Earth, United States — Los Angeles

  By the second week after the great earthquake, sunlight had returned to the city with almost indecent calm. It spilled over fractured streets and skeletal buildings as if nothing had happened. Across entire districts, reconstruction thundered day and night—pile drivers biting into concrete, excavators clawing at debris, the sound of labor echoing like a promise that the city would survive.

  One of the few structures left largely untouched was a hospital on the eastern edge of downtown.

  A moment later, that calm shattered.

  A compact unit in unmarked military gear surged through the main entrance, boots striking tile in perfect cadence. Without breaking stride, they swept up stairwells and corridors, bypassing security and staff alike, and reached the intensive?care ward on the third floor with ruthless efficiency.

  Inside Yan Qing’s room, a blond boy stilled.

  “Someone’s coming.”

  He pressed his ear to the door, head tilted, listening beyond the range of human hearing. In the same breath, he lifted his hand and flashed a crisp military signal toward Lanice.

  The transformation was immediate.

  The childlike softness vanished from his posture. His movements became precise, economical—every shift measured, every gesture stripped of excess. He looked less like a boy now and more like a veteran soldier wearing the wrong body.

  Lanice drew his Desert Eagle and stepped toward the door, muzzle angled low. “Who?”

  “Military,” the boy replied quietly. “Not yours. Sixteen.”

  In his small hand, twin plasma blades shimmered into existence, their edges humming faintly with restrained energy.

  Lanice scanned the room. No cover. No exits worth calling one. Yan Qing lay unconscious on the bed, wired to machines that would become liabilities the moment fighting broke out.

  Resistance here was suicide.

  “I can handle them,” the boy said, blinking up at him. “Do you want me to?”

  Lanice inhaled sharply and nearly choked.

  Please—don’t say something that violent with a face like that.

  He knew better. He knew the child wasn’t human. But the boy barely reached his waist, all pale lashes and doll?perfect features. Every instinct in Lanice screamed that this was wrong—that children should not speak so casually about killing.

  He forced himself to refocus.

  “You contacted Chen,” Lanice said. “How long?”

  The boy thought for a moment. “About five star?ring minutes.”

  Lanice holstered his gun. “Then we wait. Stall if we have to.”

  The boy nodded and dismissed his weapons as easily as they had appeared.

  Outside the door, the approaching unit stopped.

  They waited.

  A strange breeze drifted across the hospital rooftop, stirring dust where there should have been none.

  The air shifted.

  The ward doors slammed open.

  People in the main hall turned toward the sound—and froze.

  Chen entered without hesitation.

  Beside him, Xiao murmured, “Your Majesty… you forgot to activate camouflage.”

  Chen did not slow. “They’ll forget.”

  Xiao followed, silent, suppressing the urge to sigh.

  Ethics could be damned, I guess.

  Three minutes after they vanished down the corridor, the humans blinked, confused, the moment already slipping away from memory. Whatever had drawn their attention no longer mattered. They returned to their tasks; unaware anything had ever been amiss.

  Inside the room, the boy smiled.

  “He’s here.”

  Lanice frowned. “You said five minutes.”

  “If he wants to hurry,” the boy said, already reaching for the door, “it can be less.”

  Lanice caught his arm. “What if the soldiers attack?”

  The boy shrugged. “They stepped out of view.”

  How do you know that?

  Lanice never got the chance to ask. The boy had already leaned into the hallway, waving enthusiastically.

  “Chen! Over here!”

  When the two Teleopeans reached Ward C, they saw him standing there, grinning and utterly unconcerned.

  Chen crossed the threshold—and stopped.

  Yan Qing lay motionless on the bed.

  “Yan Qing…”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Chen was at his side in a heartbeat. His hand brushed Yan Qing’s shoulder, warmth seeping through the thin hospital fabric, and he stilled as if afraid to test the miracle.

  Alive.

  The iron-tight tension that had lived in his chest since the moment Chris’s ship had torn itself apart finally gave way. It collapsed all at once, leaving him breathless, trembling, as if his body had only just remembered how to stand.

  “Chen,” the boy said softly.

  Chen looked up. The child held out a necklace, its chain catching the sterile light of the room. “This was on the bedside table.”

  Chen’s brow furrowed as he took it. The metal was cool against his palm, achingly familiar. “That’s mine,” he said quietly. “It should have been lost—long before I met him.”

  “Then it found its way back,” the boy replied.

  He placed the necklace into Chen’s hand and retreated without another word, slipping back to Lanice and clutching his pant leg with the unconscious trust of any ordinary child, as if nothing extraordinary had just occurred.

  Chen closed his fingers around the necklace, then tucked it away. He leaned down, lowering his forehead, and pressed a gentle kiss to Yan Qing’s closed eyes. His lips lingered there, barely touching.

  “I don’t believe in mysticism,” he murmured, voice rough with something dangerously close to awe. “But you make me reconsider.”

  Yan Qing stirred.

  Dark lashes fluttered, slow and uncertain. His gaze drifted, unfocused, skimming over white light and shadow before finally finding Chen’s face. His brow creased faintly, as though the world were still assembling itself.

  “Chen…?” he whispered.

  “I’m here,” Chen said at once, threading their fingers together. His thumb brushed over Yan Qing’s knuckles, grounding, real. “We’re alive.”

  “…Where am I?” Yan Qing asked. His voice was thin, frayed at the edges. “Did I… fail again?”

  Chen is here, so he is still in the past.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Yan Qing,” Chen replied softly. “But, we are going to my ship, my teacher will cure you.”

  Yan Qing frowned, confusion flashing across his face. He stared at Chen for a full two seconds, utterly speechless.

  “You’re in L.A. City Hospital,” Chen explained, lowering his voice instinctively, as if speaking too loudly might fracture this fragile moment of reunion. “On Earth.”

  Yan Qing sucked in a sharp breath. “I… I’m in a hospital. On Earth. And you’re alive.” His eyes widened, glassy with disbelief. “What date is it?”

  “May 18th,” Chen answered without hesitation, even as puzzlement flickered briefly through him.

  Yan Qing swallowed, a quiet, broken sound catching in his throat. Tears finally spilled over, tracing hot paths down his temples.

  Three days after the forest mission.

  The realization settled slowly, piece by piece. Understanding dawned—then relief, so sudden and overwhelming it left him shaking.

  He was here.

  In the present.

  And Chen was alive.

  “You’re okay…?” Yan Qing whispered.

  “I am.”

  That was all it took.

  Yan Qing surged forward with surprising strength, weak arms locking around Chen’s neck as if letting go were no longer an option. His breath hitched against Chen’s shoulder as he laughed and cried at once. “I told you… don’t scare me like this… bastard.”

  Chen closed his arms around him, holding him carefully, firmly, anchoring them both. He lowered his head, voice rough against Yan Qing’s ear.

  “I am sorry,” he whispered. “Never again.”

  He straightened. “Xiao. Prepare departure.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Monitors were detached with practiced efficiency. Oxygen was rerouted onto the portables. Chen lifted Yan Qing, bed sheet and all, and carried him into the corridor.

  A nurse hurried toward them, alarmed. “Sir—you can’t just remove an ICU patient—!”

  Chen walked on, unnoticed beneath activated camouflage.

  The nurse reached for him.

  Lanice intercepted her. “Emergency transfer. We’ll handle the paperwork.”

  “I need a signature,” she insisted. “Family or guardian.”

  “I’m his friend.”

  “That’s not sufficient—”

  The boy glanced back and muttered, “Troublesome.”

  Lanice shot him a look. “Language.”

  Over time, Lanice had come to treat Lan less like an alien and more like a child under his care. Somewhere along the way, their exchanges had shifted, quietly and naturally, into something that resembled a father and son.

  Lan’s face crumpled at once, grievance written too plainly for someone so young.

  Lanice cursed inwardly. He sighed, scrubbed a hand over his face, and relented. “Just—watch it next time.”

  They moved to follow Chen.

  And stopped.

  A full squad blocked the corridor ahead.

  Sixteen soldiers, fully armed. Rifles raised. Barrels aligned in a flawless firing line that cut straight through the sterile white space. It was the same unit as before.

  They hadn’t followed.

  They had waited.

  The nurse froze mid?step, eyes wide. She pressed herself flat against the wall, breath locked in her chest, too afraid even to whimper.

  Chen’s gaze swept over the soldiers once, cold and distant, measuring them in silence.

  Xiao stepped forward, weapon lifting smoothly into view. “We wish to leave quietly.”

  The smell of gun oil and propellant hung in the air, sharp and unmistakable. The soldiers had concealed themselves until now. There was no doubt who they had come for.

  No one moved.

  Xiao’s fingers tightened around the anion gun. “Please,” he said again, patience thinning to a blade’s edge, “step aside.”

  Silence.

  But the rifles wavered, just slightly. Hands trembled despite rigid posture.

  The Teleopeans looked human, for now.

  But the soldiers knew better.

  Lanice started forward instinctively, trying to intervene, but Lan caught his arm, small fingers tightening with surprising strength, and gave a single shake of the head.

  Don’t.

  Disinfectant burned in Lanice’s lungs. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, bright enough to feel obscene. The corridor held its breath.

  Pressure built, dense and metallic, like the air before a lightning strike.

  “Stop.”

  The voice cut through the standoff.

  The soldiers moved at once, parting with drilled precision.

  A man stepped through the opening.

  Black suit. Ironed lines. Gray hair slicked neatly back. Thick brows and eyes that burned with the confidence of someone accustomed to command.

  Xiao shifted aside, weapon still raised.

  Chen’s gaze locked onto the newcomer.

  “Mr. President,” Chen said quietly. The calm in his voice was worse than anger. “You chose a poor moment.”

  They had already negotiated once — a private meeting no one else on Earth had been allowed to attend.

  The president felt cold flood his spine. Ice, sudden and total. He swallowed, forced his breathing steady, and stepped forward anyway. Years of power had taught him how to ignore fear—even when it clawed at his throat.

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” he said. “I need a favour you have promised before.”

  Chen smiled.

  Not warmly.

  “Then explain this ‘favour,’” he said, eyes narrowing. “In detail.”

  The president’s gaze flicked once to the pale man in Chen’s arms. He was weak, barely conscious.

  Human.

  He smiled thinly. “Two weeks ago, after the pillar of light appeared, Earth’s magnetic field dropped by nearly thirty percent. It’s still falling. Our satellites are failing quickly, and the internet is down, causing global chaos. But this is not the worst. If the magnetic field collapses completely, this planet dies.”

  His voice shifted, softened deliberately. “We need your help.”

  Chen felt Yan Qing’s fingers tighten faintly in his clothing.

  As expected.

  He studied the president for a long moment, unreadable—then lowered his gaze.

  The ice vanished.

  “Yan Qing,” Chen said gently. “I understand.”

  “No.” Yan Qing shook his head weakly. “You go back. This isn’t your responsibility. This is our world.”

  The president inhaled sharply—

  “I won’t leave you,” Chen said, cutting him off. Steel entered his tone. “I will give your government the technology to restore the magnetic field. ”

  “But I can—”

  “No.”

  One word. Absolute.

  For the first time, Yan Qing saw the ruler beneath the warmth. The edge that did not yield.

  The president released a breath—then froze as Chen’s golden gaze returned to him.

  “Before that,” Chen said, each syllable measured, “Yan Qing needs rest.”

  A flicker of tension passed through the president’s jaw. It vanished just as quickly as he stepped aside. “Of course.”

  Only after they were gone did he exhale fully, shoulders sagging. He laughed once, quietly, without humor.

  A soldier glanced at him. “Sir… you’re letting them go?”

  “They’ll save us,” the president said.

  Then he straightened.

  “Dismissed. Everyone off duty.”

  And only then did the corridor begin to breathe again.