He was alright.
The boy was alright.
He was sitting there, among his friends, chatting away while Xiao Ying was stood off to the side, first dazed and still, as if he was unable to comprehend what was happening, until he too, as well, moved off to resume his pseudo rest in another quiet corner, where he would be able to easily observe the goings on of his surroundings and Ming Cheng, more specifically.
Xiao Ying was most uneasy, shifting from side to side, occasionally glancing out of the windows and the doors, while his mind refused to let itself leave Ming Cheng alone for too long.
He fixated on the child that he had created and doomed to life of misery and pain, guilty for what he had done and attempting what he thought was his best to try and fix the situation - not that it was going to be enough the way that the current plot was going.
Not enough had strayed from the original destinies, and what had shifted and moved were the most superficial elements possible.
Lan Chang had a name, and she had been put on a path that now denied her obscurity.
The other kitchen children were no longer bullies, with only some additional importance falling upon them, but what did that really mean?
Did Xiao Ying really think that it was all going to be enough, the man now reclining back and feeling sorry for himself and the general lack of humanity he now possessed?
He had been human before, and it had not served him well at all.
He had cried.
He had craved human contact.
He had needed sleep.
But now, he was now able to go on for eons at a time without the unnecessary needs for rest, nourishment and any kind of break, however, he still doubted.
He mourned his weaknesses as if their removal wasn't something that was necessary and as if he himself hadn't begged for their removal.
What was he complaining about?
What was there to complain about?
There was nothing to complain about.
The man had only one task, and he himself, had recognised it all by himself, so why was he despairing, why was he refusing to do more with all the abilities and resources provided to him.
Xiao Ying could do more, but he was not.
The man himself knew that he could do more, but he was not.
Why was he not?
He had only one task, but he was not doing it?
Why was he not doing it?
It made no sense.
Why was Xiao Ying not doing it?
An author given free reign over their creation from within the world itself would probably be inclined to change it, giving their characters a new life, a new story, and then interact with the world that he had been so attached to.
Xiao Ying's utter disinterest with his own creations, his own children by technical definition, was baffling, considering the hours that he had spent on writing their names, their personalities, crafting maps, crafting timelines, and all sorts of other details about his work, story, and tale.
I did not judge him for what he had produced.