【Interstellar Contract Magician】Ruyuanke

I don’t know how many days went by like this.

Time here is like a frozen lake. The wind and snow outside, day after day, never stir up a wave. Each of us is busy and routine, from waking up to lights out, from making soup to carrying things, from organizing supplies to inspecting the makeshift camp, our movements are so skillful that they are almost instinctive.

At first, everyone would grumble, saying things like, "Is this training?" and "What kind of logistics are we?" Later, even the complaints stopped. Voices were muffled by the cold wind, expressions were wiped by steam and exhaustion, and everyone became part of the camp.

me too.

When I woke up in the morning, I put on my coat that was half-dried by the firelight, and went to the pot to add ingredients and count the supplies as usual.

Qianmo would follow me silently, skillfully organizing the utensils, soaking the frozen soup spoon in warm water to soften it, and then sorting the medicinal materials into small boxes.

The one from the mecha department was in charge of carrying heavy objects. His expression remained unchanged throughout the whole process, like a well-tuned machine, and even his breathing was regular and almost even.

When night fell, we each curled up in our sleeping bags, the sound of the wind blowing the tent fabric and the low hum of the military vehicles starting in the distance mixed together to form a never-ending background sound.

Sometimes I would open my eyes and see the shadow of the tent roof swaying slightly, and the firelight shining in from outside, casting a faint orange line. At that moment, I would even be in a trance, as if nothing had changed, as if it had always been the same.

We cooked soup, repaired equipment, handled logistics, and were occasionally assigned to move corpses or clear wreckage. Our days were crushed and flattened by countless repetitive actions until they lost their shape.

The paths have also changed.

He no longer talked much, nor did he smile shyly like before. He would only occasionally hand me a glass of steaming water at night, or gently remind me, "You haven't eaten anything today."

The voice was gentle, but seemed to come from far away.

One time I looked in the mirror and saw myself, and I almost didn't recognize myself.

His face was pale from the wind and snow, the corners of his lips were cracked, and his eyes were empty. At that moment, I realized that I was becoming a part of this camp, becoming one of those busy, silent, nameless figures.

The wind still blew, and the soup in the pot still gurgled. No one knew how much time had passed, and no one asked.

Everything is running, with a regularity that is almost gentle—

So gentle that it makes people forget themselves.

The suppressed cry came at the quietest moment of the night.

The wind outside the tent was muffled by the snow, making the ropes creak, and that cry - like a crack hidden beneath the sounds, seeping out from the gap, vague, dull and painful, but extremely clear.

I opened my eyes, and all around me was darkness, with only the flickering red glow of the heater. A suppressed sob, mixed with my breath, was abruptly blocked in my throat, a choking sound. I couldn't tell who it was, but I could sense the emotion I was trying so hard to suppress.

I raised myself up and tried to see outside, but I found that the shadow of the tent was shaking.

The wind blew up a corner of the snow, and a faint light from the snow shone in and fell on Qianmo's sleeping bag.

He didn't move.

The mecha class member was also fast asleep, breathing evenly. The sobbing sounded from the other tent, but was cut off by the wind, coming closer and farther, like an auditory hallucination floating in the wind and snow.

I held my breath and listened for a moment. The crying faded into a low whimper, as if someone were biting a cloth or the back of their hand, trying desperately to hold it in. That sound… I knew it all too well.

Often seen on battlefields.

The one who survived.

The fire flickered a few times in the furnace, reflecting on the back of my hand. At that moment, I felt vaguely as if the lake was moving.

The lake, which had been frozen for who knows how long, trembled slightly at the cry - not breaking, but as if it took a breath.

I couldn't see the snow outside, nor could I see who was crying.

Everything was engulfed in white light and the sound of wind.

But the sadness seemed to seep in, and even the air became damp.

At that moment, I was suddenly not sure whether I was awake or in a dream.

In a trance, all sounds faded away, leaving only the low, suppressed cry. I felt like I was awake, but also more hazy than when I was asleep. I couldn't see clearly.

Can I still shed tears? It's already a luxury.

It's far away.

It was more like it came from somewhere deep down—not the cry of one person, but the cry of the entire camp.

The dead and the living.

Maybe it should be called a symphony.

But I really have no tears left.