Little Pink Starfish

“I am willing to take up arms for the safety of humanity.”
“I will judge every compatriot with justice.”
“Though it may be wrong, it is still right.”

Polly slowly recited these words.
“The Oath of the Tribunal,” he said.

An Zhe was stunned. He had heard the last line of this oath before.
After coughing up those two mouthfuls of blood, his body had strangely become lighter. His senses were gradually dulling. The harsh winter wind no longer made him shiver—it felt ethereal, as though he might vanish into the wind at any moment. He propped himself up again, leaning on the railing, looking down at the two badges.

The regular hexagonal badge was engraved with a pattern. The Tribunal’s symbol was two intersecting prismatic stars, resembling directional icons on a map. The stars pointing due north, south, east, and west were slightly larger, with the southern star extended downward into a shape resembling a cross. The stars pointing northeast, southeast, southwest, and northwest were smaller, hidden beneath the main star.

An Zhe had gazed at this sharp, angular design many times before—the dark silver, the cold metallic texture, the pointed star tips, and straight lines—all exuded a chilling sense of justice and severity.

Polly’s fingers traced over the star’s surface. Perhaps he had outlined its shape many times; the design on the badge was deeply worn.

“I had a colleague who drafted its design,” Polly said, staring into the distant night sky through the howling wind. “We hoped the star would point humanity toward the right direction.”

“You… weren’t you a scientist from the Integrationist faction?” An Zhe asked softly.

“I am,” Polly replied.

His tone was soft, like a sigh. “I was the head of the Integrationists… and the founder of the Tribunal. The Integrationists were the predecessor of the Tribunal.”

An Zhe suddenly recalled the long corridor in the Tribunal, where portraits of every generation of Judges lined the wall, marked with their names and dates. The frame at the end had been removed, the name and dates scraped off, leaving only a blurry letter “P.” That was the record of the first Judge, erased for unknown reasons.

The Northern Base was a place of mixed races. An Zhe never knew what language “Polly” was from, but vaguely he could spell it into “Polly.”

But in his mind, the beliefs of the Integrationists and the Tribunal were entirely opposed—one sought safe fusion between humans and monsters, the other mercilessly executed all hybrid beings attempting to enter the base. The contradiction was irreconcilable, and he didn’t even know where to begin asking.

Polly said, “It was an accidental incident.”

An Zhe had heard many recount the history of the base. Those calm narrations were like lamps in a dark room. With each lamp he lifted, he illuminated another corner, slowly piecing together the room’s entirety.

“Whether someone retains their will after infection seems to depend on chance. But we believed that everything in nature followed patterns—we simply hadn’t yet seen the laws. Our research went deeper and deeper, and increasingly insane,” Polly said, closing his eyes as pain flickered across his face. “One test subject inexplicably split into two bodies—sharing no unified consciousness. One half escaped the lab, the other remained in the observation chamber. Because the remaining half appeared to be normal, we failed to notice… and the escaped half caused catastrophic disaster.”

An Zhe knew that disaster. A leech had contaminated the entire water source of the Outer City.

“The Outer City was fully exposed. The base had to distinguish between hybrids and humans, and eliminate the former. The Integrationists were blamed—but we were the ones most familiar with monsters and the difference between hybrids and humans,” Polly said.

In that moment, An Zhe understood something: the Tribunal was not originally a military institution—it was under the Lighthouse.

“All projects were shut down. Samples destroyed. Test subjects executed. But the base still gave the Integrationists a chance to atone. Overnight, we formed the Tribunal, drafted the code of judgment, and conducted trials throughout the city. In those ten days, we killed half the base’s population,” Polly said slowly. “The infection was contained. The purity of the human genome was preserved. Later… the judgment system endured. The catastrophe at Virginia Base further proved it was necessary.”

“I spent ten years as an Integrationist. Four as a Judge,” Polly said. His expression turned bitter—a smile that looked more like silent weeping. “I only ever wanted everyone to live in peace… yet every day was slaughter.”

An Zhe said, “But you protected the base.”

“No,” Polly said. “I slaughtered innocents.”

“You followed the Code. Judged by rules. That’s not indiscriminate killing.”

“There is no Code,” Polly said quietly.

An Zhe froze for a moment, stunned. “There’s no…”

“Not precisely,” Polly sighed. “We used external signs—appearance, behavior, thoughts—information collected biologically and behaviorally, but we could never be certain. The so-called Code could only identify 80 percent. The rest relied on instinct, experience… and an expanded execution policy: better to kill the innocent than let a hybrid slip through.”

“The first and unbreakable rule of the Code is that it must never be revealed to the outside. The Tribunal never fully followed the Code—we always left room for collateral damage,” Polly’s voice grew low. “When I stood at the Outer City gate, each time I executed a life, there was an 80 percent chance it was truly a hybrid. But 20 percent… I knew there was a high chance it was a human. Still, I pulled the trigger. Of that 80 percent, one in ten thousand might have retained human consciousness; 1 in 6,500 might regain it after years.”

His voice cracked. “I still can’t bear to remember those four years.”

An Zhe imagined such a scene. He pictured himself as a Judge.

“So you left the base?” he asked.

“I couldn’t fight the pain inside. In the war between humans and hybrids, I didn’t last,” Polly looked up at the night sky. After a long silence, he said, “At first, I suffered from killing my own. Later… even the death of a hybrid tormented me. I’d lived among them too long. I knew each monster had a life. My hands were stained with blood—I was guilty. Eventually, I and a colleague defected. We came to the Highlands Institute to resume the Integrationist research. We accepted hybrids. I’ve been atoning ever since. It’s been a hundred years.”

A hundred years.

An Zhe looked at him, faintly confused.

Seeing his puzzlement, Polly smiled slightly. “I’ve lived too long.”

“In the wild, infection is inevitable,” he said, rolling up his sleeve. A patch of dark, chaotic markings covered his right arm. “I was accidentally infected by another Institute member. I left before losing consciousness.”

“But maybe because that person was lucid—or fate was kind—I woke up,” Polly said with a small smile. “I thought only a few seconds had passed. But it had been decades. My mind seemed to cross time in an instant. Guess where I was?”

An Zhe shook his head.

“I was still in the Institute,” Polly said. “They found me. Even though I had become a monster without consciousness, they didn’t abandon me. I once protected them—so they protected me. That’s human affection: you get what you give. In this era, trust among humans is more valuable than life. But I was given that trust.”

An Zhe saw the gentle calm in Polly’s eyes. Only now did he understand why the bond between Polly and the others at the Institute ran so deep.

“I don’t regret leaving the base,” Polly said, “but I can never forgive my cowardice.”

An Zhe said, “Because you’re noble.”

Then added, “Because you’re too kind.”

Polly loved everyone—so he suffered. In a peaceful era, he would have been someone who wouldn’t even crush an ant. Such a person… had to point a gun at his own kind.

“Kindness… is humanity’s greatest weakness,” Polly said. “Being kind to oneself starts selfishness; being kind to others weakens faith. I couldn’t be utterly ruthless. I was never fit to be a Judge.”

A long silence followed.

Thinking about Polly’s words, An Zhe frowned slightly, thinking of someone.

“But one Judge once told me,” An Zhe said gently, “The source of a Judge’s belief isn’t ruthlessness—it’s mercy. Not mercy toward one person, but toward the fate of all humanity. If you truly believe in the supremacy of human interests, you won’t waver.”

Polly looked at him and said quietly, “How can one believe so unwaveringly?”

“If not every person carries kindness in their heart,” he said slowly, “how could anyone commit their life to humanity’s greater good?”

An Zhe froze.

His hand trembled. He finally understood why every time he faced Polly, he was reminded of Lu Feng.

Polly closed his eyes. “That is the root of every Judge’s torment.”

“To abandon compassion, to slaughter without restraint—executed by the base. Or to stay conscious, but eventually fall into madness under the weight of pain. Those are the only two fates for a Judge,” Polly said. “From the moment the Code was created, their doom was sealed.”

An Zhe couldn’t describe how he felt at that moment. He found it hard to breathe and looked down at the cross-shaped badge in his hand.

“If… if there was a Judge,” he said, “who has stayed clear-minded for many years, guarding the city gate, whose judgments have never been wrong…”

Suddenly, his voice trembled. “Everyone hates him, because while other Judges kill dozens each year, he kills thousands. But… but not because he enjoys killing. It’s because when he pulls the trigger, the chance of a mistake is the lowest.”

He understood now. He finally understood. A chill ran down his spine.

He asked Polly, “What kind of person would he be?”

Polly’s answer was shockingly simple.

“He would be a lonely person,” he said.

Something came crashing down inside An Zhe, like a giant stone rolling through his heart.

He couldn’t speak for a long time, until Polly asked, “What are you thinking?”

“I…” Mist rose in An Zhe’s eyes. “I’m thinking… I’m thinking…”

He was thinking of Lu Feng.

He had once believed Lu Feng to be cold and heartless, but also admired his unwavering beliefs. He knew that for the sake of humanity’s distant fate, Colonel Lu would dedicate his life. He never imagined that Lu Feng might feel pain or loneliness. But tonight, at last—when they were separated by thousands of miles, never to meet again—he understood Lu Feng completely.

“I know which Judge you mean. Tang Lan mentioned him to me many times. If I could, I’d like to meet him,” Polly said.

“He…” An Zhe clenched the badge in his palm. Tears finally fell. “He was a Judge for seven years. He killed many people… everyone hated him.”

“But he treated me very well,” he smiled, his eyes hot and his nose red. “He treated everyone very well.”

“You call yourself a complete monster,” Polly said. “But as a Judge, I haven’t seen how you’re different from a human. What about that Judge?”

“He wasn’t sure,” An Zhe’s fingers trembled as he looked toward the distant mountain range. “The first time we met, he let me go.”

“Sir,” he asked, “if a Judge lets a hybrid go once, would he do it a second time?”

Polly’s eyes remained gentle.

“He let me go a second time. Many times,” An Zhe said. “Later, he knew I was a hybrid.”

“But…” He wanted to say more, but couldn’t. His heart felt clutched tight by an invisible hand. He wanted to break free, but couldn’t.

“I’m sorry…” he choked, unable to form a full sentence. “I… every time I think of him, I just… want to cry.”

Polly pulled him into his arms. “Don’t cry, child.”

“Live on,” he said. “You will see him again.”

“I won’t,” An Zhe clutched Polly’s arm, as if it were the last lifeline in a storm. He couldn’t stop his tears. Finally, he shut his eyes and rested his forehead against Polly’s shoulder. “I’d rather… I’d rather never have met him.”

“Why?”

An Zhe couldn’t answer.

“You can tell me anything, child,” Polly said gently. “There’s no need to lie to me, or to yourself.”

An Zhe’s throat tightened, and he cried harder. He didn’t understand human kinship, but holding Polly, he seemed to understand it. He felt like he was holding a kind father, a compassionate priest, or a forgiving god. He knelt in Yahweh’s temple, able to confess everything—not to anyone else, but to himself.

“I…” He opened his mouth. His whole body trembled from pain. His mind was blank, but he finally broke through the wall of emotion and blurted, “I want to see him…”

“I want to see him.” He repeated it desperately. “I want to see him, sir. I want to see him. I don’t regret leaving him. But I… I regret it so much.”

“I know… I know,” Polly gently patted his back, comforting him.

“You don’t…” An Zhe said. His words contradicted themselves. His emotions were in shreds. Grief drowned his soul like a vast ocean. If this unrelenting sorrow of longing killed him, he wouldn’t be surprised.

“I’ve lived many more decades than you, child,” Polly said. “You’re still young. There’s much you don’t know.”

“I…” An Zhe looked up blankly. He couldn’t argue or debate. There was indeed something building in his chest—ungraspable and unclear—but impossible to describe.

His gaze went past Polly’s shoulder to the boundless night sky.

“I don’t know… what?”

Thump thump.

In the silence, An Zhe heard his own heartbeat. A sudden premonition struck him—that what Polly was about to say might change his life.

He heard Polly’s breath.

“You don’t know,” in the stillness, Polly said, “that you love him.”

An Zhe’s eyes widened.

In that instant, the aurora shifted. Deep green light surged like waves across the sky, from south to north, fading and rebirthing.

He trembled violently.

An intense intuition struck his soul like a meteor, and the brilliance lit up everything. He didn’t fully know what those three words meant, but he knew they were true.

He was stunned. Even his grief disappeared. He stared blankly at the distant aurora.

Until Polly released him and gently wiped his tears with a handkerchief.

“But why would I feel this way?” he murmured.

Before he could get an answer, another question overtook him.

“Then… then would he love me?” he looked at Polly as if pleading. “Would he love me? I’m… I’m a hybrid.”

“Did he ever say anything to you?”

An Zhe shook his head. Their time together had been heartbreakingly short. “But he kissed me.”

He didn’t know what that kiss meant. At that moment, words were powerless. That was all they could do.

“You’re still alive,” Polly said. “Did he let you go?”

“I left him. He was always a proper Judge. I knew he wouldn’t let me go,” An Zhe said quietly. “At the time, I just wanted to leave and find a place to die. But his gun ended up in my backpack. That’s how I got back to the Abyss.”

“His gun ended up in your backpack?” Polly repeated.

An Zhe nodded lightly, a faint smile flickering in his eyes. “His things always end up in my stuff.”

Polly gently stroked his hair.

“You should know, silly child,” Polly said, “a Judge’s gun never leaves his side. That’s a rule from a hundred years ago.”

An Zhe looked into his eyes, biting his lip hard.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I really don’t.”

“For whatever reason,” Polly said, “he must love you.”

“Would a Judge fall in love with a hybrid?”

“I don’t know,” Polly said. “But I’ve lived with many hybrids for a hundred years—if you still think I deserve to be called a Judge.”

Looking into those all-knowing grey-blue eyes, An Zhe thought: Polly surely knew why Lu Feng could love him. But he didn’t dare ask. Polly wouldn’t say it if he didn’t want to.

Images flashed in An Zhe’s mind—at the city gate, a woman who lost her husband cursed him to die a terrible death. At the supply station, bullets pierced Dussel’s skull from behind as she fell forward. Countless silhouettes flashed before him—screams, fear, love. Dark shadows rose, reached upward, piling hatred and fear to push one man to the top of a wind-swept peak to oversee the living.

No one approached him. No one knew him. Those who loved him preferred to build a fake puppet with all their wealth rather than speak a single word to him.

As for a Judge’s pity or affection? That was something no one dared wish for. It was a terrifying and unimaginable honor.

As a hybrid distinct from humans, An Zhe had vaguely wished for it. And he had received it.

At least in that moment—when Lu Feng left his gun in his backpack—there had been one second in the billions of years where a Judge had left his weapon to a hybrid. He betrayed his life’s belief, for love.

Then, like the children’s fairytales, the clock struck twelve. One returned to the Abyss, the other to the base.

As if a sandstorm had settled, the dust fell with the chime of the clock. An Zhe’s heartbeat slowly returned to normal. He had received an unimaginable gift, yet felt at peace.

He felt that it was enough. Everything was enough.

“If one day, humanity is safe, and you see him again,” he told Polly, “please… don’t tell him I was here.”

Polly said, “No one can lie to a Judge.”

“Then tell him I was here… but I’ve left,” An Zhe said. “I’ve gone far away. I could be anywhere in the world.”

Polly looked at him with gentle, sorrowful eyes.

“I truly hope God watches over you both,” he said.

An Zhe slowly shook his head.

“But I can’t love him. And he can’t love me,” An Zhe said softly.
“Unless—unless the day comes when humanity is destroyed. But I hope that day never comes.”

In that moment, peace enveloped him.

From the gaps in the aurora and clouds, countless translucent flakes of light-blue ice began to fall. They drifted downward, and the silent mountains and night came alive with their dance—it was snowing.

An Zhe reached out. A hexagonal snowflake landed on his finger. The beautiful shape melted in his warmth into a clear droplet.

“I’ve known you all for three months,” he said. “But… this is my whole life.”

The wind howled louder. Thousands of snowflakes swirled into the grey corridor like spring breezes stirring willow fluff. An Zhe looked up. Everything he had forgotten seemed to unfold before him, drifting like sparkling fragments.

The waves and tides stilled. It wasn’t sadness or joy. He only thought the snow was beautiful.

All his life’s joy and sorrow, meetings and partings—like all things that come into being and vanish—were just fleeting snowflakes.

“Cold?”

“Not anymore.”

He remembered the shape of that snowflake. In that one second, he had found eternity.
The aurora illuminated the Abyss.

From the lab came the sudden sound of shattering glass.