A narrow escape

The shadow sped silently through the streets beneath the cloak of night. Compared to Ji Ning’s ragged breathing, it moved as quietly as a fish gliding through darkness. Only when it slipped into a nondescript alley did the fish finally pause, turning to face the fisherman—or, more accurately, the bait that had been trailing behind it all this way.

The shadow advanced in measured steps. As the creature emerged under the harsh glow of a streetlamp, Ji Ning found himself despising the light that banished the night’s darkness more than ever before.

Not even its jet-black fur could conceal the beast’s powerful muscles; its grotesque head resembled nothing so much as a meat grinder. Long, vicious fangs jutted from the upper jaw in an arc, hooking into a robust lower mandible. Saliva dripped slowly from teeth like bone-carving blades. When it lowered its massive head to stare at Ji Ning, the golden eyes brimmed with a hunger for flesh and blood.

If this thing counted as a little dog, then Cerberus might as well be a lapdog taking a stroll on a neighborhood leash! Swallowing his terror, Ji Ning forced his trembling legs still. In the wild, you must never run from a large predator—turning your back triggers the hunter’s primal instinct to chase.

His communicator was silent now but for the sound of suppressed breathing. Catherine quickly realized what had happened. “Double-click your cuff button for real-time photos. At the very least, the Academy’s Operations Division will exterminate every creature in Three Portlands captured in those images within three days.” She paused. “I’m sorry. Hold on just a bit longer. We’ll get there as fast as we can.” She was always so calm, leaving her comrades speechless.

But what Ji Ning needed was neither rational advice nor an apology of no use. He just wanted to survive.

So, when the giant hound—easily the size of a stretch minivan—lunged at him, Ji Ning, honed by a semester of training (or, more truthfully, beatings), instinctively dove into a clumsy roll, barely skirting past the meat grinder’s jaws. The cobbled Roman pavement groaned beneath the beast’s landing.

Staggering to his feet, Ji Ning scrambled for the main street. The devil hound’s golden eyes gleamed with feline cruelty and delight, as though playing with a mouse. Its deep, thunderous growl spurred its prey to run faster—just as it wanted.

Ji Ning could almost smell the stench of rotting flesh emanating from those jaws. Death’s scythe hung high above him.

“Stop.” The voice resurfaced in Ji Ning’s mind, one he’d nearly forgotten in its long absence.

SCP-CN-655’s tone, almost synthetic, inexplicably sparked hope in Ji Ning—even though its words made him wonder if the damn thing wanted a new partner.

“Turn me into water, now!” Ji Ning’s desperate shout was as loud to SCP-CN-655 as the hound’s roar. Despite observing Ji Ning’s life for four months, it remained perplexed by human behavior and thought.

“As you wish.” The world spun again. Ji Ning saw the black beast stride through his own body, yet felt no pain at all.

This must be the world’s most invincible form—after all, who could kill a puddle of water? Ji Ning drifted calmly back the way he had come, unconcerned as the hound prowled and sniffed around his ephemeral body.

Everything went smoothly—until a pair of polished boots blocked his path. Ji Ning struggled to look up. Against the light, the towering figure loomed like a mountain, his elongated shadow rendering Ji Ning insignificant, mere dust in the moonlight. The darkness only made his eyes shine all the brighter, like those of a wolf in the night.

There was no surprise, no anticipation, no annoyance in his gaze—no emotion at all, save for a flicker of barely perceptible pity. It was the kind of understanding that only kindred spirits could share—just as only the suffering can truly sense another’s pain. This was the affinity that Ji Ning felt.

Compared to those cold, resolute eyes beneath long lashes, the man’s black hair was hardly noteworthy. He gazed at Ji Ning—like a monarch surveying a distant guest on a long, dark night.

Time itself seemed to be strangled in that moment. The city was poised atop the back of a slumbering beast that might at any instant spring to life: everything trembled, yet there was absolute silence, like an old black-and-white film in a deserted theater.

The dark-haired man drew a sword half as tall as himself from his back. With the calm of a king on his throne, he issued an irrefutable decree in the most unremarkable tone: “Return to where you belong.”

The devil hound lunged, growling low. The air was shredded into shards of glass by its speed, the screech grating on the teeth. Ji Ning didn’t even see the man move—suddenly, he was behind the hound, face impassive as a bystander. No one knew when he’d drawn the single-handed sword slung across his back, but a simple, fluid slash was already complete.

The movement was precise and elegant; the blade traced the bones beneath powerful muscle, sliding down the hound’s spine like a knife through butter. Not an ounce of energy was wasted. From the shoulder, the blade cut cleanly through the flesh, stopping just as it broke the skin. The beast’s roar died abruptly, echoing in the night.

The sword’s glimmer parted the clouds, letting pure moonlight once again spill across the streets of Three Portlands.

Only after he sheathed his blade did the time-locked hound collapse in a spray of blood, flooding Ji Ning’s vision. By the time he dragged himself from the pool, the dark-haired man stood before him, black hoodie now soaked in crimson. Under the cold moon, violence and slaughter solidified into a beauty both chilling and sublime.

The man nudged the hound’s corpse aside with a gentle kick, as if he were born to accept the world’s adulation. His austere gaze gave the illusion of a god descending to earth in emotionless form—he could have been Quentin Tarantino’s leading man.

Yet the striking beauty of his face softened the coldness. He was almost too handsome—so much so that even the steadfastly straight Ji Ning, in the midst of chaos, found himself thinking, Damn, is there really someone in this world as good-looking as I am?

That fleeting thought was interrupted by the sword’s tip suddenly at his throat, and by a gaze even sharper than the blade.

“Good evening. My name is Zhao Tianxing.” The man bent closer, but faced with a puddle of water, received no reply.

Ji Ning stood, his senses returning to first-person once more. “Good evening, Senior. I’m Ji Ning, a first-year at Deer Academy.” He was about to accept the offered handshake when, just before contact, Zhao Tianxing withdrew his hand.

“Then why didn’t I see you at the freshman orientation?” Zhao Tianxing scrutinized him like a geneticist eyeing a mutant fruit fly. Ji Ning doubted his own eyes—somehow, the blade was already at his neck.

“I arrived just after the ceremony!” Ji Ning pointed at the confetti still clinging to his uniform. No sane person could remain calm with a sword at their throat—especially when the swordsman had just bathed in a rain of blood.

“Or perhaps you just killed a student and took his uniform.” Zhao Tianxing shook his head, dissatisfied.

Cold sweat trickled down Ji Ning’s brow. The deathly silence of the alley devoured his courage. But before things could worsen, he found relief—two girls approached at last, and Ji Ning quickly pointed them out, feigning innocence. “Those two are my companions. They can vouch for me. We’re on a mission.”

It was Ji Ning’s first time meeting the Academy’s Special Action Task Force, who had found him within five minutes of Catherine’s report. Two agents, encased in exoskeletal armor, halted their steel behemoth of a vehicle. The girls hopped out lightly.

“Are you okay, Ji Ning?” Afra anxiously examined him—though as she patted him down, she muttered, “Good thing you’re fine, or we’d lose credits again.”

“Good evening, Senior Zhao Tianxing. Thank you for your help.” Catherine shook his hand. This time, he didn’t pull away.

“It was nothing.” Zhao Tianxing, his murderous aura vanished, waved to Ji Ning and strode off to confer briefly with the agents documenting the scene. Soon, his slender figure melted into the night, impossible to imagine as the source of such carnage.

“I’m sorry. My misjudgment caused this incident.” Catherine bowed in apology. Ji Ning imagined her reciting an internet meme apology.

“I’ll need compensation,” Ji Ning said, waving a finger before her. Someone had to pay for his fright tonight.

“Money? Certainly. Name the amount.” Catherine’s calm made Ji Ning think he could ask for a fortune and solve his financial woes for life, despite the black card on him devouring every penny he’d spent since enrollment. But who ever complains about having too much money?

“I’m joking. If everything always went according to plan, life would be dreadfully dull.” Ji Ning couldn’t quite bring himself to name a price; pride held him back. Besides, it wasn’t entirely Catherine’s fault.

Tracing it to the source, everything was, of course, the SCP Foundation’s fault.

“But—” Catherine began, only to be cut off by Afra.

“We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends don’t need so many ‘buts.’ Come on, let’s head back. Don’t worry, this guy’s perfectly fine—not a scratch.” Afra grumbled inwardly about how Ji Ning had managed to avoid all harm—her protective talisman hadn’t even activated. If it hadn’t shattered, he couldn’t have been in real danger.

She waved at him, then, with a deft movement, snatched the charm from his wrist and looped it around her own neck. “Since the mission’s over, this goes back to its rightful owner. Don’t look at me like I’m a thief! I’m just reclaiming my property.”

Catherine glanced back at Ji Ning, lips pursed as if she wanted to say more, but in the end, she let Afra tug her away.

After answering the agents’ questions, Ji Ning yawned his way back to the dorms, carefully omitting any mention of SCP-CN-655. Only a fool would flaunt their trump card.

“655, why so quiet lately?”

“Absorbing that serum takes time.”

“GHL7?”

“Yes.”

Ji Ning didn’t ask why SCP-CN-655 absorbed the serum. He suspected the entity had no concept of privacy and would answer any question posed, but Ji Ning still respected its secrets—he considered it a friend, despite how naïve and pitiable it sometimes seemed.

That night, Ji Ning dreamed only of those eyes—so utterly cold, their indifference buried deep within. The next day, he decided to invite the two girls to lunch in the dining hall.

“Do you both know Zhao Tianxing?” Ji Ning asked, swallowing a bite of steak. Not bad—well-done steak truly tested the chef’s skill. To cook it thoroughly without losing the beef’s juices or tenderness took great effort. Out of a thousand well-done steaks, five hundred ninety-nine would be tough as boot leather, four hundred would be charred to cinders, and only one would be perfectly juicy and tender.

“He was the student speaker at orientation. Professor Cadmus called him a sure candidate for the world’s saviors if calamity struck. At Deer Academy, he’s nicknamed ‘Starlight.’ He’s a rising star—the top of the new generation, except for you. Who wouldn’t know him?” Afra frowned. “Also, can you please finish chewing before you speak?”

“He’s that impressive? Are we really the only weaklings here?” Ji Ning deftly cut his marbled steak. In the past, he’d rarely have the chance to taste such delicacies flown in from Japan. Now, savoring both good food and good company, he took his time with every bite.

“He’s the only student to pass the C-rank evaluation upon admission. Though he’s only a junior now, if not for his solitary nature and his refusal of the student council’s olive branch, he’d be a shoo-in for president next year. And, by the way, he’s been voted Deer Academy’s ‘Dream Lover’ two years running—looking like a lock for a third.” Afra didn’t mind the jab at “us.” She was busy battling a bowl of mashed potatoes.

Ji Ning snorted. “He’s not that handsome—maybe just about equal to me. Looks like his reign might be challenged.”

“C-rank is typically only attainable by sophomores or juniors. It means you’re strong enough to handle half of the world’s anomalous incidents solo. He was already C-rank as a freshman. Many now think he’s achieved B-rank, or even A-rank,” Catherine said, spreading caviar on her bread, not even bothering to acknowledge the “Dream Lover” talk.

“What rank is Senior Irina? What’s the highest rank? Why are there ranks at all?”

“Ranks are proof of strength, and each comes with corresponding authority and responsibility. From A to F, there are six ranks; above them is S-rank, which is extremely hard to attain. Each year, only one graduating senior is nominated, and they must be approved by more than half the council before they can attempt the trial for S-rank. It’s been decades since anyone succeeded—the last time was thirty years ago, when a senior shut the Gates of Hell at Darvaza in Turkmenistan. Now, nothing but flames remain there—no more devils.”

“Apparently, Senior Irina is A-rank. Normally, A-ranks have graduated or become Academy instructors. They can handle eighty percent of the world’s anomalies alone. Graduation requires B-rank, meaning you can handle seventy percent solo.”

“What about you and Afra?”

“D-rank.”

“Sounds decent.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re the only one this year below D-rank.”

“No need to apologize—being unique is a typical protagonist trait.”

Ji Ning looked at their puzzled faces and thought, The cultural gap is still real. In the West, heroes are always sons of knights—prodigies who could swing a greatsword before they could walk. In China, you might start as a scoundrel, a sandal-seller, or a beggar, but rebellion against fate runs deep in our blood. Just as in the novels I’ve read, the most hopeless underdog is usually the hero.

“Would you like to hear a story? It’s about a Greek peasant with no background who, ninety years after the fall of Constantinople, rallied his countrymen to reclaim Greece, Anatolia, North Africa, the Italian Peninsula—a hundred years lost—and even reclaimed Iberia, Gaul, and Britain after a thousand years. He rebuilt the Roman Empire, making its people once again proud to call themselves Roman.” Ji Ning set down his cutlery, wiped his mouth, and prepared to tell them of those heroes who started with nothing and ended where no one could have imagined.

Afra and Catherine sat up with the eager anticipation of kindergarteners awaiting storytime.

“To be precise, the protagonist wasn’t even a peasant—he started with nothing but a bowl…” Ji Ning took a sip of water, and his voice trailed off…