At this time, it was the height of the local harsh winter. Due to the laws of planetary revolution, winters on Beijing Beta Star were extremely long—according to the unified New Star Calendar, this one would last for three years. Yet the city’s central heating system had already shut down for lack of funds. The biting cold wind invaded the defenseless human city-state, sweeping through the bus windows, and the shabby passengers huddled in their threadbare coats, like a nest of quails with their heads tucked under their wings.

Those who used this free bus service were mostly the poorest of the poor, many of them homeless, each so filthy it was impossible to tell their age or gender. Fortunately, the bus wasn’t sealed; otherwise, the stench from these passengers would have been enough to make a chemical weapon.

In the corner of the last row of the “Rike Cloud Bus” sat a drunken Girl, her face smeared with ruined makeup so that her age was indiscernible. She didn’t seem to fear the cold, wearing her jacket open to reveal bizarre underwear, with a skull tattooed on her waist—judging by her appearance, she was probably a tough female delinquent.

At Girl’s feet was a backpack nearly a meter tall. She wore earphones, leaning against the battered seat with her eyes closed, looking a bit irritable—still hungover, and there was a brat on the bus who wouldn’t stop crying. The wailing was so piercing that even the deafening music in her headphones couldn’t drown it out.

She forced herself to endure it for a few minutes, but finally, unable to take it anymore, she yanked off her headphones, ready to cause some trouble.

But strangely, as soon as she took off the headphones, the noise disappeared.

Girl looked around furiously, but all she saw in the carriage were half-dead adults, each curled up to avoid the wind—there was no child at all. She let out a dazed, boozy burp, wondering if she was hallucinating, shook her head, suspicious, put her headphones back on, pulled her hood down again, and closed her eyes in exhaustion.

Just as the alcohol surged again and she hovered between sleep and wakefulness, a child’s sharp cry stabbed through her eardrums: “Mama!”

Girl jolted awake. The “Rike Cloud Bus” happened to be pulling up to a stop, letting out a long sigh as it halted.

She turned off her music. This time, she heard it clearly—the child’s miserable crying was coming from nearby, drilling into her ears.

But… where could a child come from in this godforsaken place?

The bus stop sign had long since been stolen by someone, and the streetlights were all dead. Darkness pressed in from all sides. Not far away was a tangle of filthy alleys, interconnected, the eyes of the night peering out from grimy corners. The bus’s “artificial idiot” driver malfunctioned again, announcing the “final stop” early and, before the passengers could protest, automatically went into sleep mode. The passengers could only curse as they lined up to get off.

Girl frowned, hefted her luggage, and followed a few exhausted travelers. In front of her was a middle-aged man bundled in a thick cotton coat, very small and thin, dragging along a sallow, skinny Old Man. The Old Man was yanked off balance and bumped right into her.

The little delinquent’s brows shot up, but before she could show her tough side, her vision suddenly blurred. She rubbed her mascara-clumped, smoky eyes and was shocked to see that the Old Man who had bumped into her had instantly reverted to childhood—he had become a little boy!

“Did I get poisoned by fake alcohol?” she muttered to herself, squeezing her eyes shut again.

As her vision cleared from blurry to sharp, Girl realized that the person in front of her was indeed a child, about two or three years old, still unsteady on his feet, wrapped in a filthy rag. Yet a corner of his children’s clothes, though dirty, was surprisingly fine. Even though he was crying his heart out, his skin was still soft and tender.

The child was being carried by the “homeless man” beside him, one hand gripping his neck, the other his wrist, feet dangling above the ground. He struggled and cried, but no one around even looked up, nor did anyone seem surprised—most likely, just as she had earlier, they only saw a crazy old Vagabond making a scene.

This was a collective hallucination!

Girl’s pupils contracted slightly. She suspected that the “homeless man” was a human trafficker with some kind of black technology, so she quietly followed.

The “homeless man” carrying the child didn’t pay any attention to a little girl following him. After getting off the bus, he walked straight into a narrow alley. There were a few ramshackle houses in the alley, and at the far end was a shady bar. The bar’s back door glowed faintly in the night, casting light on the thin layer of snow, just enough for a night traveler to see the way. The child’s sharp cries echoed in the alley, but didn’t alarm anyone.

This couldn’t be a hallucinogen—whether on the bus or in the alley, the howling night wind would have swept away any biochemical agents.

Girl slung her bag over one shoulder, pushed her hood up, and called out to the homeless man: “Hey, stop right there.”

The “homeless man” paused, his hand gripping the child’s neck menacingly, but his face wore a timid, ingratiating smile. He hunched his shoulders, shrank his neck, and put on a cowardly, trouble-avoiding look, stammering, “Y-you mean me?”

Girl narrowed her eyes warily, lifted her chin, and pointed at the child in his hand: “Is that your child?”