciousness.

“I… I’ll take care of it…”

Darkness closed in, pulling him down into the abyss.

Mu Yu wiped sweat from his brow, easing Mo Yan into the corner of the elevator. Mo Yan’s head lolled, clearly unconscious, the bright light reflecting softly off his blood-soaked coat.

Mu Yu wasn’t surprised. He gently pried Mo Yan’s fingers from his own shoulder, one by one.

Then, he pulled aside Mo Yan’s coat.

Beneath the heavy fabric, Mo Yan’s hand gripped a pistol, fingers still clenched around the grip even in unconsciousness, as if warding off some final threat—or hesitating, unable to commit to the act, finger poised on the trigger.

Mu Yu was silent for a moment, sweat-soaked hair falling over his eyes, his expression unreadable in the elevator’s reflection.

“You couldn’t do it in the end, could you…” he said with a bitter smile, his voice full of inner conflict.

“You wanted my life, and yet I can’t bring myself to hate you.”

“But I want to live too. Even if my death could save many, who says I have to sacrifice myself for others?”

“It’s not fair.”

“I’m just an ordinary guy, dragged into this mess by bad luck. If I threw away my life for someone else, wouldn’t that be even worse luck?”

“I… I just want to survive.”

Mu Yu sat down on the floor, facing Mo Yan, talking as much to himself as to the unconscious figure.

He wasn’t even sure what he was saying—just that talking made the tension easier to bear.

He was an unremarkable nobody, living the usual routine of school—no, office—life.

He had no reason, no obligation to give up his life for someone else.

The area within ten kilometers was cleared out; all he had to do was get to the parking lot, find a car, pretend to be a civilian, and slip away.

As long as he acted like he knew nothing, it had nothing to do with him.

As long as he left Mo Yan in the elevator—they barely knew each other, after all.

If he just made it home, life would go back to normal. His cousin would still beg him to play with her, and during the holidays he’d go back to his parents’ house, eat his mother’s cooking, have a drink with his father, and chat about recent events.

He had his own reasons to live.

Why should he be the one to die for someone else?

The elevator descended, and Mu Yu got to his feet, no longer looking at Mo Yan slumped in the corner.

His reflection on the elevator wall was a mess—sweaty, disheveled, looking more like a refugee than anything else.

Soon, he’d be able to escape, return to his old life.

It would all be over.

He watched the elevator doors open, his bedraggled figure reflected as the doors slid apart, then fading away.

Sunlight spilled into the elevator, warm and peaceful.

He stepped out, his shoe tapping crisply on the marble floor.

But he didn’t take a second step.

The elevator beeped insistently, detecting an obstruction at the doors, the sound echoing through the empty lobby.

Mu Yu looked toward the main entrance. Just beyond the doors, he could see scattered people being hurried out, escorted by soldiers.

That door was like the threshold in Dante’s Inferno, dividing hell from the world of the living.

Here was hell; out there, the realm of men.

A bright figure seemed to notice him, peering curiously his way and speaking to a soldier, perhaps to let them know someone was still inside.

Mu Yu squinted, but couldn’t make out her face.

He waved, a gesture that could have been a greeting—or a farewell.

Turning back, he pulled the pistol from Mo Yan’s hand and hurried deeper into the hospital. There was nothing heroic in his stride—he was so exhausted, he could barely keep upright.

Zhan Tai watched that blurry figure disappear with curiosity, before being ushered away by the soldier, merging into the crowd.

Room 1929’s hospital bed.

The man in the photograph smiled radiantly. Below, his name was written in neat script for easy identification by the staff:

“Mu Yu, 22, no history of allergies.”