Bai Ya was waiting for Li on the rooftop.
This wasn't a pre-arranged meeting; it wasn't even what 'waiting' felt like.
It was more like she had always known that he would come here.
The wind was strong, the clouds hung low and the academy's barrier was especially prominent at this height — like an invisible yet undeniable shell.
Li sensed it the moment he stepped onto the rooftop.
It wasn't spiritual pressure, but a sense of presence.
Bai Ya leaned against the railing with his back to Li. "You found the blank area, didn't you?"
'You found the blank area, didn't you?'
This wasn't a question.
Li's steps faltered.
'How did you know?'
Bai Ya chuckled softly.
'Because it wasn't something you were supposed to find.'
He turned around.
In that instant, an extremely uncomfortable feeling swept through Li's heart.
It wasn't hostility, but rather an overlap.
They were like two lines that should never have crossed, forced together at the same point.
'I suppose you have a lot of questions right now, but let me finish,' said Bai Ya.
He took two steps closer and stood in front of Li.
Although the distance wasn't great, one was instinctively compelled to back away.
"Have you ever thought," Bai Ya asked, looking at him, "why you always seem to be 'just fine'?"
On the edge of an accident, at the centre of an anomaly, at the point where logic breaks down.
Li was never completely uninvolved, but he was never completely swept away either.
Li remained silent.
Bai Ya's gaze shifted slightly downward, as if confirming something.
'Because this isn't your first time here.'
The air fell silent.
The wind suddenly became piercing.
"What do you mean?"
Bai Ya didn't answer immediately.
He looked up at the edge of the barrier.
"There's an unfinished line between us."
He spoke slowly.
'Not now, not this time, but last time.'
Li's pupils contracted slightly.
He felt certain blurry fragments in his mind begin to vibrate suddenly.
They weren't scenes, but deliberately suppressed feelings.
'It's normal that you don't remember,' said Bai Ya calmly. 'Because that line was never meant for you to remember.'
'But I remember.'
He said this without boasting.
Just a confirmation.
Li's throat tightened slightly.
'So you approached me because of this?'
'Not entirely.'
Bai Ya paused.
'I approached you because this time, the line started to veer.'
He looked directly into Li's eyes.
'You weren't corrected like before.'
The moment those words left his lips, Li finally understood the source of that familiar unease.
It wasn't a threat.
It was a life that had been prejudged.
'Get to the point,' Li said softly.
Bai Ya was silent for a few seconds.
Then, he spoke.
His tone was steady, as if stating a conclusion reached long ago:
'If you survive, I must disappear.'
The wind paused for a moment.
Li thought he must have misheard.
'What?'
Bai Ya didn't evade the question.
'We are at opposite ends of the same destiny line. We are not in a relationship of coexistence, but of substitution.'
He exhaled softly.
'In the last round, you were erased and I stayed to clean up the mess.'
Li's heart jolted violently.
'This time, the world made a mistake.'
A faint smile played on Bai Ya's lips.
'So, it's my turn.'
Li looked at him.
He suddenly realised something.
The aloofness emanating from Bai Ya wasn't due to coldness.
Rather, it was because he had long considered himself a 'consumable item'.
'Don't you think this is absurd?' Li's voice was low. 'What right do you have to make decisions for me?' "
Bai Ya shook his head.
'It wasn't my decision.
'It was the world.'
He raised his hand and gently tapped Li's chest.
'And now, it hesitates.'
At that moment, an image of Mio's back appeared in Li's mind.
It was the back from his dream, before the crack appeared, obscuring something.
He suddenly understood.
He understood why someone would pay the price for him, why the blank space responded to him and why the world wanted to erase him yet hesitated to act.
Because this time, someone had begun to interfere with the outcome.
Li looked up.
'What if I refuse?'
Bai Ya looked at him, his eyes flickering for the first time.
'That line will break together.'
He said.
'Whether you live or die, I'm not sure, but I'm certain the world won't allow two outcomes to coexist.' The sound of the wind filled the rooftop once more.
Bai Ya turned, preparing to leave.
He paused before stepping out of the shadow of the barrier.
'Li.'
'Don't think of this as a sacrifice.
This is rotation.'
He didn't turn back.
'And this time, you're not alone.'
Bai Ya's figure disappeared at the top of the stairs.
Li stood there motionless for a long time.
The familiar unease in his chest finally had a name:
An unfinished line of fate.
He vaguely sensed that someone at the other end was preparing to force this situation towards a conclusion that the world wouldn't allow.
Mio realised this while she was organising her records.
Not in a dream or a prophecy.
But in her safest and most rational state.
She opened the 'Forgotten Records' file and began to scroll down line by line, taking in the date, number and anomaly description. The format was almost ruthlessly calm.
This was her usual method: breaking the world down into understandable units and excluding emotions.
But when she stopped at a certain page, her fingertips hesitated.
Object: Li
Status: Ongoing Tracking
She stared at that line for a long time.
Too long.
Long enough for her to finally realise that something was wrong.
This wasn't a record.
This was tracking.
She would never do this.
With other anomalous objects, she would only record the necessary information: appearance, deviation and disappearance. It was as if she were observing an experimental sample.
But the entry about Li always went a little further.
She added an extra timestamp and scene description that could have been omitted, and even subconsciously recorded his reaction to some failed outcomes.
Not because it was important.
But because she wanted to know.
Mio slowly closed the terminal.
The discomfort in her chest returned.
Not pain, but a slight yet persistent shift.
She knew this feeling well.
It was the signal that, when her prophetic abilities failed, reason could no longer find its footing.
'So that's how it is,' she murmured.
She murmured.
She kept telling herself that she was merely observing variables; Li's existence was too unique to be tracked within the world's structure.
She had used this explanation for a long time.
To the point that she almost believed it herself.
But now, she had to admit:
If he were just a variable, she wouldn't have checked his condition immediately when the prophecy backfired, remembered whether he turned back amid multiple failed outcomes, or chosen to continue after realising the cost.
Mio raised a hand to her temple.
Though the pain lingered, it was no longer severe enough to prevent her from thinking.
'I'm not recording him.'
She had come to this conclusion slowly.
Once it had arrived, it could no longer be denied.
'I am biased towards him.
This isn't impulsiveness or passion.
It's an extremely calm yet transgressive choice."
She began to prioritise finding the path that would allow "Li to stay" among the many possibilities.
Even if that path is narrow, even if the price is high, even if the world repeatedly labels it 'undesirable'.
Mio opened her eyes.
The academy outside the window looked the same as usual: the barrier was stable and the order was intact.
Everything was pretending to be normal.
She suddenly remembered something she had said to the student council long ago:
'The prophet shouldn't interfere with the outcome.' "
She had spoken with such certainty at the time.
Looking back now, however, it seemed more like a pre-prepared lie.
So that one day she could violate it with a clear conscience.
Mio reopened the terminal.
This time, she didn't access the Oracle module.
She clicked on access control.
Next to her name was a row of grey restrictions.
One of them was clearly stated:
'Subjective interference with critical anomaly objects is prohibited.'
Mio stared at this line for a few seconds.
Then, she moved her finger away.
She didn't act immediately.
She simply memorised the rule.
She committed its location, structure and potential future use to memory.
This was her consistent approach to things.
She wasn't going to violate it now, but she was preparing to cross the line precisely at the most critical moment.
Mio stood up and walked over to the window.
The wind blew a corner of the curtain open.
Suddenly, she realised that she hadn't considered Li as 'part of the future' for a long time.
She had been thinking about the present.
She wondered if he was being watched, if he had strayed too far into the void and if he was aware that the world was treating him with caution.
These weren't things a prophet should care about.
But she did.
And she had no intention of stopping.
Mio said softly, as if delivering a verdict to herself:
'From this moment on, it is.'
She didn't specify what 'it' was,
But she knew in her heart:
She was no longer neutral or an observer.
She had chosen sides.
And the world would soon discover this.