The Origin (HOTTL) - Chapter 12
An Alliance of Convenience
Chén Yè stirred awake to grey light filtering through the single high window of his block.
He blinked at the ceiling, momentarily disoriented. The perpetual twilight of this realm made it impossible to tell time by the sky alone, but the small clock on his bedside table—a simple thing that appeared to run on concept rather than mechanics—told him he had overslept.
He scrambled out of bed, his bare feet hitting the cold stone floor. Bath. Food. Move.
The motions were becoming automatic now. Scrub the sleep from his body in the too-large washroom. Pull on the grey robes that had been provided. Eat whatever the kitchen conjured—today it was rice porridge with pickled vegetables, steam rising from the bowl like a ghost.
He ate quickly, barely tasting it, and rushed out the door.
The gathering point was at the base of the plateau, where the rows of identical black cubes gave way to a flat expanse of grey stone. Other children were already there, milling about in nervous clusters, their breath misting in the cold air.
Chén Yè slowed his pace as he approached, not wanting to appear rushed. Desperation was weakness, and weakness invited predators.
He found a spot at the edge of the group and waited.
A guard appeared after what felt like an eternity—a bored-looking divine existence with the same flat, dismissive expression they all seemed to wear. But instead of crushing a teleportation stone as he had yesterday, the guard simply turned and began walking.
"Follow," he said, without looking back.
The children exchanged confused glances but obeyed. What choice did they have?
The walk took three hours.
Three hours of trudging through the strange, dreamlike landscape of the pocket realm. The path wound between formations of black stone that jutted from the ground like broken teeth, past pools of water that reflected a sky that wasn't quite right, through forests of trees with leaves that shimmered silver and gold.
It would have been beautiful, if Chén Yè had any energy left to appreciate beauty.
By the second hour, the younger children were struggling. Their small legs couldn't keep up with the guard's steady pace, and no one dared ask him to slow down. Not after what had happened to Bai Zixian.
By the third hour, everyone was sweating despite the cool air. Robes clung to backs. Hair plastered to foreheads. The sound of labored breathing filled the silence like a chorus of the damned.
Some of them had clearly never walked this far in their lives—nobles, probably, accustomed to carriages and servants. They stumbled on aching legs, their faces flushed and dripping. A few looked ready to collapse
When the pavilion finally came into view—that same building of polished black stone and sourceless light—the children practically ran toward it. They stumbled through the doors and collapsed onto the benches, gasping, wiping sweat from their faces, too exhausted to even whisper among themselves.
Chén Yè found a seat in his usual corner and let himself breathe.
Then he looked around. His gaze scanning the room.
There.
Bai Zixian sat alone near one of the pillars, his back straight, his expression composed. No visible injuries—the system had healed him, just as Chen Yè had predicted. His pretty face showed no sign of the blood that had poured from his nose and ears yesterday, no evidence of the wall he'd been slammed into.
Good as new.
Chen Yè rose from his seat and moved toward him.
"It seems you're fine now."
Bai Zixian startled—a tiny flinch, quickly suppressed. He hadn't noticed Chen Yè's approach. For a moment, surprise flickered across those delicate features. Then the familiar mask slid back into place: pleasant, open, perfectly composed.
"Haa," Bai said, recovering smoothly. "Seeing that you came to check on me, I reckon you agree to be friends."
"Friends?"
Friends.
The word sat strangely in Chén Yè's mouth, like a fruit he'd never tasted. He wasn't even sure what it meant, really. On the streets, there had been alliances. Partnerships of convenience. Kids who watched your back because you watched theirs. But friends?
"Friendship is for equals," he heard himself say. The words came out flat, matter-of-fact. "Most relationships aren't equal. There are leaders and followers. Masters and servants." He paused, considering. "People who use, and people who are used."
Bai Zixian stared at him.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The sounds of the other children—their murmured conversations, their shifting bodies, their tired sighs—faded into background noise.
"That's..." Bai Zixian started, then stopped. His expression shifted through something complicated—surprise, distaste, consideration. "That's a rather dark philosophy for someone your age."
Chén Yè shrugged. "It's just how things are."
Bai Zixian studied him with new eyes. Chén Yè could practically see the noble boy's mind working, reassessing, categorizing. Whatever Bai Zixian had expected from this conversation, it clearly wasn't this.
Good, Chén Yè thought. Keep him off-balance. Keep him guessing.
"If that's what you believe," Bai Zixian said slowly, "then why are you here? If not for friendship, what do you want?"
Chén Yè considered the question. He could lie. He could deflect. But something told him that Bai Zixian would see through either approach. The noble boy was sharp—maybe sharper than Chén Yè had initially given him credit for.
So he told a version of the truth.
"You came to talk to me," he said. "On the first day. Before anyone else. You sat down beside me and offered an alliance." He met Bai Zixian's gaze directly. "No one else has done that. I'm returning the courtesy."
Bai Zixian blinked. Whatever response he'd expected, it clearly wasn't that either.
"Returning the courtesy," he repeated, as if tasting the words. "Not accepting my offer. Just... returning the courtesy."
"Yes."
A beat of silence.
Then Bai Zixian laughed.
It was a quiet sound, barely more than an exhale, but it was genuine—the first genuine reaction Chén Yè had seen from him. The polished noble mask slipped for just a moment, revealing something younger underneath. Something almost surprised.
"You're strange," Bai Zixian said. "Do you know that?"
"So I've been told."
"What's your name?"
"Chén Yè."
"Chén Yè," Bai Zixian repeated, rolling the syllables across his tongue. "The radiance of time. That's a good name. Strong." He inclined his head slightly, a gesture of respect that looked automatic, ingrained by years of noble etiquette. "I'm Bai Zixian."
The name tugged at something in Chén Yè's memory. He'd heard it before, he was sure. Or heard of it. But the connection slipped away before he could grasp it, lost in the fog of things he'd deemed unimportant and let himself forget.
It didn't matter. Names were just names. What mattered was what people could do for you.
Chén Yè nodded in acknowledgment and began to stand, intending to return to his seat before the Elder arrived.
"Wait."
Bai Zixian's voice stopped him mid-motion.
Chén Yè turned back, one eyebrow raised.
"You came here to return a courtesy," Bai Zixian said, his eyes sharp now, calculating. "Fine. Courtesy returned. But you still haven't answered my original question." He leaned forward slightly. "The offer still stands. We watch each other's backs. For the next year, at least. An alliance of convenience, if the word 'friendship' offends you so much."
Chén Yè didn't respond immediately.
He stood there, half-turned away, letting the silence stretch. Letting Bai Zixian wait. Letting the noble boy feel, for just a moment, like he was the one hoping for an answer rather than offering one.
It was a small thing. A tiny shift in the power dynamic. But Chén Yè had learned on the streets that small things mattered. The person who spoke first was weaker than the person who listened. The person who asked was weaker than the person who answered.
He had come here intending to forge this alliance. But he wanted Bai Zixian to feel like it was his idea. His offer. His terms.
That way, when the time came—and it always did—the noble boy wouldn't realize the leash around his neck until it was already tight.
Finally, Chén Yè allowed himself a small nod.
"Fine," he said. "We watch each other's backs."
He turned away, walking back toward his corner, not waiting for Bai Zixian's response.
That's it. That's what I was waiting for.
He'd approached without showing interest. Offered nothing but "courtesy." Made it seem like he had no stake in the conversation, no desire for connection, no need for anything Bai could provide.
And Bai had made the offer anyway.
Now the pretty boy would feel like he'd had a say in it. Like the partnership was his idea, his choice, his initiative. He wouldn't feel maneuvered. Wouldn't feel used.
Even though he had been.
Just a little.
Chen Yè continued walking, that small smile still playing at his lips.
Behind him, Bai Zixian watched him go with an expression that was equal parts curiosity and calculation.
Two children, each thinking they had the measure of the other.
Neither quite right.
End of Chapter 12