Chapter 133 A Moment of Warm Light

Warm yellow spotlights shone down from the ceiling, casting overlapping circles of light on the bar counter, while the amber liquid in the glass swirled, refracting tiny flecks of light.

“One day, oh… one day…”

A lazy blues tune drifted from the old record player. Sirian found the song somewhat familiar; it sounded like the melody Bruce had been humming when Sirian left home.

“Paul and I have been in love for many years, and our relationship has always been great. But perhaps because it’s too great, we’ve gradually run into a problem…”

Wency hugged her wine glass, leaning against the bar. The saxophone melody flowed over the rim of the glass, kneading tipsy ripples into the air.

“We know and love each other too well. As a result, we’ve lost a lot of surprises in our life. There are no longer any rosy fantasies of love, only the trivialities of reality.”

Glancing at Paul, Wency complained, “After realizing this, I wanted to change the dynamic between Paul and me. Maybe that would rekindle our passion. But this idiot never understood that.”

Paul gave an embarrassed smile. He could never quite figure out what Wency was thinking, and that was precisely what attracted him most to her.

“And then… the story reached its turning point, which is the key part I wanted to talk about today.”

The crowd quieted down, listening intently to what Wency would say next. They knew this was the story involving the Reverse Falcon.

“After the party that night, Paul and I talked a lot, but suddenly, we ran into a group of Walking Corpses emerging from the darkness…”

Wency vividly described the events of that night.

The appearance of the Walking Corpses, Paul’s self-sacrifice, and the arrival of the Reverse Falcon.

She was not a skilled storyteller; her voice was neither loud nor soft, her tone was dry, and she conveyed no sense of immersion.

Yet, despite her clumsy words, everyone listened raptly.

Before coming to the party, they had all heard bits and pieces about Wency’s experience that night, but hearing about it second-hand was one thing; listening to the person involved tell the story was an entirely different feeling.

“Wow…”

Meifuni sat nearby, listening with shining eyes.

Sirian, Dailin, and Anya—the three of them huddled in a shadowy corner, their expressions varied.

“The Reverse Falcon just suddenly appeared, killed all the Walking Corpses, and was just as powerful, deadly, and mysterious as the legends say!”

When Wency spoke of this, she sounded like a girl whose heart was fluttering with romance.

“But the most important thing is, unlike the rumors that say he’s cold and ruthless, I actually found him very interesting, even having a bit of dark humor and warmth.”

“Like what?”

Meifuni couldn’t help but ask.

“For example… this! This was given to us by the Reverse Falcon!”

Wency proudly raised her hand. On her ring finger was a crudely made iron ring, its surface engraved with fine lines that looked like a curled, retracted feather.

More noticeable than the ring itself was Wency’s ring finger, which looked as if it had been burned by a branding iron, showing a fresh circle of scar tissue beneath the ring.

Meifuni asked worriedly, “Your finger…”

“Oh, it’s nothing. It was originally an Iron Feather that the Reverse Falcon temporarily heated up and bent… Wow, I was drunk at the time, so I didn’t feel much, but when I woke up, it hurt terribly. Luckily, I treated it promptly, or the doctor said it might have gotten infected.”

Wency complained non-stop, but the smile never left her face as she proudly showed the ring and the scar to everyone.

“After the Reverse Falcon saved us, he put rings on both Paul and me, and wished us a happy marriage.”

Wency glared fiercely at Paul. “Even though Paul never actually proposed, and I never accepted, the Reverse Falcon said so, right!”

Paul sighed helplessly and cooperatively raised his hand. He wore the same iron ring on his ring finger, and there was the same scar beneath it.

Meifuni blinked and exclaimed.

“Is the Reverse Falcon… acting as a master of ceremonies?”

This Reverse Falcon was completely different from the ruthless killer she had imagined.

“It was probably just a whim of his.”

Paul chimed in, “It’s hard to guess the Reverse Falcon’s personality. Rather than dark humor, I think he’s a guy full of malicious fun. Otherwise…”

“There would have been no need to leave us with scars like this.”

Saying this, Paul tenderly rubbed Wency’s finger. This was the woman he loved, and she had been inexplicably scarred like this.

“I think the Reverse Falcon is a super romantic guy, actually!”

Wency excitedly waved her hand. “Don’t you think the scar is also a kind of ring? One that can never be taken off, like a vow carved into our flesh!”

Suddenly, Wency changed her tone, staring fiercely at Paul and whispering.

“So, Paul, if you ever disappoint me, I won’t just take back the ring for the Reverse Falcon—I’ll chop off your finger, too.”

Paul felt a splitting headache. Ever since that night, Wency seemed to have been corrupted by the Reverse Falcon, taking on a touch of madness.

“Wow…”

Meifuni couldn’t remember how many times she had exclaimed that night.

Soon, the topic of conversation shifted from the Reverse Falcon to Wency and Paul’s love story.

“This party isn’t just about the Reverse Falcon; it’s also for Paul and me getting engaged!” Wency announced loudly.

The crowd cheered excitedly.

Except for the three people sitting in the corner.

Sirian lowered his head, gripping his wine glass tightly, his eyes fixed intently on the tabletop.

Anya sat smiling faintly to Sirian’s right. After spending so much time together, she had gradually grown accustomed to the pressure of Sirian’s bloodline.

“That’s quite surprising, Sirian…”

Dailin, on his left, suppressed a laugh, placed his hand on Sirian’s shoulder, leaned down, and asked.

“What were you thinking at the time? Planning to moonlight as a master of ceremonies?”

Sirian’s face was ashen.

No one would have guessed that the Reverse Falcon from that night was currently here, hiding in the corner and listening to the cheers of the crowd.

To be honest, the feeling was rather pleasant.

When Wency spoke of this so-called romance, Sirian’s lips had already curved upwards, and the long-awaited happiness surged in his heart.

Until Dailin and Anya silently sat down beside him, like soldiers escorting a prisoner.

It was over. Everything was over.

Sirian was like a mouse peeking at someone else’s happiness; just as he was rejoicing, he was caught by these two.

What the hell? How had the situation turned into a public execution for him?

Sirian retorted stubbornly, “You… shut up!”

“Haha.”

Anya, sitting nearby, finally burst out laughing. In all the time she had known Sirian, this was the first time she had seen him so flustered, his cheeks completely flushed.

“If possible, I’d like to invite the Reverse Falcon to the wedding,” Wency shared her wish.

“But I’m just an ordinary person, how could I possibly contact the Reverse Falcon…”

“You could post a notice in the news corner,”

Meifuni offered her suggestion. “Invite the Reverse Falcon to your wedding. Since no one knows his real identity anyway, maybe when the party ends, you’ll find another Iron Feather in the corner?”

“Oh, that’s right!”

Wency grabbed Meifuni’s hand and shook it vigorously.

On the other side of the bar, Paul leaned close to Elton and whispered, “I apologize, Elton, this party completely went off-topic.”

“Not at all. Isn’t everyone having a great time?”

Elton smiled genuinely.

He liked the current atmosphere, which gave him a genuine feeling of existing within this world, even if the party was about to end.

The low laughter and clinking of glasses were crisp and pleasant; cheeks were faintly flushed, eyes softened in the warm light. The mellow fragrance of whiskey mixed with a faint scent of tobacco, intertwining with the soothing rhythm. The lights gilded the tips of everyone’s hair, and laughter flowed over the tables like warm water.

Someone started talking about a recent amusing event. He said he kept running into a dog that carried a newspaper, but after tracking it several times, he could never find where it went. Others chimed in, asking if that dog had a bald spot on its head.

A bald dog?

Everyone burst into laughter.

The laughter continued. Someone shared an embarrassing story, someone else fantasized about their future, and others asked Wency how she planned the wedding and how Paul’s preparations were coming along.

Sirian remained seated in the corner shadow.

He didn’t speak much; he just watched—watching the fine lines around Wency’s eyes when she smiled, watching the wine splash when Elton gestured, and watching Meifuni gently brush the stray hairs from her forehead with her fingertips.

A smile played on Sirian’s lips, so natural it seemed innate. He didn’t even realize how long that smile had been fixed on his face.

Until a certain moment.

Perhaps the record player’s needle skipped a beat, or perhaps the wind outside suddenly struck the glass with a dull thud—Sirian’s gaze abruptly froze.

Sirian watched Meifuni across the booth toss a nut into her mouth and chew, chew, chew like a squirrel. Meanwhile, his own hand remained frozen in the posture of holding the cup, the condensation sliding down the cup wall and slipping between his fingers, cold like a form of warning.

He suddenly realized that he was Sirian.

“I am… Sirian.”

The thought was like a fine needle, unexpectedly piercing the warm, melting cocoon.

Who was that “him” who had been smiling just now? Was it a shadow borrowed from this momentary light, music, and laughter?

A sense of absurdity coiled around him like a vine.

Was his previous smile a genuine smile? Or was it a conditioned reflex of his body to a “pleasant atmosphere”? Just as a gear turns smoother when it meets lubricant, his face automatically curved upward when it encountered warmth.

But who was he?

Was he the Sirian who fought his way out of White Cliff Town, or the “Sirian” currently sitting in the warm light, whose fingertips smelled of alcohol?

Sirian stared at the drink in his cup, suddenly finding the color resembled clotted blood. The laughter around him continued, but to his ears, it sounded distant, distorted, and even grating, as if heard through a thick pane of glass.

He slowly released his grip, and the glass gently knocked against the tabletop with a muffled sound.

Sirian stood up and left.

No one asked where he was going, just as no one had asked why he hadn’t spoken the whole time.

Everyone was immersed in their own warm light, but Sirian’s warm light had shattered.

Sirian’s footsteps were so light, as if he were fleeing a dream that was too real. The cold wind from outside poured into his collar, making him shiver.

He stood alone beneath the dim yellow sky.

Just as always.