Chapter 4
The road was uneven and the ride was jarring, plumes of dust billowing outside the windows. Even sealed inside the airtight cabin, Chu Ya could still smell the earthy scent of churned soil.
His eyes swept past the rearview mirror, catching what looked like a tiny dark shadow tumbling to the ground. But when he twisted around to look, the rear window was already obscured by dense clouds of dust.
“This area sits right on the edge of the Aisala Special District, so it’s always choked with dust. It gets much better a bit further ahead. Still, our inspection mission is officially complete, and now we’re heading to the Tuta Conduit to return to Cloud Peak.” Sitting beside him, Colonel Gu turned toward Chu Ya with a hint of a smile in his voice. “Can’t wait to go back, can you?”
“It’s fine,” Chu Ya answered, turning back and leaning quietly against the seat back.
The convoy rolled forward several hundred meters. The road grew damp, the dust outside vanished, and his field of vision cleared.
Chu Ya looked out to the right. In the distance stood a murky gray mountain range—presumably Mount Keke. On the other side of those mountains lay Keke Town, the residential district of the Aisala Special District.
“Cousin, aren’t we going to Keke Town?”
“No, we aren’t.”
Chu Ya asked in confusion, “Father said we were supposed to inspect the entirety of the Aisala Special District. Why aren’t we going to Keke Town?”
Colonel Gu replied offhandedly, “We’d have to skirt all the way around the mountains, and we’re out of time. We already inspected the orphanage and the mines on this side. Can those orphans and laborers not represent the Abyss’s Aisala Special District?”
A pair of bright, dark eyes abruptly floated into Chu Ya’s mind, followed by a filthy little face.
He remembered the dirty kid bundled in that ill-fitting, oversized cotton coat, shivering violently from the cold while bellowing out that song. And standing on the sports ground, watching the two selected children being led away with profound grief etched across his face, mouth wide open in silent tears.
“By the way, why did you take those two children?” Chu Ya asked.
Colonel Gu looked down at the notifications on his communicator. “They’ve already entered their differentiation period and will soon become a Sentinel and a Guide. They certainly can’t be left behind in the Abyss.”
Chu Ya knew full well how precious Sentinels and Guides were; Cloud Peak would never allow them to languish in the Abyss. Still, he pressed on, “Can regular children who haven’t entered differentiation be chosen for Cloud Peak?”
“How could that be possible? In fact, it isn’t just the orphanage—anyone across the Abyss who enters differentiation gets brought up to Cloud Peak. It’s just that the other sectors and cities are too far away, so Cloud Peak can only look after the Aisala Special District area.” Colonel Gu emphasized his words, “Only those who have entered their differentiation period.”
Chu Ya pressed his lips together, asking no more.
The convoy continued forward. To the left of the road, the open wasteland gave way to a sprawl of derelict buildings. Though their structural frames appeared intact, they bore the deep scars of wind and rain—gloomy, dark gray, like a vast smear of blackened asphalt.
Drawing closer, one could make out clearly defined streets between the buildings. Fallen metal lampposts lay sprawled across cracked asphalt, and rows of shops lined the thoroughfares, many still bearing faded signs that showed this place had once been a bustling town.
Yet the town was entirely deserted. Barbed wire fences stretched as far as the eye could see, penning the entire settlement in.
“This used to be Mixin Town. Later on, it became known as the Mixin Dead Town. There’s a massive junkyard on the edge of the settlement where waste from both Cloud Peak and the Abyss gets sent for disposal.” Colonel Gu looked in that direction as well.
“The Mixin Dead Town?” Chu Ya looked at the skull symbol printed on the barbed wire, warning against unauthorized entry.
“You should know that in the past, the Morna Republic didn’t have the Abyss and Cloud Peak. Everyone lived on the very same continent.” Colonel Gu pointed toward the floorboards beneath their feet. “Right where we are standing now.”
Chu Ya said, “I know. A plague swept across the continent, claiming countless lives and ruining the soil so crops could no longer be eaten. Cloud Peak is a floating city built only fifteen years ago; its soil was purified so crops could be grown, which is why a portion of the population moved up. The abandoned continent left behind became known as the Abyss.”
“Indeed, and so the Abyss grew increasingly desolate.” Colonel Gu nodded. “Twenty years ago, Mixin Town was bustling, packed with people. Beyond the town lay open pastures where countless fine horses were raised. Further out lay mountains and the sea; crossing them brought you to Lin’ya City.”
“How did it compare to Keke Town on the other side of the mountains?”
Colonel Gu shrugged. “Far superior to Keke Town.”
He looked back at Chu Ya, his tone turning somewhat eerie: “Are you wondering why entry into Mixin Town is strictly forbidden? Why the people of Keke Town didn’t move in here? These tall buildings are much nicer than those squalid shacks in Keke Town.”
Chu Ya found Colonel Gu’s expression and tone deeply unsettling, yet he still asked, “Why?”
“Because the entire town was struck by the plague, and almost everyone died… men, women, the elderly, and children. Those sick souls died in excruciating agony, their bodies ulcerating and leaking black fluid, limbs deformed, riddled with tumors large and small. There wasn’t enough ground to bury the dead, so they piled them in the central square to burn. Their ghosts haven’t dissipated to this day, hiding inside those houses, squeezing into the narrow cracks of the sewers. At night, you can still hear their wails and shrieks echoing across the ruins—”
“Enough.” The revulsion in Chu Ya’s chest surged, and he cut Colonel Gu off at once. “Cousin, there is no need to be so graphic.”
Colonel Gu stared fixedly at Chu Ya, suddenly breaking into laughter. “Are you scared?”
“No. I just find it disgusting.” Despite his words, Chu Ya refused to look at those hollow, gaping windows any longer, his fists secretly clenching tight.
“My dear cousin, you really are still a child.” Colonel Gu laughed even harder. “Supposedly, Mixin Town was the ground zero of that plague, which is why so many died. Thus, Mixin Town became the quarantined, sealed-off Mixin Dead Town, and eventually turned into a garbage disposal ground.”
He pointed into the distance again: “Over there is the waste processing plant. Cargo shuttles drop off trash daily, and machines compress it into slag metal blocks to be used as raw material for civilian machinery.”
Chu Ya had already heard all this from his father, but he still asked, “Even though that plague has passed, can people in the Abyss be infected again?”
“As for that…” Gu Lin tilted his head in mock contemplation. “Of course not. If you’re worried, you can go ask Uncle.”
Chu Ya said nothing more, gazing silently out the window.
Before he set out, he had a conversation with his father, Chu Chengyu. After briefing him on various precautions, Chu Chengyu had remarked with sudden sentimentality: “Actually, your mother and I once lived in Keke Town, at Building 75 on Wushan Street. I never had the time to go back and look; I wonder what that house looks like now…”
Unfortunately, he hadn’t made it to Keke Town on this trip, witnessing only the Mixin Dead Town instead.
Half an hour later, the convoy pulled up to a small plaza. Looming outside the window was a towering metallic structure. It rose like a circular spire, its dark outer walls painted with silver cloud patterns, the upper section disappearing into dense fog beyond sight.
“Out you get. We’ve reached the Tuta Conduit,” Colonel Gu said.
Chu Ya stepped out of the vehicle and followed the councilors, who were laughing and bantering, into the tower. Having arrived in the Abyss in the dead of night, he had gone straight to inspect the mines, followed immediately by the orphanage. The schedule had been so rushed that he hadn’t had a chance to observe his surroundings.
This small plaza was heavily fortified, the perimeter walls crowned with electrified fencing, the main gate guarded by two squads of armed soldiers. Yet even so, when Chu Ya glanced at a derelict building outside the plaza, he spotted a line of text painted on an inner wall through a broken window.
—Cloud Peak bastards, you won’t escape hell!
Those words were positioned where people rarely looked, which was why they remained preserved on the wall. Chu Ya had only noticed them while studying the antique architectural style of the window.
He snapped his gaze back, pondering who might have left those words as he followed the others into the Tuta Conduit.
Though referred to as a tower, the Tuta Conduit was actually a massive elevator linking the Abyss to Cloud Peak, serving as the only physical pathway between the two aside from aircraft.
The interior was divided into ascent and descent zones on either side. When Chu Ya’s party reached the ascent zone, the military vehicles they had ridden in were being parked onto the freight lift platform one after another. Once they stepped into the passenger cabin, the elevator let out a low mechanical hum, and the car began to climb rapidly.
“That Director Liu put on quite a spirited welcome ceremony. Well done, indeed.”
“All for the sake of that thousand pounds of mountain yams, wasn’t it? He camps out at the Cloud Peak Resources Department every single day, refusing to leave until food is approved. Looking at him gives me a headache. This time he finally got his hands on it, getting his way at last.”
“He’s not wrong to do so. As the director, he has to find a way to keep the children fed and clothed.”
Amidst the chatter, Council Speaker Wu suddenly addressed the quietly standing Chu Ya: “Young Chu, how did you find your inspection trip to the Abyss?”
Without waiting for Chu Ya to answer, he continued, “When you return, you can write an article about it. Focus on the current state of the children at the orphanage—how they are not only well-fed and warmly clothed, but also culturally enriched, with television, recreational rooms, books, and so forth. Once written, have it published in the periodicals. Oh, let’s title it… The Abyss Through the Eyes of My Twelve-Year-Old Self.”
The others chimed in with chuckles, “Then we shall look forward to admiring Young Master Chu’s article.”
Chu Ya maintained a polite smile, though his heart was a tangled knot of conflicting emotions.
Before his eyes floated the trembling lips of that mine worker: “…I know working in the plant makes me luckier than most, and I don’t ask for much… but if only we could get enough to eat, that would be wonderful…”
And once again, he thought of that filthy child at the orphanage, with his cold-reddened nose and puffy, tear-stained eyes.
Before his departure, his father, Chu Chengyu, had told him with deep significance to observe more and think more once he reached the Abyss.
Yet having walked through it himself, Chu Ya felt he still had no true grasp of what kind of place it really was.
Shen Quanquan was being hauled by the scruff of his collar across the sports ground by an orphanage supervisor, his toes barely skimming the dirt as he bounced along on tiptoe, the square tin box clutched desperately to his chest.
A passing odd-job laborer greeted the supervisor and asked, “What did this kid do?”
“The front gates were left open, and he snuck out.”
Shen Quanquan tilted his head back to defend himself: “I didn’t sneak out! I just ran out, ran back in, and then ran right back out again!”
“Still talking back? How many times has the orphanage told you that leaving the premises on your own is forbidden? No matter how you went out, it counts as leaving without permission!” the supervisor barked.
Shen Quanquan didn’t dare talk back again, but his heart refused to submit, so he hung his head and rolled his eyes at the dirt floor.
The supervisor turned back to the laborer. “Don’t let his size fool you; he’s a repeat offender. Every supervisor in the yard knows him. Admits his mistakes faster than anyone, thicker-skinned than anyone, completely unfazed by punishments, and goes right back to offending the moment he’s let off.”
Shen Quanquan couldn’t resist defending himself once more: “That’s not true! I do get scared! If you don’t let me eat, I get scared!”
“Fine. Then you don’t get lunch today.”
Opposite the dormitories stood a three-story academic building, its ground floor housing two junior-class classrooms. When the supervisor dragged Shen Quanquan into the hallway, the junior students swarmed out of the classrooms in a wave, trailing behind to watch.
“Quanquan, Quanquan,” several roommates whispered in anxious concern, falling dead silent in terror the moment the supervisor glared back.
Knowing he wouldn’t get lunch, Shen Quanquan lost all will to walk. Letting his head and body sag completely limp, he allowed the supervisor to haul him forward, his feet dragging uselessly across the smooth floor.
The tiny room at the far right of the ground floor was the punishment room. Holding him by the collar with one hand, the supervisor tried to shove the door open with the other. But the door wouldn’t budge, prompting him to rattle it roughly.
Hanging his head, Shen Quanquan mumbled listlessly, “The little latch stick for this door is up at the top. You have to take the stick out before you can lock me inside.”
The supervisor glanced up and saw that the sliding bolt was indeed set at the very top.
The punishment room was merely an empty room spanning a few square meters. Once the door swung open, Shen Quanquan walked in on his own, picking a corner of the wall he was well-acquainted with to squat down.
The supervisor stared down at him for several seconds before stating coldly, “Since you broke orphanage rules, you will be locked up until noon. You’ll be let out to eat lunch in two hours.”
“Oh.” Shen Quanquan mumbled his acknowledgment before the realization struck him, his eyes lighting up instantly. “Eat lunch? I get to eat lunch?!”
The supervisor ignored him, reaching out to pull the door shut. Shen Quanquan scrambled to the door at once, pressing his mouth to the crack: “Do I get to eat lunch? Can I really eat lunch?!”
The supervisor didn’t answer, but the cluster of children trailing behind chirped back eagerly, “Yes, yes! You get to eat lunch! We heard it too!”
“Shoo, shoo! All of you get back inside! Anyone who stays out here gets locked up with him!” The supervisor began shooing them away.
Now that lunch was guaranteed, Shen Quanquan’s energy bounced right back. Returning to his corner to sit, he popped open the square tin box.
The contents inside were a jumble—the result of him scrambling against the clock to scoop them up from the road before the supervisor snatched him away. Smoothing out the candy wrappers, small spoon, and plastic vial, he began counting the marbles.
“One, two, three, one… one, two, three, one…”
Refusing to accept defeat, Shen Quanquan counted several times, finally confirming that he was missing a two and a three.
Downcast and miserable, he stared at the tin box for a long while before scrambling to his feet. Hauling the only stool in the room over beneath the small window high on the wall, he climbed up, gripping the iron bars to peer outside.
From here, one could see the road running past the orphanage. He plotted that once his punishment ended, he would sneak out again to search for his lost marbles where he had fallen.
Thinking of that, he naturally thought of that person. That older boy from Cloud Peak who was so incredibly good-looking, and so very, very kind to him.
What Shen Quanquan feared most weren’t the supervisors, but the senior-class kids in the orphanage.
The older kids would steal good things from the younger ones, hit and curse at them, and threaten them not to tell the supervisors.
While not all senior students were like that—most simply ignored the little ones—never had one given him food. And a cloth strip, too.
Shen Quanquan reached into his coat pocket and pulled out that long, slender necktie.
He had never touched fabric so silky and smooth, adorned with such captivating patterns. Extending a stubby finger, he stroked it twice with tender care, then pressed it against his cheek to nuzzle the soft texture. Finally, he draped it around his neck, winding it round and round several times.
The silk tie felt cool against his skin, yet Shen Quanquan felt his entire body grow wonderfully warm.
