"Forget it. I’m only ten." Lance Blue shook his head, shifting his lake-blue eyes from the holographic projection to his own slender wrist.
The [109] there looked quiet and small in the dim light of the archives.
Sigh. Things like Trust Value were still too far removed from who he was now. He would not make a good hero—and he did not want to harm anyone else...
Heroes, Hero Offices, hero rankings...
Those words sounded like the language of another world, and he could not even make out the address on that world’s door.
"That’s fair. Ten really is too young."
Elliot had not intended for Lance Blue to become a hero right away.
For a ten-year-old child, being exposed too early to that bizarre, dazzling world full of pressure was not necessarily a good thing.
He turned off the holographic projection and patted the heavy volumes. "Leave these here for now. Come read them whenever you’re interested. And if you’re not, no pressure. There’s apple pie every Wednesday, too."
"For now, grow up properly. Learn all your letters, eat your fill. As for becoming a hero... we can talk about it after you’ve thought it through."
He carefully put away Lance Blue’s completed registration form, then handed him a temporary ID card and a subsidy card. "Remember to keep these safe. You have a long life ahead of you, so focus on growing up properly first."
Lance Blue nodded and tucked the cards into the deepest part of his inner pocket.
He was still holding the warm “Super Extra-Large” apple pie in his arms. Its fragrance wafted out in waves through the greaseproof paper, diluting the grand narratives about heroes from earlier. That was right—he had plenty of time.
Tomorrow’s breakfast, next week’s snack, next month’s subsidy... those were the parts of life within his reach.
Holding the pie like a small, sweet anchor, he walked back to the streets he knew so well.
Curiously, he looked over his temporary ID card.
"Name: Lance Blue. Date of birth: July 3, Union Year 13. Residence: District Seventy, Union City..."
For the first time, Lance Blue felt that he was truly, tangibly alive.
He remembered what Elliot had said:
"Your very existence affects the people around you."
Lance Blue did not believe that his paltry hundred-odd Trust Value could truly influence people in subtle ways. That sort of ability required at least a five-digit Trust Value.
But... that Mr. Elliot did not seem like he had been lying to him.
What was he supposed to do?
Lance Blue felt lost...
He returned to the home that had remained undeveloped only because of him: the abandoned newspaper kiosk.
"You should thank me properly..." As though trying to distract himself, Lance Blue alternated between laughing and choking up. "You haven’t been torn down because of me..."
He touched the kiosk’s wall, and the cold sensation stung his palm.
"Let’s just leave it at that..."
Lance Blue did not want to trouble himself any further. He simply plopped down and emptied his mind.
He had once thought that his quick tongue and his skill at reading people were what had let him live relatively freely in this world.
But now it seemed... that was not the case.
He had always been...
"Don’t think about it anymore!"
Lance Blue forced himself to go to sleep.
...
The days passed one after another amid the scent of pancakes and the chime of the convenience store’s doorbell.
Two months had already passed since his tenth birthday.
Winter was strangely late in arriving in Union Year 23. Even autumn’s distinctive dusky yellow had vanished without a trace. It felt as though something big was going to happen.
Even so, nothing changed the fact that Lance Blue still went to the community center every Wednesday.
Learning had become a little more interesting.
—At the very least, he could now understand the headlines about the Hero Ranking Tournament.
The number on his wrist slowly climbed to [123].
Most of it came from people in the community who had gradually grown familiar with him: the retired teacher who taught him arithmetic, the kitchen auntie who always secretly gave him an extra spoonful of food...
He still lived in the newspaper kiosk.
Elliot had mentioned several times that he could help him apply for temporary housing, but Lance Blue had refused.
This place was shabby, but it had been his only home for ten years.
The tally marks drawn in chalk on its walls had become densely packed, recording every day he had existed in this world.
...
Business at the pancake stall was as brisk as ever.
A small queue stood before Mrs. Carter’s cart, and the smell of cooking oil mingled with bean paste sauce, filling half the street.
Lance Blue crouched on his little stool in its usual spot, watching Mrs. Carter’s wrists move in a blur as she spread the batter, cracked an egg, brushed on sauce, and scattered chopped scallions in one fluid sequence.
"Lance, was last night’s pie good?"
Mrs. Carter found a moment to ask. Fine beads of sweat from her busy work dotted her temples.
"It was good." Lance Blue nodded. "It was just too big. I was eating it until the middle of the night."
Mrs. Carter burst out laughing. "A good appetite is a blessing! You’re just too skinny, kid."
Lance Blue looked himself over. At ten years old, being 150 centimeters tall was not bad, but it did make him look as though he had no flesh on his bones.
Suddenly, a brightly colored electric car pulled up across the street.
The door opened, and a young woman in a sharp business suit stepped out. Her brows and eyes bore some resemblance to Mrs. Carter’s, though her expression carried the crisp competence distinctive to an urban professional, along with a trace of barely perceptible anxiety.
She was Mrs. Carter’s daughter, Chloe.
"Mom!"
Chloe hurried over, her brows slightly furrowed. "Why are you setting up your stall again? Didn’t we agree you’d move this week? I’ve already gotten the new place ready. The environment is so much better than here, and there’s a community park right downstairs. You won’t have to breathe in these cooking fumes every day, either."
The spatula in Mrs. Carter’s hand paused. The smile on her face faded a little, but her hands did not stop moving. "What’s the rush? I have so many regulars here. How can I just leave whenever I feel like it? Besides, I’ve run this little stall for over a decade. I’m attached to it."
The customers waiting in line for pancakes pinched their noses and, in perfect unspoken agreement, shut off all five senses.
"Can attachment put food on the table?" Chloe lowered her voice, but the dissatisfaction in her tone was obvious.
"How can the public safety and environment here compare with District Seven? How many times have I told you? I make good money now. I can support you. Just move over there and enjoy yourself in peace. Do some square dancing, look after your grandson—it’ll be wonderful."
"I can do square dancing here, too."
Mrs. Carter muttered as she expertly bagged a finished pancake for a customer and accepted the change. "And besides... it’s lively here. I feel settled staying here."
"Settled? What is there about this old street that makes you feel settled?" Chloe looked around at the somewhat dilapidated street. "Mom, stop being stubborn. I’ve already contacted the moving company. This weekend."
"I’m not free this weekend! I made plans with Old Wang and the others to go compete downtown!" Mrs. Carter’s voice rose slightly.
The atmosphere between mother and daughter became somewhat tense. The regulars waiting to buy pancakes stared at their noses and thought about their hearts. Blocking out their five senses was no longer enough, so they hunched their necks in a little further.
Lance Blue stayed quietly crouched there.
He could clearly feel the emotions emanating from Chloe:
—A mixture of concern, anxiety, incomprehension, and a faint irritation of, “I’m doing this for your own good, so why won’t you listen?”
And from Mrs. Carter, he sensed something even more complicated.
—Gratitude for her daughter’s concern, unease at leaving a familiar environment, and a kind of... attachment that perhaps even Mrs. Carter herself could not explain.
This street was ordinary, and running the stall was exhausting. What was there to be attached to?
Lance Blue vaguely felt that once she left, some subtle balance would be broken, and something would lose what it depended on.
In the end, Chloe could not persuade her mother.
She drove away with a face full of helplessness and worry. Mrs. Carter watched in the direction her car had gone, sighed, silently wiped her hands, and then continued serving the next customer.
"Mrs. Carter," Lance Blue suddenly said, "District Seven is pretty good. It’s much better than here."
Mrs. Carter glanced at him and smiled. There was exhaustion in that smile, but also tenderness.
"I know it’s good. Chloe’s a filial daughter. I understand that in my heart. But I just feel... like I should wait a little longer. There’s no rush."
Wait for what?
She did not say.
Lance Blue did not ask again, either.
As he bit into the pancake Mrs. Carter had stuffed into his hands, with an extra egg added, that heavy feeling returned to his heart.
He thought once more of Elliot’s words:
"Your very existence affects the people around you."
Everything was like hidden currents beneath the surface of the water, extending in every direction, yet their center seemed faintly to point back to him.
Lance Blue had influenced them.
In a way he could neither understand nor control.
The thought made him feel a little cold.
The price.
Once again, he thought of those words.
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