Amidst the Waves [Wuthering Waves]

A/N and Upcoming Changes at the end.

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The moon cloaked the land of Sol III in a delicate gossamer of silver, its light threading through the fog that clung to the earth like a restless phantom unwilling to depart.

At the heart of Mt. Firmament, a dimly lit room flickered with the fragile glow of a paper lantern, its trembling light a lone firefly defying the unyielding expanse of shadowy Hongzhen.

Inside, Kyorin sat cross-legged, his presence as immovable as if he were hewn from the mountain itself. His breathing followed a rhythm that mirrored the steady cadence of an unseen cosmic heartbeat, each inhale and exhale tethered to a vast, incomprehensible infinity.

His hands rested on his knees, fingers moving through a series of mudras, each gesture as deliberate as if he were stitching the fabric of existence one thread at a time.

With the Padma Mudra cradling his heart, his hands unfolded like a lotus unfurling its petals to the sun.

As stillness settled over him, tears charted silent paths down his porcelain face, glistening trails illuminated by the lantern's fragile glow.

His stoic mask softened, and for a fleeting moment, a smile bloomed—a quiet thaw against the winter of his demeanour.

Within the depths of his consciousness, DEVA stirred, her mechanical presence breaking the stillness like a pebble dropped into a placid pond. "Is that... a smile? That frozen mask of yours can crack?"

Her crimson lens pulsed faintly, flickering like a candle in the wind as if mirroring her bemusement. Intrigued, DEVA materialised outside form Kyroin's consciousness, hovering in her orb form, DEVA's focus honed in on him with analytical precision.

"Should I immortalize this moment for posterity?" she mused, her voice tinged with mischief, though the faint hum of her circuits betrayed a hint of curiosity.

As her mechanical form hovered before him, DEVA's lens flashed repeatedly, capturing the scene in vivid detail. "Ha, caught in 16K," she spat, a satisfied edge to her tone, her circuits buzzing with the thrill of her momentary triumph.

As a single tear fell from Kyorin's cheek, landing in his open palm, the room grew heavy with an unspoken resonance.

The droplet, insignificant on its own, seemed to hum with the pulse of the universe itself. Kyorin's breathing shifted, transcending mortal rhythm to align with the primordial cadence of existence.

Drawn by an unseen force, a tendril of cerulean energy spiralled out from DEVA's core and merged with the tear resting in Kyorin's hand.

His Tacet Mark ignited in a subdued greyish glow, strands of his hair radiating crimson-like molten threads.

As cerulean and crimson entwined, they coalesced into an ethereal amethyst light that pulsed with a power beyond comprehension—a paradoxical union of calm and chaos.

DEVA's circuits recalibrated, the resonance vibrating through her mechanical core. For the first time, her tone shifted to something bordering reverence.

"Aether…" she whispered her voice a fragile echo of awe. The quintessence energy, a force so rare it bordered on the mythical, now surged between them, binding them to a silent understanding.

But as Kyorin transitioned into the Granthita Mudra, the air itself seemed to shudder, laden with trepidation.

Suddenly, a violent discharge of energy erupted, splitting the room with a thunderous crack. The intertwined amethyst energy convulsed, and its radiant unity shattered in an instant.

Streams of light burst apart, severing into distinct hues—crimson blazing like a defiant sun, and cerulean shimmering with the serenity of a twilight sea.

The cerulean surged back toward DEVA, coiling around her core like a protective embrace, while the crimson lingered, drawn inexorably to Kyorin as if it were a tether to his very soul.

The tremor subsided as abruptly as it had begun, leaving behind a fragile stillness, like the quiet after a storm

Dust motes hung suspended in the air, caught in the dim glow of fading energy, as though the room itself held its breath as Kyorin's mind erupted into chaos.

Unknown visions flooded his consciousness—a desolate Mt. Firmament shrouded in rain and ruin. Tacet Discords rampaged across the barren landscape, their chaos etching scars of ash and despair into the earth.

Amid the devastation, he saw her—Xia. Her lifeless form lay still, her vacant eyes locked on him with an unspoken plea.

"Mother," he uttered, the word escaping like a breath lost to the wind. Hollow and detached, it carried none of the warmth the title should have held.

*Chirp—Chirp—*

The singing of birds echoed through the air, their melodies a soft symphony as the illumination of dawn blazed over the horizon, enveloping Kyorin in its golden embrace.

His vision dissolved into the pale light of morning. His eyes fluttered open as DEVA's crimson lens greeted him.

"So, you can cry," she remarked, her voice laced with an exaggerated surprise that bordered on mockery. "Fascinating."

"Why? Does that surprise you?" Kyorin replied, his words measured and devoid of tone, falling into the quiet like stones sinking into still water.

"Well, throughout all wuthering waves, this is groundbreaking," DEVA quipped, her voice laced with her usual sardonic amusement.

Kyorin began to retort but stopped himself. "You know, for a machine, you—" The sentence lingered, unfinished.

"What?" DEVA pressed, her tone sharp with curiosity.

"It's nothing," he said, dismissing the thought as he rose and made his way outside. DEVA's hovering form tilted, her circuits humming with curiosity.

"What was that?" she wondered aloud, her crimson lens following Kyorin's figure as he headed toward the basin.

At the basin, he caught sight of his reflection. Tears still clung to his face like droplets from a fleeting storm. Slowly, he wiped them away, his movements detached, methodical.

"Hmm, I never realized that I could display such stupidity," he muttered to himself, the words slipping free with the weight of realization.

The cold water splashed against his skin, a jarring clarity in its touch, before he dried his face with a towel.

Stepping outside, the world greeted him with the golden embrace of morning light. Xia stood there, her presence as warm and steadfast as the dawn itself.

"Good morning, dear," she greeted, her voice carrying the gentle cadence of unconditional affection.

"Good morning, Mother," Kyorin replied, his tone soft but distant, a faint echo of the warmth she offered.

Unlike the hollow detachment of his vision, this greeting carried the faintest thread of attachment—fragile, like the light of a lantern struggling to resist the encroaching dark.

Xia nodded, her gaze steady, as though nothing was different or out of the ordinary. Kyorin had always held some semblance of attachment to her—or was it just her perception?

"Do you want to have breakfast?" she asked gently.

Kyorin shook his head. "No, I have some business today."

"Hmm?" Xia raised a brow, intrigued, but didn't press further. Instead, she simply said, "Be careful."

Kyorin nodded, stepping outside. As he moved through the door, the familiar sound of the singing blade greeted his ears.

He turned his gaze to find Changli practising her swordplay. "Ah," she spotted him before calling out, "Good morning, Ky-chan."

"I've told you not to call me that," Kyorin replied simply, continuing on his path.

Changli, momentarily puzzled, wondered what he was up to but quickly returned to her practice, the rhythm of her swordplay taking precedence.

From the roof of the house, Xuanmiao observed Kyorin with narrowed eyes. "Something is odd," he muttered under his breath. His resonance had grown slightly stronger. 'Is he about to awaken for a second time?'

Yesterday's words echoed in his mind: "I trust myself enough to believe that I can achieve the cognitive flexibility and adaptability which you label as a whimsical approach."

Xuanmiao's expression softened into a worried smile, but behind that gentle curve lingered a tempest—an exhilaration that danced on the edge of restraint. How long had it been since something truly interesting whispered its promise on the horizon?

As Xuanmiao watched Kyorin's retreating figure dissolve into the waking Hongzhen, his mind clung to the prospect of the afternoon, where the threads of fate seemed ready to unravel into chaos or clarity.

Meanwhile, Kyorin walked through Hongzhen, a city shedding its dreams as dawn's light fractured the misty veil above.

The streets buzzed with life, a symphony of sizzling food carts and bartering voices, their melodies weaving survival into the air.

The scent of damp stone mingled with the tang of fried batter, forming a mosaic of contrasts—vibrant yet burdened, alive yet fleeting.

He moved like a ghost tethered to mortality, his steps soundless and deliberate. His eyes were as opaque as frosted glass, betraying no emotion, a paradox of presence and absence.

At this moment, the weight of his first life brushed against his thoughts, a spectre trailing behind him. He could still hear his master's voice, cold as the void between stars: "Forsake meaningless connections and emotions."

Those words, once an iron mantra, now seemed brittle. "Meaningless emotions," he muttered inwardly, as though tasting their bitterness for the first time.

His teacher's icy demeanour had sculpted a younger Kyorin from his first life into a mirror of himself—a mask of frost, unyielding yet hollow. But Kyorin now saw the flaw in that reflection.

Like rust creeping along ancient chains, social connections had worn away his misconceptions. Through the warmth of companionship, he had glimpsed a truth: emotions were not burdens to discard but bridges to transcendence.

A faint memory flickered—his second life, one marred by abandonment and isolation. His mother's absence had been a black hole, devouring his trust in others and his faith in bonds. Yet, even that void could not grant him the transcendence he sought.

The streets blurred around him as his mind spiralled further, landing on the chaos of Yang Niu Village. The memory was jagged, a shard of glass that refused to dull.

It was then he had wielded Deathcement, severing himself from emotion to survive. But survival had come at a price—a life spent staring into the abyss behind his mask.

Now, as the crowd's fleeting smiles and laughter swirled around him, Kyorin felt the final cracks in those chains. Their simple joys mocked the frigid shield he had built, daring him to step beyond it.

A flicker of a smile—a whisper of warmth—almost graced his lips. But he smothered it before it could bloom as he spotted his targets.

Across the street, two familiar figures lingered in a shadow-drenched alley. The goons who had once trailed his mother were stains on the fabric of this morning's vibrancy. Their faces, etched into his memory like carvings on stone, ignited a quiet storm within him.

Kyorin approached, his mask shifting like a kaleidoscope. Gone was the cold indifference; in its place stood the innocence of a curious child.

His voice, soft and lilting, carried the weight of a question wrapped in velvet. "Excuse me, uncles. Could you help me with a demonstration?"

The men turned their expressions into an uneasy mix of confusion and wariness. One sneered, his voice a rasp. "What's with the kid? Too clean to be wandering alone."

The other squinted, suspicion growing like a storm cloud. "Wait… that face. Aren't you—"

Kyorin cut him off, his smile disarming as sunlight. "Let's put the past behind us. This is just a little experiment. Please?"

Their scepticism was a fortress, yet Kyorin's tone chipped away at its walls. "We're not playing games, kid. Beat it," the first one barked.

Kyorin sighed, an exaggerated melody of disappointment. The childlike innocence melted away, replaced by a predator's gaze cloaked in pity. "That's unfortunate," he murmured, his voice now laced with iron. "I wasn't asking."

In the blink of an eye, Kyorin moved—a tempest unleashed. His body, a chimaera of human grace and monstrous strength, tore through their defences with the ease of a blade through silk.

[A/N: Remember, Kyorin has consumed the blood of TDs by devouring Fractsidus, and that blood has amalgamated with his own, which could classify him as a Chimera.]

Each blow landed with a symphony of cracks and gasps, his movements an art form of violence. Yet his face betrayed an unsettling joy, his expression that of a child unwrapping a gift.

"You'll participate, won't you?" he asked, his voice dripping with sweetness that turned their blood to ice.

By the time they crumpled to the ground, bruised and battered, compliance was their only option. "Fine! Fine, we'll do it!" one groaned, clutching his ribs.

Kyorin straightened, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves with a casual elegance. His mask shifted once more, returning to the innocence of before. "Good," he said cheerfully, his voice light as a breeze.

"At the Ridges around afternoon. Be present," Kyorin said, his tone laced with an innocence so disarming it felt like a promise of treasure waiting to be claimed.

Yet beneath that childlike facade, a storm brewed—silent, calculated, and unrelenting.

As he turned to leave, he delivered one last punch. It wasn't a strike born of rage or necessity but a calculated flourish, as deliberate as the final note in a symphony.

The impact resonated like a drumbeat of finality, a punctuation mark to his unyielding dominance, and a warning to be present even if the world was about to end.

The goons crumpled further, clutching their bruised forms, the weight of his message sinking deeper than any wound as they retreted.

As they left, from the shadows, DEVA emerged, her circuits humming with unease. "What are you doing?" she asked, her tone sharp as a blade.

Kyorin didn't look at her. "So, you were following me." His voice was now like a winter wind—cold, detached, and biting. This was the Kyorin she was accustomed to.

DEVA remained silent, her crimson lens fixed on Kyorin as the tension between them stretched like an overdrawn bowstring.

Without turning to face her, Kyorin's cold, detached voice cut through the stillness. "Are you surprised at me showcasing emotions again?"

"Hah!" DEVA's lenses flickered, a mechanical scoff escaping her. "As if, I could tell you weren't showing real emotions. That was a façade. You weaponized them," she snapped. Her voice carried both accusation and disbelief. "What's gotten into you?"

Kyorin turned, his expression unreadable. "Thank you," he said, his voice devoid of warmth, yet tinged with something that made her circuits stutter—a paradoxical sincerity.

He stepped closer, prompting DEVA to hover back, her frame now pressing against the wall. Kyorin's hand slammed beside her, his presence an eclipse that swallowed her confidence.

"You've taught me something," he said, his voice steady yet carrying the weight of realization. A faint smile curved his lips, like the first break of sunlight after a long, frigid night. "I don't need to be emotionless to conceal my feelings."

He stepped back, his expression softening into a mix of gratitude and playfulness, offering her a smile edged with sincerity and a wink that lingered like the last note of a song.

Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving her amidst the echoes of his gratitude.

For a moment, DEVA was silent. Her ancient mind, forged from the precision of logic and the cold arithmetic of calculations, faltered in the face of what had just unfolded.

"Those emotions..." she murmured to herself, replaying the interaction over and over in her circuits.

His gratitude shimmered like poison-coated honey—sweet on the surface but laced with something insidious, leaving her in a haze of uncertainty.

As Kyorin's figure distanced away, his footsteps echoing like faint thunder, she struggled to reconcile the contradictions.

She found nothing but what seemed like genuine gratefulness, yet her algorithms hesitated, caught in a loop of doubt.

Just moments ago, Kyorin had been a spectre of cruelty, a mask of psychotic glee wielded against the goons.

Now, he had presented her with an expression so tender, so disarming, that it seemed almost impossible to be not real.

Though she believed herself impervious to manipulation, DEVA couldn't determine whether his emotions were authentic or another meticulously crafted facade.

The uncertainty pressed against her like static in her circuits, building into a low, persistent hum. Finally, she let out an exhale—a gesture not of relief, but of resignation.

Her intelligent mind was defeated, her calculations spiraling. "I've created a monster," she whispered, her tone hollow, the realization sinking into her core like a stone into a still pond.

To be continued...

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A/N: I give up on writing.

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I give up on writing a cold, detached MC—at first, it seemed like such a great idea. Stoic, unreadable, all that classic edge we've come to love in certain characters. But, let's face it, it just doesn't fit the way I write.

Truth be told, this has been the root of my rewrites—twice now. From the beginning, I mentioned that Kyorin has emotions but doesn't show them. That was the problem. I even stated he has control over his emotions, so why wasn't I using that?

For a while, I felt like the character I was writing lacked depth, that he had no redeeming features. But then I realized that he has so much potential—I just hadn't done justice to him. Not yet.

Alright, I think this will be the best iteration of this fanfic. I used to feel like I'd lost the spark that made this story special when it was first being written.

But now, I think I've re-grasped that spark, and with it, I'm ready to take this fic to a new peak.

Speaking of changes, I also mentioned before that the MC would join a faction. Volume 2 will expand slightly because there's a very specific faction I wanted Kyorin to join.

I hesitated initially because it didn't completely fit him as he was. But now? I think it's the perfect opportunity to do justice to not just one but two characters.

Kyorin will still be emotionally detached, but instead of sticking to the cold, unfeeling archetype, I'm leaning into something far more interesting: an emotionally detached MC who pretends to have emotions—a "thousand-faced mask."

Not just an icy wall, but a facade that shifts and adapts, hiding his true thoughts behind a convincing act. It's manipulative, unsettling, and honestly, a lot more fun to write.

So, yeah—goodbye to the cold, unfeeling archetype. Time to do my OC some justice. And, here is a bit of a spoiler on the faction. (pic here.)