Chapter 21 – Starlit Night

“Before entering Snowscape, all of us will design an Anchor Point for ourselves. Once we come into contact with this Anchor Point, it will awaken part of our consciousness—enough for experienced and skilled technicians like us to know what we should do,” the technician said with a shrug, joking, “For example, my fixed Anchor Point is toasted sesame cakes. Haha.”

Toasted sesame cakes, a specialty pastry from Xue City. Meng Yi never expected such a tall, robust man would choose toasted sesame cakes as his Anchor Point.

He set down his pen and said, “I’m familiar with this—it’s a dream totem, right? They mentioned it in Inception¹A 2010 sci-fi movie starring Leonardo DiCaprio, which also deals with dreams and has an anchor, a “totem.” It’s a physical object that lets the person know they’re inside someone else’s dream because it behaves differently in the dream world than it does in reality.!”

Xu Anran said softly, “Officer Meng is very sharp too. However, the difference between an Anchor Point and a dream totem is that the Anchor Point is meant to awaken the subject’s consciousness, making you lucid within Snowscape. After all, ordinary people can’t be like in the movies, knowing exactly what they should or shouldn’t do within Snowscape. Perhaps with rigorous training in the future, it might be possible—this is also our next research direction—but for now, it’s not achievable.”

Meng Yi organized his notes. He roughly understood: when entering Snowscape, a person would be in a state of disorientation, possessing only the coded memories loaded by Blizzard. Only when they encountered the so-called “Anchor Point” could part of their consciousness be awakened, allowing them to begin executing their task.

His interest in Blizzard suddenly peaked.

The technician continued, supplementing Xu Anran’s explanation: “One last thing to remind everyone—don’t focus too much on physical appearances in Snowscape. You’ve all heard of the ‘Zhuangzi Dreams of a Butterfly’ parable, right? The ethereal nature of dreams allows one to transform into a butterfly. When we dream, we don’t always dream of our own stories. So, appearances are a rather meaningless reference point in Snowscape.”

Qin Yuezhang nodded in agreement. People are actually the least familiar with their own appearances—idealizing or overlooking details is a normal phenomenon.

Soon, the presentation concluded, and amid the applause, the technician bowed slightly before taking his seat with a smile.

Xu Anran stood up and returned to the front, introducing the technician again: “Gu Lanshan is one of our company’s most outstanding technicians, and he will also participate in this operation. With his expertise, I believe the task will be completed quickly.”

Gu Lanshan nodded to the crowd.

Lu Anchi hesitated, “But I think—”

Before he could finish, Xu Anran already knew what he wanted to say and continued, “This operation is our assistance to the police, so we welcome representatives from law enforcement to oversee it. However, I hope the number won’t be too large. As a cutting-edge technology, Blizzard is not only expensive to activate each time, but our technicians also won’t have the capacity to guide too many newcomers in Snowscape.”

With this assurance, Lu Anchi felt at ease.

No one could predict what might happen in that “Snowscape.” Without their own people present, he wouldn’t feel secure.

Meng Yi’s eyes sparkled as he straightened up and volunteered: “Master, Mr. Xu! What do you think of me?”

The crowd was amused by the young man’s naive enthusiasm and couldn’t help but laugh.

In this familiar place, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep.

The dormitory’s facilities were truly lacking. Every time I turned over, the bed beneath me creaked and groaned like an old man hiding under the bed, keeping time for this grand act of rolling over.

“Qin Yuezhang, you still awake?”

I heard Yan Ru’s voice—low and magnetic, like a hook in the dark night.

I replied quietly, “No, I can’t sleep.”

“Me neither… Want to go for a walk?”

It was a good suggestion, and I happily agreed.

Though there were no city lights here, the brilliance of the night stars was ample compensation. The best nights for stargazing were moonless ones, just like tonight.

Xue City’s elevation was slightly higher, and in July and August, the Milky Way could still be seen. Many people ventured deep into the mountains, carrying heavy equipment, their necks weighed down by bulky black camera lenses.

I had seen such nightscapes countless times and didn’t find them particularly special. Yan Ru sat quietly beside me, his head slightly tilted back, elbows resting on the steps behind him.

“Qin Yuezhang, honestly, I still feel a sense of unreality.”

My heart skipped a beat. Tentatively, I asked, “What do you mean?”

Yan Ru’s voice was soft: “Isn’t it incredible that we survived such a severe and terrifying disaster?”

The air carried the scent of earth and smoke. I replied, “This world is full of absurd and ridiculous things.”

“You’re in a bad mood?”

Few people ever cared about my emotions. I wasn’t sure if it was a psychologist’s instinct that made him so perceptive or if everyone had such insight.

(T/N: Remember, they’re switched when they’re inside the dream. In real he’s Yan Ru, in the dream he’s Qin Yuezhang. At first, even their names are switched when the author refers to them, later, the names switch back even inside the dream after certain events. It’s easier to keep track if you keep in mind that the one who speaks in first person narrative is always the son of the murderer, regardless of name.)

I lay back as well, shoulder-to-shoulder with Yan Ru. Pointing at the stars in the night sky, I asked, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Yan Ru nodded. “Not bad.”

“Maybe that star has already died,” I said coldly. “What we’re seeing now is just the last desperate burst of light from that distant star before its destruction. It traveled thousands, millions, billions of light-years to reach us. But in reality, this is just the image of its death from thousands, millions, billions of years ago.”

“You’re so pessimistic.”

“Weren’t you the one who said it felt unreal? I was just following your lead.”

Yan Ru fell silent for a moment before saying, “Humans grieve when they observe a star that has already died, but this emotion is just their own assumption and self-indulgence. For the star itself, the fact that it once existed is the only truth.”

I nudged him with my elbow. “I was just playing along, and now you’re getting philosophical on me?”

Yan Ru chuckled softly.

A faint breeze rustled through the banyan tree, sounding like tiny insects scurrying anxiously in the dark for survival.

I asked, “What about you? You don’t care about others’ opinions either? Even if you’re misunderstood, you just dismiss it as their assumption and self-indulgence?”

Yan Ru paused. “Do others’ opinions really matter?”

“Don’t they?”

“It’s hard to change how others see you. All you can do is hold onto your own truth.”

I was taken aback and fell silent.

No one had ever said such a thing to me before.

Don’t care about others’ opinions? But I grew up surrounded by others’ “opinions.”

For someone like him, a golden child, perhaps all he ever received from others was admiration and envy. That’s why he could so easily say he didn’t care.

I couldn’t help but think, with a hint of malice, what if our roles were reversed? If he were the one mocked, excluded, humiliated, and cursed—would he still be able to calmly say such things?

My elbow, still pressed against Yan Ru’s side, didn’t move away. He didn’t shift either—in fact, he subtly inched closer. He probably thought I didn’t notice, but I just didn’t bother to mention it, nor did I care to guess his intentions.

I thought back to when we were trapped under the train wreckage, pressed tightly together, relying on each other for survival.

A ridiculous thought suddenly crossed my mind. If only there really was someone I could depend on like that.

Then maybe what happened afterward wouldn’t have occurred.

But how could that be? Even if such a person existed, it wouldn’t be him.

This was all just a dream, a deception I orchestrated. Once he woke up, he’d look at me again with anger and contempt.

As the night deepened, we lay there quietly for who knows how long before Yan Ru finally nudged me and said, “Let’s go back to sleep. Tomorrow’s Monday—we have class.”

“Okay…” I sat up, then suddenly realized something was off and turned to stare at him. “What did you say?”

Yan Ru’s eyes, gleaming like spring water in the dark, met mine. “Go back to sleep. We have to get up early for class tomorrow.”

Class? What… what’s going on with him?

Suppressing my confusion, I followed him as he stood up from the steps and dusted himself off.

I didn’t want to say anything that might alert Yan Ru, so I simply went back to the dormitory with him.

Gu Lanshan’s snores had gradually quieted, though occasionally one would burst out like thunder, startlingly abrupt. After a while, I found a rhythm to them and actually managed to fall asleep.

Those questions could wait until tomorrow, when I’d ask Gu Lanshan—this “technician.” As long as he didn’t discover our secret, didn’t find out about me and Qin Yuezhang, I wouldn’t lose the upper hand.

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  A 2010 sci-fi movie starring Leonardo DiCaprio, which also deals with dreams and has an anchor, a “totem.” It’s a physical object that lets the person know they’re inside someone else’s dream because it behaves differently in the dream world than it does in reality.