The hum of the market thickened as Kaodin and Cee-Too stepped out from Mr. Qiran's office.
The corridor spilled into the main plaza — a wide circular hub alive with barter calls, neon reflections, and the scent of oil and roasted grain.
Cee-Too walked ahead, waving the stamped trade slip. "Another job done," he said, voice light. "Qiran's lectures are longer than a radiation storm."
Kaodin smiled faintly but said nothing. His mind lingered on the merchant's words — trade survives only when people trust each other.
Maybe it wasn't just about business. Maybe it was about how the world should work.
He barely had time to finish the thought when a sound cut through the noise — a sharp, frightened cry.
Across the plaza, the usual rhythm of chatter fractured into harsh laughter.
A small crowd shifted uneasily as a cluster of boys — older scavenger brats Kaodin had seen hanging near the lower docks — had cornered a frail girl no older than him.
One shoved her hard enough that a glass bottle slipped from her bag and shattered, shards scattering across the metal floor like a ring of broken stars.
The girl crouched down quickly, one hand over a bleeding knee, the other clutching her torn paper bag of fruit.
Under the flickering neon haze, her hair glimmered black with a sheen like wet ink, and her eyes — impossible green, sharp even through tears — caught the light like emerald flame.
Her skin was too fair, too unmarred for someone who'd lived long in the outer districts. It made her stand out, and in a place like this, standing out was a sin.
Heat rose behind Kaodin's ribs — a pulse of instinct, the same hum that used to spark before a fight. He could almost feel Qi stirring beneath his skin, flickering like the glow of anger made flesh.
"Hey," Cee-Too hissed, grabbing his sleeve. "Don't start. Not here. Not in front of all these people."
Kaodin didn't move. His eyes locked on the fat boy at the front — Bram, Daren's son.
Behind him, the thin one with the squint — Seth, Garo's kid — snickered and elbowed a friend. Like father, like son: greed bred cruelty here as easily as trade bred trust.
Kaodin's voice came out quiet, steadier than he felt.
"You pick on girls now? That's what makes you brave?"
The laughter faltered.
He stepped closer, each word measured — the echo of Qiran's calm in his tone.
"You know, where I'm from, people who hurt girls don't get bragging rights. You want to fight? Pick someone your size. Hitting the weak — that's cowardice."
Bram smirked. "Tsk. What a nuisance—"
Before the word nuisance even finished leaving his lips, a thunderous motion tore through the air.
Kaodin moved — or rather, the world moved around him.
To the onlookers, it was impossible to follow. One moment he was ten paces away; the next, the wind exploded in a swirling rush as if the air itself recoiled from his speed.
Papers and dust spun upward, wrapping the scene in spirals of motion.
Cee-Too's optics flickered, recalibrating in disbelief. No data could track that transition.
And then — silence.
Kaodin now stood before Bram, so close the bully could see his reflection trembling in the boy's eyes.
But Kaodin wasn't angry anymore.
The pulse that had surged through him — the wild red hum of fury — began to still.
His breath slowed. His heart, once a drum of battle rhythm, softened into something… calm.
Because in that moment, through the chaos and the dust, he saw her.
The girl — Liara — looked up from where she knelt, her green eyes shimmering through the haze like light refracting through rain. Her dark hair framed her face in soft strands, carrying the scent of wind and iron and something faintly floral — something human. Her expression, half fear and half gratitude, held him still more effectively than any strike could have.
Kaodin felt the Qi in his chest respond — not flaring, but flowing. The heat subsided, replaced by a strange cool clarity that spread outward, pulse by pulse, like ripples on still water.
Be like water…
The phrase surfaced in his mind from nowhere — or perhaps from somewhere deeper, a whisper of the past he couldn't remember.
For the first time since awakening in this age, Kaodin's power didn't burn. It breathed.
His stance eased; his shoulders loosened. The air around him, once vibrating with tension, quieted into balance.
Even the faint red shimmer that had lingered around his form began to dim — replaced by the softest flicker of pale blue, visible only for an instant, then gone.
He didn't notice. But Cee-Too did.
His sensors caught the wavelength shift — a flicker of light unlike any energy signature he'd recorded before.
Bram stepped back, pale and shaking. Whatever courage he had dissolved in the weight of Kaodin's calm.
The silence was heavier than violence.
Kaodin spoke again — his voice no longer edged, but steady, deep, and still as running water.
"Listen. If I see you hurt her — or anyone like her — again, you'll regret it. Not tomorrow. Not later. Now."
No one moved.
Even the marketplace seemed to hold its breath.
Then, like a spell breaking, Bram and his friends turned and ran — stumbling, shouting, desperate to escape that impossible stillness that had wrapped the plaza like mist.
As the last of the bullies vanished into the crowd, the hum of life slowly returned — cautious, curious, as if the settlement itself wasn't sure what it had just witnessed.
Kaodin stood still for a heartbeat longer, his breathing even, the pulse within him smooth and cool.
He glanced at his hands — steady now, no tremor, no heat — and exhaled.
Then he looked toward her.
Liara was already rising, one hand pressed gently to her bandaged knee. The faint glow from the overhead neon caught her features again — lashes wet, cheeks flushed, eyes too vivid for this gray world.
Kaodin didn't understand why, but something about her presence quieted the storm inside him.
She wasn't power. She wasn't threat.
She was balance.
And without realizing it, that fragile calm — that new rhythm — began to etch itself into his Qi, the first seed of the power that one day would flow not in flame, but in light and water.
A low grr–rrr broke the quiet.
For a heartbeat, Kaodin thought it came from someone behind him — until the ache in his stomach betrayed him.
He clutched it with a grimace. Great. Haven't eaten since dawn. Perfect timing.
Cee-Too caught the look and grinned. "There it is — heroism powered by empty stomachs."
"Shut up," Kaodin muttered, ears pink.
The girl bent to gather her scattered groceries. Her hands shook as she lifted bruised fruit and cracked bottles from the ground.
Kaodin crouched beside her, helping her pick up each piece.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "We didn't get to you fast enough."
She blinked, startled, then met his eyes. The flickering neon caught her tears — turning them to tiny lights on her lashes.
"How impolite of me," she said softly, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it. "My name is Liara. And… thank you. Both of you."
Her voice wavered on the last word, and the dam broke. "Except for my parents… no one's ever been this kind to me."
Kaodin froze. He could face raiders and scavengers — but not crying girls.
He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "My mom used to say being kind to a girl isn't weakness. Guess it's the only advice I ever remembered right."
It didn't help. She cried harder.
Cee-Too gave him a look — part pity, part amusement. "Smooth," he mouthed.
"Hey, Liara, right?" Kaodin crouched lower, voice gentler. "I'm Kaodin. Got separated from my parents during an attack months ago."
He gestured toward his friend. "And this is Cee-Too — my partner in scavenging. Also my babysitter, apparently."
Cee-Too saluted. "Professional babysitter. Very affordable rates."
Liara laughed — small, unsteady, but real.
"Let's be friends," Kaodin said. "If you ever need help, you can rely on us."
Her eyes widened, green brightening through tears. "Really? You'd… be my friends?"
"Of course," Cee-Too said warmly. "You'll find no better scavenger support network in the sector."
Kaodin smiled. "When I find my parents, I'll tell them about you too, Liara."
She sniffed, smiling through the remnants of tears. Kaodin fumbled in his pocket and found a square of cloth — the one he used to wipe sweat during training. He hesitated, sniffed it once — clean enough — and handed it to her.
"Here," he said. "You can keep it."
She accepted it gently, fingers brushing his. "The first gift from a friend," she murmured. "I'll treasure it. Thank you, Kaodin."
His ears burned crimson. "It's really nothing."
Then her stomach gave a quiet rumble. Or maybe it was his again.
Cee-Too snorted. "Great. You've got a duet now."
Liara covered her mouth, laughing — soft, crystalline, and warm against the static buzz of the plaza.
"If you don't mind," she said shyly, "would you both come to my home for dinner? My father loves meeting new people. And… we have plenty to share."
Cee-Too grinned. "You heard the lady."
Kaodin hesitated, still embarrassed. "If it's no trouble."
"None at all," she said, her smile bright under the flickering neon. "You helped me — it's the least I can do."
The three of us left the plaza behind, winding through the sun-bleached alleys where market chatter faded into the low hum of wind turbines. The air grew cooler the farther we went, carrying the scent of dust and machine oil.
Liara led the way, her steps light, green bag cradled against her chest. From behind, the hem of her faded dress fluttered in rhythm with the wind—graceful, but weathered, like everything in this world.
"So, where do you live?" Cee-Too asked.
"Just up that ridge," she said, pointing toward a slope where the ruins thinned and patches of moss and cracked solar tiles covered the ground. "Our home used to be a maintenance station. My father rebuilt it himself."
"Your father sounds capable," I said.
She smiled proudly. "He is. He's a machinist. Fixes old-world generators, trade drones, anything that still breathes electricity. He says one day, power will flow again like it did before the Collapse."
We reached a small compound at the ridge—half stone, half steel, the walls patched with scavenged plates. A faded sign still clung to the front:
METRO UTILITY NODE 14-K.
Liara keyed a worn panel beside the door. The old lock hissed, stuttering before opening with a reluctant click.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of oil, herbs, and warm tea. A few lamps glowed amber, powered by salvaged cells that hummed like bees.
"Father! I'm home," she called. "And I brought guests!"
A metallic clatter echoed from the back. A moment later, a tall man emerged from behind a stack of machinery, wiping his hands with a rag. His beard was streaked with silver, his skin tanned and marked with old burn scars. One of his eyes shone faintly blue—the glint of a cybernetic lens.
The residential quarters were nestled deep in the heart of the archive complex—a spiraling structure of glass and copper conduits humming softly with preserved knowledge.
"Guests?" a deep voice rumbled from inside, curious but cautious. "You know that's not usually—"
Then he saw us: two boys standing awkwardly in his doorway, dusty and wide-eyed.
Liara smiled brightly. "This is Kaodin. And this is Cee-Too. They helped me at the market."
The man's expression softened instantly. He gave a respectful nod. "Then I owe you my thanks. Name's Wanchai."
He ushered us in and poured recycled tea into mismatched cups. The faint scent of lime drifted up with the steam.
"We saw some brats around our age hurting her," I blurted out. "My mother taught me to always be kind to girls, so when I saw her hurt, I couldn't just walk away."
Mr. Wanchai's eyes softened. "You've done me a kindness, boy. Not all children here show compassion to those born… different."
Kaodin tilted his head. Different?
That word—different—kept circling in my head. Finally, I couldn't help but ask.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Wanchai, but when you said 'different'… I'm not sure I understand."
The old man's smile faltered slightly. So this must be the boy Zhang Bo mentioned, he thought—the one who carries the teachings of the old world, the one who stirs unseen forces when moved or provoked.
"I see," he said aloud. "You're the new boy who got separated from your family after the raiders' attack, right? No wonder you don't know about Liara's condition."
He folded his hands, the wrinkles at his knuckles catching the lamplight. "Liara carries a genetic heritage few can understand. Before the Great Calamity, some wealthy families sought perfection through genetic cultivation. For generations, they designed their offspring in controlled environments—shaping beauty, intellect, and strength at the genetic level. No crude implants. No wires. Just selective design."
He looked toward his daughter, his voice softening. "But history shows that even a speck of dust—an accident of fate—can ripple through time and change everything. Humanity always tries to surpass nature… to challenge the gods."
He sighed, brushing his greying hair back. "Ah, what am I doing, talking about this to two ten-year-old boys?"
"In simple words," he continued gently, "Liara carries what the old world once called designer lineage — the result of centuries of genetic cultivation. Long before the Collapse, the elite sought to perfect their offspring. They called it 'Project Ascendancy.' Beauty without flaw, intellect without limit, empathy without defect."
"my family tried to bend the natural order. And the price is that my daughter must bear the burden."
He paused, then lowered his voice. "You must have noticed—her beauty, like her mother's, is unparalleled. Almost angelic. Her mind, brilliant beyond her years. But the cost of such perfection… is fragility. Her heart is weak, her body deteriorating. She spends hours each week in a cultivation chamber just to keep her condition stable."
Silence filled the room for a moment—only the hum of the conduits and the faint clinking of dishes from the kitchen.
I hesitated, staring at my reflection in the tea. "Mr. Wanchai…" I said softly. "If it was humans who caused it—making her suffer before she was even born—then maybe… somewhere out there, someone could know how to undo it, right? Someone who understands how to fix her fragile body or teach her how to caltivate her own body, strengthening her fragile parts?"
Wanchai froze, his hand tightening slightly around his cup. The light flickered against his tired eyes.
"You speak like a dreamer," he said at last, his voice thick with both sorrow and hope. "Perhaps that's a good thing. Once, the world was full of people who believed in impossible cures. But these days… belief itself has become a rare medicine."
"I still believe," I said quietly. "If there's even one chance—one place in this world that holds that knowledge—I'll find it, I want to help her."
Cee-Too nodded firmly beside me. "Yeah. We're scavenger trainees. So if you or Liara ever need anything from the outside, we'll go. Even if it's on the other side of the continent."
Mr. Wanchai blinked rapidly, then cleared his throat with a weak laugh. "Ah—sorry, boys. Must be the chili powder. Liara likes her food extra spicy. Always makes my eyes and throat sting."
I smiled. "Guess our eyes and throats got used to sandstorms, sir. We can handle the spice."
At that, Liara peeked her face through the kitchen curtain, cheeks pink. "Papa…"
Cee-Too grinned. "She seems fine to me."
Kaodin nodded. "She's stronger than she looks."
Liara blushed deeper, hiding a small smile behind her hand. And for a heartbeat, laughter — real and unguarded — filled the room.
Wanchai leaned back, eyes moist but warm. "Thank you, boys," he said quietly. "You've given an old man something rarer than data or relics — a reason to believe again."
For a brief moment, the hum of the settlement outside seemed to fade away.
Inside that modest home, among relics of the past and the scent of tea and chili, time itself seemed to hesitate — holding its breath around them.
And Kaodin, feeling the faint pulse of warmth and life through the floor beneath him, silently vowed:
I'll find the cure. Before her light fades, I'll make sure she has more than borrowed time.
The professor's home sat tucked within the quieter quarter of the settlement — a reinforced prefab dwelling grafted into the side of an old subway tunnel. From the outside, it looked like any other—gray walls, patched steel, and humming solar panels.
But once the sliding door opened, Kaodin stepped into another world.
The air inside was warm, dry, and faintly scented of dust and old paper. Every wall was lined with shelves of forgotten things — relics from before the Collapse.
Stacks of vinyl records filled one corner, their sleeves yellowed and cracked, each etched with the faces of long-dead artists from every nation: Radiohead, Teresa Teng, Pantera, Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, X Japan, Carabao, and so much more…
Beside them sat film negatives curled in glass cases, movie reels, and handwritten manuscripts, their ink faded but alive with history.
A century's worth of ancient books and oil portraits leaned together like ghosts of a vanished culture — things no trader would waste a ration chip on anymore.
Cee-Too brushed a finger across a record jacket. "These are… real? Not prints?"
Uncle Wanchai smiled faintly. "They're what's left of when humanity loved creation more than possession."
He adjusted his glasses, gesturing toward a rusted phonograph in the corner. "People today chase what they can't hold — blockchain, encrypted currencies, simulated art that exists only in servers."
He turned toward Kaodin. "But here… these are memories you can touch. Fragile, imperfect, yet real."
Kaodin's eyes drifted across the room, taking in the strange collection — vinyl, reels, books, and artifacts whose purpose he barely understood.
Words like blockchain, encrypted currency, and simulated art meant nothing to him, yet he dared not ask. Revealing his ignorance might expose more than confusion — it might unravel the secret of who, or when, he truly was.
So instead, he simply nodded, pretending to follow, and let his gaze wander through the professor's treasure trove of time.
He moved closer to a row of aging projectors, their surfaces cracked and dust-caked, like relics from another civilization.
Uncle Wanchai pressed a switch, and the machines awoke with a low hum — sputtering light and static until an image resolved before them.
A projection flickered to life: a grainy black-and-white photograph of an airplane mid-flight, frozen against a backdrop of clouds. The number "914" was faintly visible along its tail.
Kaodin stared for a while before speaking, his tone hesitant but edged with quiet intensity.
"Professor… in all these old records you've kept," he asked, "have you ever come across stories of people… disappearing? And then showing up again—years later, unchanged?"
Uncle Wanchai looked at him, intrigued. "That's a very particular question."
"Just curiosity," Kaodin replied quickly, his gaze fixed on the image. "I've heard things… fragments. Like rumors."
The old man's eyes softened, then he turned back to the projection.
"There were stories," he said at last. "Scattered reports from the old world. Ships vanishing at sea, planes returning decades later, their passengers untouched by time. Dismissed as myths—yet too consistent to ignore."
He adjusted the lens, bringing the photograph into sharper focus.
"This one," he said quietly, "was one of them. Flight 914. Reported missing in 1955… and reappeared forty years later. Every soul aboard alive and unaged."
Cee-Too frowned. "That's—"
"Impossible?" Uncle Wanchai finished, smiling faintly. "So people said. But history has a habit of repeating its impossibilities."
Kaodin's chest tightened as he stared at the frozen plane on the wall.
Something in the hum of the projector seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat—steady, faint, and unnervingly familiar.
Then, for a brief second, the light stuttered.
A ripple ran across the projection, warping the image as if time itself wavered.
The photograph blurred—then steadied again—while the old projector emitted a faint metallic whine.
Uncle Wanchai tapped the side of the device, frowning softly. "These old circuits react strangely sometimes. The power lines in this district are… temperamental."
But Kaodin wasn't sure it was the wiring. He could feel it—the faint vibration crawling up his arms, the same inner pulse that had saved his life before.
A resonance, like his breath was syncing with something vast and invisible—something alive.
Uncle Wanchai noticed his expression. "You felt that, didn't you?"
Kaodin hesitated. "Maybe. Just static."
"Hmm." The professor smiled faintly, though his eyes gleamed with quiet interest. "Static can be many things, young man. Sometimes… it's the universe trying to remember itself."
He turned off the projector, the image dissolving into darkness.
The room seemed to exhale—a deep silence settling in its place.
And beneath that silence, deep under the floor where Thorium reactors hummed in quiet cycles, a pulse traveled—small, unnoticed.
A warning of what was to come.
The faint hum of the projector faded, replaced by the soft clatter of dishes from the adjoining room.
"Papa," the girl called gently, "the stew's ready."
Uncle Wanchai smiled, setting the dusty film reel aside. "Ah, yes—our modest reward for guests brave enough to listen to my rambling."
He led them into the dining alcove — a narrow space where sunlight filtered through cracked skylights above, casting golden beams over the table. The air carried the scent of simmering roots and broth, seasoned with recycled salt and herbs grown in hydro pods along the wall.
Cee-Too's eyes widened the moment the lids were lifted from the steaming bowls.
"Whoa… real vegetables and meat?"
Liara laughed softly, her cheeks tinged pink. "Papa says old seeds still remember how to grow if you listen to them right."
Uncle Wanchai grinned at her words, pride glinting faintly in his cybernetic eye.
"For a special occasion like this," he said warmly, "meeting two young boys who might one day help rebuild what the world lost — we can afford to share a bit of our best stock. Some of our homegrown greens and a few cuts of traded meat. Eat well, boys. Liara will be thrilled to keep your bowls full for seconds — maybe thirds."
Liara ducked her head shyly but smiled, ladling soup into each bowl with careful hands. The aroma filled the small room — lemongrass, chili, lime leaves — sharp and tender all at once.
Kaodin leaned forward unconsciously, drawn in by the fragrance. The first sip hit him like a wave of memory.
The sour heat, the slow rise of spice, the faint sweetness in the broth — it was home.
His chest tightened as the flavor spread through him, warming every nerve. For a moment, the world outside the dome — the wasteland, the ruins, the dust — vanished. In its place was a kitchen from a memory long buried: his mother's laughter, the scent of boiling herbs, the sting of chili that made his eyes water and his heart steady.
Kaodin coughed lightly, blinking as tears of spice and emotion welled up.
Cee-Too burst into laughter beside him, his own eyes watering as he fanned his mouth. "H-hot! Oh, that's serious fire!"
Uncle Wanchai looked bewildered for a moment — then laughed heartily, the sound rumbling like something he hadn't done in years. Liara froze mid-motion, spoon in hand, before breaking into a fit of soft giggles herself.
"Sorry—" Kaodin managed between coughs and laughter. "It's just… it's been so long since I've tasted something that feels like home. My mother used to make Tom Yum just like this. Same spice, same warmth."
He took another spoonful, smiling through the heat. "It's perfect. Authentic. Real Thai flavor — I didn't think I'd ever taste it again."
Liara's eyes widened, surprise giving way to quiet delight. "You really think so? I only learned from my father's old recipe files. Most people here can't handle my level of spice."
Kaodin chuckled, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Then they're missing out. The flavor… it's alive. It burns, but it soothes."
[Still, if we could somehow later enable the cultivation of the authentic jasmine rice back using some sort of this era's technological advancement, that would definitely be the best, it would surely benefit her in exploring deeper to the various multiple Thai dishes that best incorporating with Jasmine and then the authentic Thai food would finally be returned to the world's civilization again]
Uncle Wanchai smirked. "That's my girl. Her mother would've been proud — she loved her food with fire."
The warmth in the room deepened. Kaodin caught Liara's gaze across the table, and for the briefest second, time seemed to slow again — the same quiet rhythm he'd felt when she first looked up at him in the market.
There was something in her eyes, a gentleness that softened everything sharp in him.
When the moment broke, he looked down, flustered. "I'd… I'd love to taste more sometime. If that's not too much trouble."
Liara smiled — not bashful this time, but confident in that quiet, radiant way of hers. "Then it's a promise. Next time, I'll make it even better."
Cee-Too groaned playfully. "Next time, maybe warn me first., how my stomach would reacts later tonight"
Laughter filled the room again, bright and unguarded. Even Uncle Wanchai leaned back, eyes shimmering from the spice — or perhaps something deeper.
He poured water from a ceramic jug, the simple gesture grounding the warmth that hung between them, offering the cup to Kaodin and Cee-Too, "The body that works deserves the first drink."
Kaodin and Cee-Too took it with both hands, still smiling. "Thank you… Uncle Wanchai."
The older man blinked, a faint flicker of surprise crossing his face before softening into a genuine grin. "Ah, you said it naturally. Good. 'Professor' sounds too much like the old world anyway — and it's long gone. 'Uncle' will do."
"Then Uncle it is," Cee-Too said brightly.
Kaodin nodded, glancing at Liara, who was still quietly smiling as she refilled their bowls. "Yes… Uncle Wanchai."
And as the night settled around them, the scent of chili and lemongrass lingered in the air like an old memory — a promise that even in this fractured world, warmth could still be found in the simplest of things: a shared meal, a new bond, and a taste that reminded him he was still alive.