Arknights: The Life Inside-Chapter 41

When Yoren walked out of the hospital, the sun hung high in the sky. Noon had passed, and his body ached from the relentless assault of ore disease. He made his way to a nearby park, the world around him a blur.

At this hour, the park was nearly empty. He staggered into a small grove, his legs weak, his breath ragged.

Gripping a tree for support—

"Ugh!"

A thick mouthful of blood surged up and spilled onto the ground. It was darker than before, almost black.

A deep, creeping weakness spread through him. The attacks came irregularly, but each time, they left his body more broken than before. His stomach twisted in agony, his insides burning.

And in that moment, he felt utterly alone.

Humans are social creatures by nature. We seek connection, a place where we belong. Being understood is a fundamental need.

It was like drawing a super rare operator in Arknights. The player base splits in two—those who get it and those who don't. If you get it but can't tell anyone, the joy feels hollow. The moment someone mentions it, the urge to say, "Me too!" is almost irresistible. We crave validation. We seek our place within the whole.

Compared to physical pain, compared to the hardships of life, loneliness is what humans fear most.

Stray cats survive just fine, but stray dogs? They wither. People sacrifice individuality just to fit in, not because of social morality, but because deep down, they cannot bear isolation.

Yoren clenched his fists, enduring the waves of pain. He had been completely severed from the world he once knew.

Kings stand above all, alone in their rule. Yet when history moves forward, their stories live on, debated by generations to come.

But Yoren? He had no such luxury. No one—not his family, not his friends, not even Zhang Yuan—could understand him.

He was truly alone.

For a fleeting moment, he wished Snowsant were here.

—

Half an hour passed before the agony finally subsided. Yoren emerged from the grove, his steps slow and unsteady. He stopped at a roadside stall and bought a bottle of mineral water.

He took a few gulps, swished the cold liquid around his mouth, then swallowed the rest in one go. With a sigh, he tossed the empty bottle into the trash.

An old man passing by suddenly stopped, reached into the bin, and picked it up.

A waste collector.

Yoren hadn't noticed him before. The old man struggled to retrieve the bottle, his frail hands fumbling.

Yoren opened his mouth to apologize, but the old man shot him a glare, threw the bottle into a nearby recycling bin, and scolded him loudly.

"Don't you know how to sort your garbage? This is recyclable! What kind of manners do you have, idiot!"

Yoren stood there, momentarily speechless. Since when had waste sorting become mandatory?

The world carried on as if nothing had changed. People worked, worried, argued over the most trivial things.

And for the first time, Yoren truly felt it—he no longer belonged here.

—

After retrieving his phone with its newly replaced screen, Yoren wandered the streets like a ghost.

He traced old paths—tree-lined walkways from his childhood, the familiar crossroads from his school days. He wasn't going anywhere. He just wanted to burn these images into his memory, to see the world one last time through the eyes of an ordinary person.

The sky burned red as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Dusk had come.

As he walked along a narrow path, a group of middle school students approached from the other direction, fresh from their last class of the day.

One of them clutched a phone while the others huddled around him, laughing and gesturing excitedly.

"You think you can clear this stage? I've tried so many times."

The chubby boy holding the phone pouted. "Watch me. I'll use my friend's E2 Sheep to carry me through. Then I'll be the first in our class to clear 3-8. You'll all have to call me 'Big Bro.'"

"Pfft, our class leader already cleared it two days ago."

The boy scowled, furiously tapping his screen. "Damn it, this stupid unit died again. Trash. Absolute trash."

Yoren glanced at them as he passed. Arknights was still popular, even after so many years. But the game itself no longer mattered to him. He had seen the real Terra. He had fought there. Lived there.

And in doing so, he had come to understand something—

There were no weak operators. No useless ones. Whether low-star or six-star, every last one of them was an Ark Knight, standing together, protecting Rhodes Island, holding on to the last fragments of hope.

"Damn it!" the fat boy cursed again. "These operators are trash!"

His friend smirked. "You need someone tankier. Swap SilverAsh for Croissant. She can take the hits."

The fat boy scoffed. "Please. A lousy four-star over my boss Silver? Get real."

"It's not about who's stronger. You need someone who can take the damage. If you don't listen, you'll just keep losing."

The fat boy folded his arms. "Tch. Like hell I'm using a low-star unit. That's an insult to a whale like me. Croissant's worthless. She's just a punching bag. If I could, I'd scrap her. She's the worst operator ever."

—Snap—

The next second, his phone vanished from his hands.

Yoren stood in front of him, face shadowed, holding the device in a death grip.

The students froze.

The fat boy's eyes widened. "Who the hell are you?! Give me back my phone!"

Yoren's fingers tightened around the phone. He said nothing.

The fat boy sneered. "Oh, I get it. You're some broke loser who steals phones. Do you even know who my dad is?"

Still silent, Yoren lifted the phone in front of the boy's face.

—Snap. Snap. Snap.—

Piece by piece, he crushed the Xiaomi MIX3 with his bare hand. The screen shattered. The metal frame twisted. Sharp fragments tore into his palm, drawing fresh blood.

Yet his expression remained unchanged.

—Bang—

The battery exploded, the casing splitting apart. Smoke curled into the air. The students yelped and stumbled back.

Yoren shook out his hand, ignoring the burnt flesh, the blood dripping onto the pavement.

His voice was calm.

"Croissant isn't weak. She is the strongest operator in all of Terra."

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving the stunned students behind.

The fat boy stared at the smoking remnants of his phone, his voice trembling.

"What the hell—Did I just run into a psycho? Someone call the cops! Someone lend me a phone, I need to call my dad!"

—

Yoren wandered along the river, the golden light of the sunset casting long shadows across the water.

Blood dripped from his fingers, staining the pavement. He barely felt it. This pain was nothing. Not compared to what he had endured.

Pain was proof of life.

The river shimmered, reflecting the last rays of daylight.

And on the other side, someone stood waiting.

Zhang Yuan.

At some point, he had found Yoren. His eyes lingered on Yoren's wounded hand, his expression unreadable.

Then, softly, he spoke.

"Yoren, are you planning to disappear from this world again—without a word?"

"Yoren, are you going to disappear from this world again without anyone knowing?"

Under the setting sun, the two figures by the river looked like protagonists pulled from the pages of a literary novel. The difference was that these were two men.

Yoren looked at Zhang Yuan quietly.

"Why do you ask that?"

Zhang Yuan stepped forward, fists clenched.

"You've been acting strange for days. Did you think I wouldn't notice? The splatter on your walls wasn't tomato juice—it was blood. There were traces of it on the floor, the bathroom. You cleaned up, but not well enough."

"So what?"

"You haven't come to class since we talked about those second-year lines on the school rooftop. No one answered your calls. I went to your house every day, and no one was ever home. So, I put a piece of tape on your door."

Zhang Yuan grabbed Yoren by the collar, voice unsteady.

"Tell me, why was the tape still in place when I came by this morning? Your door was never opened. How did you get in? Did you climb through the window? Your apartment is on the fourth floor."

Yoren stared, momentarily stunned by Zhang Yuan's deduction. Then, he burst into laughter.

"Hahahahahaha."

"What the hell are you laughing at?"

They had been best friends since high school, bonded by something deeper than simple camaraderie. They understood each other because, at their core, they were the same kind of people.

Zhang Yuan had a knack for getting along with anyone—top students, school bullies, slackers, and misfits alike. He had this infuriating ability to drag people down to his level of foolishness and then beat them with experience. To outsiders, he was an unserious loser, a class clown who never knew when to shut up.

But Yoren knew better.

Great wisdom often wore the mask of foolishness. Zhang Yuan wasn't just playing the fool—he had an instinct for people, a way of seeing past their defenses. And after years of inseparable friendship, he had long since figured Yoren out.

Yoren, on the other hand, was stubborn to the bone. Once he set his mind on something, he pursued it to the bitter end, no matter how reckless or ill-advised it seemed. He refused to be swayed by others, indifferent to public opinion. That defiance, that refusal to be bound by convention, was something Zhang Yuan deeply admired.

A person's energy is limited. Yoren couldn't exist in two worlds at once. But from the outside, Zhang Yuan had seen the change in him.

Maybe, on that rooftop, he had already noticed. Those lines weren't just second-year nonsense—he had seen Yoren's hesitation. Even if he didn't understand, he had still chosen to encourage him in his own ridiculous way.

That's what brothers did.

Now, though, seeing Yoren like this—like he was barely holding on—Zhang Yuan couldn't keep his doubts to himself any longer.

"Yoren, stop laughing. I'm serious. If you don't explain, I'll follow you. You won't be able to go anywhere without me."

"Hahahahahahahaha."

"Fine! You want to act crazy? I'll go crazy with you! Hahahahahahaha..."

"Alright. I'll tell you."

"Ha ha ha ha?"

Yoren looked at Zhang Yuan and smiled. A quiet, tired smile. There was relief in it.

"I never intended to keep it from you. Or rather, you're the only one in this world who would believe me. So listen—I'm going to tell you everything."

For Yoren, this wasn't just an explanation.

It was a confession.

To him, the world was a raging blizzard, suffocating and endless. He was nothing more than a flickering flame, small and fragile, out of place in this cold expanse.

But telling Zhang Yuan the truth was like tossing firewood into that struggling flame, allowing it to burn just a little brighter, freeing him from the loneliness that had threatened to consume him.

They sat side by side by the river, the water reflecting the fading light.

Yoren spoke in a calm, almost detached tone, like he was recounting a half-remembered dream.

"It all started with my phone."

"Your phone?"

"Yeah."

Then, he told Zhang Yuan everything.

How he was pulled into the world of Terra, how he met Frost Nova and Truth, how he joined Vina's Glasgow Gang. How he traveled to Mandel City with Brother ACE and his crew, how he met Snowsant along the way. The infected organization [Black Forest], the blood-soaked battle against Red Knife Big Bob and his men. And finally, how Ifrit had appeared—how, in the moment of disaster, he had been yanked back into this world.

The story ended abruptly, like a book slammed shut in the middle of a sentence.

For a long moment, Zhang Yuan said nothing. He just stared, his expression shifting from disbelief to something unreadable.

Yoren sighed. "Alright. I'm done. Whether you believe it or not—"

Zhang Yuan raised a hand.

"Wait. I have a question. No—actually, I have too many questions, and I don't even know where to start." He took a deep breath, then locked eyes with Yoren. "So, I just want to confirm one thing."

"What's that?"

"You're going back."

Yoren hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah."

Stars flickered in Zhang Yuan's eyes, like a child begging to go on an adventure.

"Take me with you."

Yoren blinked. He had expected Zhang Yuan to believe him—he was the only person who would. But he hadn't expected this.

"You want to go too?"

"Yeah."

"You do realize you might get infected?"

"Of course I do. But I still want to go." Zhang Yuan grinned. "After all, that world has my beloved Operators."

Yoren stared at him, at his reckless excitement, his unwavering determination.

And in that moment, he understood.

If the phone had chosen Zhang Yuan instead of him, maybe the story would have been different. Maybe Zhang Yuan would have found a way to avoid the dangers Yoren had fallen into. Maybe he would have done better.

Maybe, right now, their roles would have been reversed—Zhang Yuan telling his story, Yoren listening with stars in his eyes.

But there was no maybe in life.

Yoren was the one who had been chosen.

And that was why he wouldn't take Zhang Yuan with him. He wouldn't drag his best friend into danger. Not now. Not until he was strong enough to guarantee their safety.

Maybe, one day, when he had the power to survive anything that world threw at him, he would take Zhang Yuan on a trip.

But only if he lived long enough to see that day.

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