Footsteps echoed and overlapped in the dark sewer tunnel, like three runaway heartbeats.
Jiang Mian ran at the front.
The beam of her tactical flashlight shook violently in her hand, slicing through the thick darkness ahead. The light swept over damp cement walls, the half-meter-wide maintenance walkway beneath her feet, and the sluggish, murky wastewater flowing in the adjacent channel. The water splashed up, soaking her pant legs with icy, viscous liquid.
Every swing of her left arm sent a tearing pain through her shoulder wound. The bandage had already soaked through; the dark gray tracksuit at her shoulder had turned almost black. Her body temperature was rising—38.7°C. She knew she had a fever, and the wound might already be infected. But she suppressed the pain and the burning, compressing it deep into her consciousness, like background noise she didn’t need to process.
At this moment, her mind was consumed by only three words:
Pei Yuyan.
The voice behind that name.
The man watching her across countless light screens, lighting the way for her in every desperate moment, now using his last energy to buy her time.
The one who… might completely vanish from her world in ten minutes.
“Turn right ahead!” Zhou Jian’s voice came from behind, low but clear in the enclosed passage. “Maps show a collapsed section; we need a detour!”
Jiang Mian didn’t slow down.
She turned right.
The tunnel narrowed; the ceiling dropped below two meters. She had to bend slightly, holding the wooden box tightly against her chest—it was her only burden now, and the truth she could not abandon.
Rounding the corner, she froze for a moment.
It wasn’t a collapse.
It was a blockade.
A thick concrete wall stretched across the tunnel, completely blocking the path. Its rough surface bore fresh pour marks; the edges had recent cement debris—someone had sealed it in the past few days.
Spray-painted in red across the wall were crude words:
“THIS WAY BLOCKED.”
Sloppy handwriting, but dripping with cold mockery.
Zhou Jian rushed forward, tapping the wall and listening to the echo. “Solid. At least half a meter thick.” He turned to Fu Chenyu. “Alternate route?”
Fu Chenyu spread out a waterproof map—the detailed sewer system map left by the internet café owner, marking maintenance passages and hidden exits. His fingers traced the routes quickly. “The nearest alternate exit is… here.”
He pointed at a spot. “One hundred twenty meters away. But it passes through an abandoned pumping station; water could be very deep.”
Jiang Mian glanced at her watch.
The luminous hands glowed faintly in the dark.
7:18.
Deep in her mind, the system’s alert pulsed like a dying heartbeat:
[Observation link remaining: 7m18s]
[Dimensional rift countdown ongoing]
[Energy reserve: 6%]
[Recommendation: Abort mission, evacuate immediately]
She closed her eyes.
In the space deep within her consciousness, she whispered:
“Pei Yuyan.”
No response.
Only the faint static of depleted energy, crackling like a candle about to go out.
“Pei Yuyan, are you still there?”
Silence.
Fear—cold, sharp, merciless fear—clutched her heart again, tighter and sharper than before.
Then, almost imperceptibly.
Like a bubble rising from the ocean’s deepest abyss, ready to burst:
“…Here.”
The voice was so weak it was barely audible.
But Jiang Mian heard it.
Her fingers dug into her palms, nails piercing flesh, pain keeping her awake.
“We’ve hit a blockade,” she sent mentally. “Detour needed. Might be a few minutes late.”
“…Don’t come.”
The voice faltered, each word seeming to use the last ounce of strength:
“Shen family… has returned.”
“There’s an ambush… in the warehouse.”
“I sense… at least… fifteen people.”
“And…”
The voice suddenly cut off.
As if forcibly silenced.
Jiang Mian’s heart skipped a beat.
“Pei Yuyan?”
No response.
Only the system’s cold, mechanical countdown continued:
[Observation link remaining: 6m47s]
[Energy reserve: 5%]
[Warning: Link stability deteriorating]
She opened her eyes.
The last trace of hesitation vanished.
“Move.” She said to Fu Chenyu and Zhou Jian, her voice calm to the point of terror. “To the pumping station. Now.”
[Golden notifications flicker like warning lights in the dark tunnel]
[Sunny Weather]: “That wall was poured within 72 hours! Cement grade C30 normally takes 7 days to set, but they added a quick-setting agent—someone deliberately blocked the path!”
[Player “Jerk Move”]: “Shen family knows this underground passage! They’re planning to intercept!”
[Player “Yes, Me”]: “7 minutes to run 120 meters + through a flooded pumping station + find the exit + reach the warehouse… nearly impossible!”
[Observer-01 Energy Monitor]: “Link strength at critical! Energy projection preparing…”
The pumping station entrance was a rusted iron door, ajar.
Zhou Jian shone his tactical flashlight inside—the beam cut through darkness, revealing the interior.
A roughly ten-meter-diameter circular room, with a massive, long-stopped water pump unit at the center, rusted and corroded. Black water pooled on the floor; its depth impossible to gauge. Floating on the surface were oil, trash, and unidentified decaying matter. The air was thick with rust, mold, and a sharp chemical odor.
Most dangerous of all: the water depth.
At least twenty meters from the door to the exit. The water was still, but when Zhou Jian dropped a piece of cement in, it sank silently—no bottom sound.
At least 1.5 meters deep.
“Wade through?” Fu Chenyu frowned. “Could be sharp debris… chemical contamination.”
“No time.” Jiang Mian pulled off her shoes and socks, rolled up her pants. “We go straight through.”
She was the first to step in.
Icy. Piercing cold.
Not ordinary chill, but a bone-deep, rotting smell-infused chill. The water reached mid-thigh, each step sending sharper pain through her wound. Yet she didn’t stop, moving forward step by step.
Zhou Jian and Fu Chenyu exchanged a glance, then followed.
Waist-deep in filth, progress was slow. Each step required careful probing—the floor sloped, covered with slick moss and rusted metal fragments.
Halfway through, Jiang Mian’s right foot struck something.
Sharp.
Cold.
A stab of pain shot up from her sole. She groaned, body jerking.
“What’s wrong?” Fu Chenyu steadied her.
“Nothing.” She gritted her teeth. “Keep moving.”
Lifting her foot, she pressed on. Each step brought stabbing pain—surely a cut, possibly bleeding. But she didn’t care.
Thirty meters left.
Twenty.
Ten.
The exit door loomed closer.
[Golden notifications flooding the screen]
[Player “ILoveLearning”]: “Water pH 3.2! Strong acid! Contains industrial wastewater residual sulfates and heavy metals!”
[Player “Wound Cleaner”]: “Wound exposed to acidic water—100% infection risk! Player body temp 39.1°C!”
[Player “NoWork”]: “5:12 remaining! Pumping station took 1:48!”
[Observer-01]: “Energy projection countdown: 4:50. Coordinates locked: Dock Area, Warehouse No. 9, southeast corner, 2nd-floor control room.”
Finally, she stepped onto the walkway on the far side.
Jiang Mian leaned against the wall, gasping. Her shoulder wound stung numbly from the icy water, while the pain in her foot became painfully clear. Looking down—sure enough, a cut on her sole, blood mingling with water to stain the floor dark red.
Fu Chenyu crouched, taking out disinfectant spray and waterproof bandages. “This must be treated.”
“No time.” Jiang Mian’s voice was hoarse from fever. “We move first.”
He looked up at her.
In the dim light, her face was terrifyingly pale; lips colorless, eyes unnaturally bright—a light born of fever and absolute focus, almost obsessive.
“Jiang Mian,” he said, voice low, “you won’t make it to the warehouse like this.”
“I can.” She pushed him aside, standing unsteadily but firmly. “Move.”
Zhou Jian had already opened the exit door.
A ladder led upward to the surface. Light spilled down—not sunlight, but streetlamps.
And sirens.
Very close.
“The surface leads to the dock perimeter,” Zhou Jian whispered. “But Shen family already set defenses on the streets.”
Jiang Mian glanced at her watch.
4:33.
In the depths of her mind, the system alert sounded like a death knell:
[Observation link remaining: 4:33]
[Energy reserve: 3%]
[Dimensional rift preparation: 93%]
[Final warning: Link severance will cause permanent disconnection]
She closed her eyes.
One last call in her mind:
“Pei Yuyan.”
This time, the response came quickly.
But the voice was faint, like a candle in the wind:
“…Jiang Mian.”
“Don’t come up.”
“Snipers… on the streets.”
“Three positions… dock entrance crane… Warehouse 2 rooftop… streetlight service vehicle.”
“They’re waiting… for you to appear.”
Jiang Mian’s heart sank.
But she didn’t hesitate.
“Exit position?” she asked mentally.
“…You’re now… on the ladder in front of the abandoned distribution box.”
“From there… twenty meters west… there are stacked containers.”
“Numbered… Bin Storage C-07 to C-12.”
“Between the containers… there’s a gap.”
“You can go around… to the side unloading bay of Warehouse 9.”
The voice grew faint here, almost inaudible.
Only fragmented static remained.
Jiang Mian bit her lip, tasting blood.
“Pei Yuyan,” she said in her mind, each word as clear as a vow, “wait for me four minutes.”
“…Okay.”
The voice was light, like a sigh.
Then the link fell completely silent.
Not severed.
It was the kind of silence that came from the brink of death, a last effort to maintain the faintest connection.
Jiang Mian opened her eyes.
“Move.” She said to Zhou Jian and Fu Chenyu. “The ladder leads up behind the distribution box. Twenty meters west, there’s a row of containers. We can sneak through the gaps to the side of the warehouse.”
Zhou Jian looked at her. “How do you know?”
“He told me,” Jiang Mian said, without explaining who “he” was. “Snipers on the street—three positions. Don’t expose yourself.”
Fu Chenyu and Zhou Jian exchanged a glance.
There was no time to question it.
Zhou Jian was the first to climb the ladder, moving lightly. At the top, he carefully pushed open the manhole cover—just enough for a gap to observe outside.
Three seconds later, he whispered, “Clear. Come up.”
Jiang Mian climbed second. Her left shoulder screamed with pain as she pulled herself up, vision darkening, but she made no sound. At the top, she wriggled through the manhole gap.
Outside was the abandoned edge of the dock.
Night wind hit her face, carrying the smell of the sea and faint echoes of distant sirens. The fog had thinned slightly; she could see the silhouette of Warehouse 9 a hundred meters away—a massive concrete building, walls mottled, windows boarded shut. Only one second-floor window gave off a faint light.
That was it.
The control room.
The place where Pei Yuyan’s energy projection would appear.
Jiang Mian dropped to the cold cement floor, waiting for Fu Chenyu to follow. The three moved quickly behind the distribution box. The rusty iron box was large enough to hide them all.
Twenty meters west.
There it was: a row of abandoned containers, paint peeling, rusted. Numbered C-07 to C-12.
Irregular gaps between the containers, the narrowest only thirty centimeters wide.
Zhou Jian signaled: I go first.
He squeezed through the gap sideways, moving like a snake. Seconds later, he signaled safe.
Jiang Mian went second.
The gap was tight; she had to set down the wooden box and hold it sideways to pass through. The rough iron edges scraped her shoulder wound. She gritted her teeth, silent.
She slipped through.
The other side was the shadowy area behind the containers—darker, more concealed.
From here, she could see the side of Warehouse 9—a loading bay, roll-up door half-open, darkness inside.
[Golden notifications streak across the night]
[Sniper Ace]: “Reflection from crane! Sniper confirmed! Distance 180m, wind southwest, level 4!”
[Spotty Dog]: “3:41! Straight-line distance to warehouse 80m!”
[Observer-01 Energy Alert]: “Energy reserve: 2%! Dimensional rift countdown: 3:30!”
[Sister Nurse]: “Player temperature 39.3°C! Consciousness clarity down to 78%! Wound infection triggering sepsis warning!”
Fifteen meters from the container shadows to the loading bay.
An open cement floor, no cover.
Moonlight filtered through thick fog, turning into a hazy gray that stretched across the ground. Any moving figure would cast a clear outline in this gray.
And snipers were positioned high in three directions.
Zhou Jian pulled a small device from his tactical vest—a thermal imaging jammer. He quickly set the parameters and pressed start.
“This creates a three-second false heat source to distract snipers,” he whispered. “We run during those three seconds.”
Jiang Mian nodded.
Fu Chenyu crouched, ready, coiled like a leopard about to pounce.
“Three.” Zhou Jian counted down.
“Two.”
“One.”
He pressed the button.
Almost immediately—
A dull gunshot rang from the crane direction!
The bullet struck metal in the distance, sparks flying!
“Move!”
The three dashed forward!
Jiang Mian clutched the wooden box, running with every ounce of strength. Her shoulder wound screamed with every movement, threatening to make her faint, her foot injury made each step feel like stepping on blades. But she didn’t stop, eyes fixed on the half-open roll-up door ahead.
Ten meters.
Five.
Three—
Second gunshot!
Closer this time! A bullet hit the concrete less than half a meter away, scattering gravel, grazing her calf, burning!
She didn’t stop, plunging into the loading bay!
Rolling, absorbing momentum, hugging the wall.
Fu Chenyu and Zhou Jian followed closely.
Zhou Jian immediately pulled the roll-up door halfway down—not fully, or it would make noise.
Darkness.
Absolute darkness.
Only a sliver of light leaked from the control room window, slanting across the vast warehouse interior.
Once the main dock warehouse, the ceiling rose over ten meters. The space was huge, echoing. Now empty, only corners piled with discarded wooden crates and tarps. The air smelled of dust, mold, and… faintly of ozone, like electricity.
Jiang Mian leaned against the wall, gasping.
Her lungs felt like they would burst, each breath tasting of blood. Her fever climbed; she could feel shivering—not from cold, but from high temperature.
No time to dwell.
She glanced at her watch.
2:18.
In the depths of her mind, the system alert rang like the final countdown:
[Observation link remaining: 2:18]
[Energy reserve: 1%]
[Dimensional rift opening: 1:50]
[Final stage: Energy projection ready]
She closed her eyes.
One last attempt.
“Pei Yuyan.”
No response.
The link was too weak to carry sound.
But she felt it—the fragile, near-breaking, threadlike connection still there.
Like the last spider silk over an abyss.
She held the end of it.
She opened her eyes and looked at Fu Chenyu and Zhou Jian.
Both checking equipment. Zhou Jian had assembled a sniper rifle, adjusting the scope. Fu Chenyu checked his pistol magazine, calm and deliberate.
“Control room is on the second floor,” Jiang Mian whispered, pointing toward the distant stairs. “Northeast corner of the warehouse. But Shen family has ambushes nearby.”
She paused, voice soft:
“From here, I go alone.”
Fu Chenyu’s head snapped up: “No.”
“Must.” Jiang Mian looked at him calmly. “He’s after me. Only if I appear will the ambushers reveal themselves. You stay in the shadows, that’s our chance.”
Zhou Jian stared at her. “Do you know what going up means?”
“Yes.” Jiang Mian said. “It means I could die.”
“And you still—”
“But if I don’t,” Jiang Mian cut him off, “he will vanish. Forever.”
The words were quiet.
Yet in the silent warehouse, they fell like meteorites.
Fu Chenyu’s hands tightened on the pistol, knuckles white. He stared at Jiang Mian for a long time. Struggle, disagreement, but in the end, he released his grip.
“How long?” he asked.
“Two minutes,” Jiang Mian said. “Two minutes. Whatever happens, you fire.”
Zhou Jian nodded. “I’ll cover sniper positions. Fu Chenyu, you support on the first floor.”
Plan set.
No time for debate.
Jiang Mian inhaled deeply, clutching the wooden box, and approached the stairs.
The iron stairs were fixed to the warehouse wall. She stepped on the first rung; it creaked sharply, echoing in the empty space.
She didn’t stop, climbing.
Footfalls beat a steady rhythm: thump, thump, thump.
Like the drum of her own march to death.
Halfway up, she paused.
Looking up at the control room door.
A man stood there.
Backlit, face indistinguishable, only his medium build visible, dressed in a dark suit. He waited quietly, as if he had been waiting a long time.
Jiang Mian continued upward.
Final three rungs.
Two.
One.
She reached the second-floor platform.
Five meters from the man.
Light spilled through the control room door, illuminating his face.
Jiang Mian’s breath caught.
She recognized him.
From finance magazines, from the news, at Gu’s family banquets.
Shen Huaishan.
Shen Yanxin’s father.
Current head of the Shen family.
The man who caused her mother’s “car accident” in 2006 and burned her father in 2011.
Now, he stood there, smiling at her.
Like an old hunter waiting for prey to walk into his trap.
“Miss Jiang Mian,” Shen Huaishan spoke, voice gentle, even caring, like a senior relative, “you’ve finally arrived.”
Jiang Mian said nothing.
She just stared at him.
Shen Huaishan was just over fifty, well-maintained, hair perfectly combed, eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses warm and deep. He wore a tailored dark gray suit with a subdued navy tie. He didn’t look like a ruthless businessman—more like a university professor.
But Jiang Mian knew that beneath this gentle facade was a heart forged with poison.
“I’ve been waiting a long time,” Shen Huaishan continued, his tone tinged with regret. “Ever since your father refused to hand over the γ-7 sample, I’ve been waiting. Waiting for someone capable of activating it.”
He took a step forward.
Jiang Mian did not flinch.
“Your mother was very smart,” Shen Huaishan said, as if reminiscing about a fond memory. “She hid the key inside you. A five-year-old child—who would have thought?”
Another step forward.
Three meters.
“But your father was too stubborn.” Shen Huaishan sighed. The sound was frighteningly sincere. “He said γ-7 should never be used to control human minds. He called it Pandora’s box—you open it, you can never close it again.”
“So you killed him,” Jiang Mian said calmly.
Shen Huaishan smiled.
The smile was gentle—but the eyes beneath it were icy.
“Not killed, Miss Jiang Mian. Just… necessary cleansing,” he said. “Some idealists can never see reality. Technology has no morality, only utility. γ-7 can read and rewrite memories—this is the greatest invention in human evolutionary history! We could eliminate war, erase hatred, remove all suffering!”
His voice grew excited, then quickly returned to calm:
“Your father wanted to destroy it.”
“So I had to… help him make the right choice.”
Jiang Mian’s fingers clenched the edge of the wooden box until her knuckles whitened.
Her face betrayed nothing.
She only asked: “And my mother?”
Shen Huaishan was silent for a few seconds.
Then he said: “Song Yun… was an accident.”
“She discovered the evidence your father left behind. I only intended to make her ‘forget.’ But during the memory erasure process… there was a small problem. She resisted too fiercely.”
He spread his hands, as if dismissing the incident as trivial:
“Sometimes… accidents just happen.”
Jiang Mian felt icy nausea twist in her stomach.
But she swallowed it down.
She glanced at her watch.
1:02.
Deep in her mind, the system alert sounded like a final lament:
[Observation link remaining: 1:02]
[Energy reserve: 0.3%]
[Dimensional rift opening: 0:45]
[Energy projection: ready]
She lifted her eyes to Shen Huaishan.
“Done talking?” she asked.
Shen Huaishan paused.
He probably hadn’t expected this twenty-four-year-old girl to remain so calm after hearing the truth about her parents’ deaths.
“Yes,” Jiang Mian nodded. “Now it’s my turn.”
She stepped forward.
Two meters.
“First,” she said, her voice clear, echoing across the empty second-floor platform, “my father was right. γ-7 should not exist. A power that controls human hearts will ultimately destroy them.”
Second step.
One meter.
“Second, my mother wasn’t an accident. She was murdered. And you… are the killer.”
Third step.
Half a meter.
She stood face-to-face with Shen Huaishan, close enough to see every flicker of emotion in his eyes.
He was surprised, but more than that, he was composed, as if controlling everything.
He thought he had won.
Jiang Mian looked at him and said finally:
“Third… you made a mistake.”
Shen Huaishan raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“You shouldn’t have let me get up here,” Jiang Mian said. “And you certainly shouldn’t have…”
She paused, voice quiet, each word sharp as a knife:
“Let me get this close to the control room door.”
The moment the words fell—
She spun around with all her strength, ramming into the control room door!
The door was unlocked!
Or perhaps the lock had long since been destroyed!
She slammed inside, spinning the lock behind her—motion fluid, leaving only an afterimage!
Shouts and pounding came from Shen Huaishan outside!
But the door was thick, a fireproof barrier, impossible to break immediately!
Jiang Mian leaned against it, gasping.
Her vision blurred from fever and exertion.
But she forced herself to see clearly—
Inside the control room.
No computers. No equipment.
Only, suspended in the center of the room, a mass of… light.
Golden light.
Warm, soft, like a hearth on a winter night, like the first ray of morning sunlight.
The orb was about a meter in diameter, hovering half a meter above the ground. Its glow flowed gently, inside it a delicate structure like a rotating nebula.
At the center of the light—
A vague humanoid silhouette.
Tall, upright.
But blurred, as if seen through frosted glass.
Jiang Mian’s heart thumped heavily.
She stepped forward.
Another step.
Standing half a meter from the orb.
She reached out, fingers trembling, lightly touching the light.
No sensation.
No warmth.
But as her fingertips neared—
That familiar voice rang out.
Not in her mind.
Directly in the room.
Clear, gentle, with a hint of a smile:
“Jiang Mian.”
Tears streamed down her face, without warning.
She looked at the blurred humanoid within the orb, voice choked:
“Pei Yuyan?”
“It’s me,” the voice said softly. “In energy form… meeting you for the first time.”
Jiang Mian wanted to laugh, but the tears fell harder.
“You look like…” she sniffled, “…a dandelion.”
A soft laugh came from the orb.
Beautiful, like the gentlest late-night radio channel.
“The energy projection… can only maintain this form,” Pei Yuyan said. “And… time is short.”
Jiang Mian glanced at the clock on the wall.
Countdown: 15 seconds.
Deep in her mind, the system sounded its final declaration:
[Observation link remaining: 15 seconds]
[Energy reserve: 0.1%]
[Dimensional rift stability: extreme]
[Warning: link will permanently sever in 10 seconds]
Outside, the pounding at the door grew louder.
Shen Huaishan roared: “Open the door! You think hiding inside will save you?! The entire warehouse is surrounded!”
Jiang Mian ignored him.
She only looked at the orb, whispering:
“When the link severs… what will happen to you?”
The orb was silent for a few seconds.
Then Pei Yuyan’s voice came, calm as stating a fact:
“My consciousness will return to the high-dimensional observation space.”
“But the link will be permanently closed.”
“I will never… speak to you like this again.”
“Nor can I… give you guidance when you need it.”
“I will return to… billions of screens, continuing to observe.”
“Only… I will never see you again.”
Jiang Mian’s tears fell silently.
She wiped them, inhaled sharply:
“Is there a way… to keep it open?”
“There is,” Pei Yuyan said. “But it requires… the γ-7 sample.”
Jiang Mian’s heart jolted.
She opened the wooden box, taking out the transparent crystal—the γ-7 sample, shimmering faintly under the light.
“This?”
“Yes,” Pei Yuyan’s voice grew urgent. “The sample contains… an anchor point of high-dimensional energy.”
“If you’re willing… to give it to me…”
“I can use the energy inside… to stabilize the link.”
“But the cost is…”
He didn’t finish.
But Jiang Mian understood.
The cost: the γ-7 sample would be consumed.
The thing the Shen family had pursued for half a century, the thing her parents had died protecting, would disappear.
Yet if the link stabilized, Pei Yuyan could continue to observe her, continue to speak with her.
And that meant… the Shen family would never get the sample.
Her parents’ revenge, her own safety—resolved.
Outside, the pounding ceased.
Shen Huaishan’s voice grew calm, almost coaxing:
“Jiang Mian, open the door. Let’s talk.”
“Hand over the sample, and I guarantee your safe exit.”
“Your parents’ deaths… I’m sorry. But that’s in the past.”
“Now, we can cooperate. The benefits γ-7 brings… far exceed your imagination…”
Jiang Mian didn’t listen.
She only stared at the crystal in her hand, at the warm light before her.
Then she looked up and asked a question:
“Pei Yuyan.”
“Hm?”
“If the link doesn’t sever… will you… stay with me like this?”
The light hovered silently for a long moment.
Long enough that Jiang Mian thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then she heard him say:
“No.”
“The energy projection… consumes too much. After this… I’ll need at least… three months to recover.”
“But if the link remains open… I could leave messages for you when you need…”
“Like before… give you advice.”
“When you’re making decisions… guide you.”
“When you’re alone… tell you, I’m here.”
Jiang Mian smiled.
A faint smile, but genuine.
She wiped away the last tear and whispered:
“That’s enough.”
Then she stepped forward.
And gently placed the γ-7 crystal into the light.
[Golden barrage exploded across the feed]
[Energy Physics]: “γ-7 sample embedded into energy projection! High-dimensional anchor activated!”
[HandsomeGuyIsMe]: “Shen Huaishan is going to lose it hahaha! Half a century of plotting all wasted!”
[CodeDog]: “Energy flow reversed! Countdown to rupture halted!”
[PhotoSnapSnap]: “The host chose Observer-01! Abandoned the weapon of revenge!”
[SpecialLucky]: “She chose ‘a future with companionship,’ instead of ‘lonely power in hand!’”
The moment the crystal merged into the orb—
Blinding light burst forth!
The entire control room was flooded with golden radiance!
Jiang Mian instinctively shut her eyes, but felt the warmth wrap around her like a silent embrace.
The light lasted three seconds, then slowly receded.
She opened her eyes.
The orb remained, now more solid. The humanoid shape inside was clearer—she could make out the tall frame, broad shoulders, and… a gentle gaze that seemed to be looking right at her.
The crystal in her hand had vanished.
Fully merged into the orb, becoming the “anchor” maintaining the link.
Outside, Shen Huaishan seemed to sense something, pounding the door frantically:
“What are you doing?! Open this door! Hand over the sample!”
Jiang Mian ignored him.
She only looked at the orb and whispered:
“Thank you.”
From within, Pei Yuyan’s voice rang clearer and softer than ever:
“I’m the one who should say thank you.”
“Jiang Mian. Thank you… for choosing me.”
Jiang Mian smiled.
Tears streamed again, but she didn’t wipe them.
Then—
“Bang!”
The control room window shattered from a bullet!
Shards flew everywhere!
Zhou Jian’s voice came from downstairs through the micro-earpiece: “Snipers cleared! Fu Chenyi is securing the first floor! Jiang Mian, prepare to evacuate!”
Jiang Mian looked at the orb.
It was slowly fading.
“The projection will end soon,” Pei Yuyan said. “My energy… can only last this long.”
“I know,” Jiang Mian nodded. “You go rest.”
“Mm.” Pei Yuyan paused, then said, “Jiang Mian.”
“Hm?”
“I’ll always be watching over you.”
“Always.”
The orb vanished completely.
The control room was left with only the broken window and the sea-salty night wind blowing in.
Jiang Mian stood there, staring at where the orb had been, for a long while.
Then she turned and walked toward the door.
Unlocked it.
Pulled it open.
Outside, Shen Huaishan held a gun aimed at her forehead.
His face was iron-cold, eyes bloodshot, the calm gentleness completely gone.
“The sample?!” he roared.
Jiang Mian looked at him calmly.
Then she raised her empty hands.
“It’s gone,” she said.
Shen Huaishan’s pupils shrank sharply.
“You… you destroyed it?!” His voice trembled—not with anger, but with… fear.
Fear of losing control.
Fear that half a century of plotting had been wasted.
“I didn’t destroy it,” Jiang Mian said. “It chose where it should go.”
Shen Huaishan’s finger shook on the trigger.
He wanted to shoot.
But at that moment—
Gunfire erupted from downstairs! Screams! Then Fu Chenyi’s calm voice: “First floor secured.”
Zhou Jian’s voice came through the earpiece: “All perimeter snipers neutralized. Police have received an anonymous tip and are en route. Estimated arrival in three minutes.”
Shen Huaishan’s hand froze.
He stared at Jiang Mian, the twenty-four-year-old girl who had ruined everything he had schemed for.
Then, he laughed.
A twisted, mad laugh, like a dying beast.
“You think… you’ve won?” he croaked. “No sample… the Shen family still has other cards. Gu family, Chen Manli, Shen Yanxin… they’ll continue.”
“And you,” he pressed the gun against her forehead, “will die here.”
Jiang Mian didn’t flinch.
She looked at him, eyes calm as the deep sea.
“You won’t shoot,” she said.
“Why?!”
“Because,” Jiang Mian nodded toward the window, “the sirens are here.”
Indeed.
In the distance, police sirens approached, multiple vehicles.
Shen Huaishan’s hand began to tremble.
Jiang Mian stepped forward.
The cold barrel pressed against her skin.
But she didn’t stop.
Another step.
Shen Huaishan stepped back.
Another step.
Step back.
Until he reached the stair edge, nowhere left to retreat.
Jiang Mian stood before him, half a meter away.
She looked at the murderer of her parents, the madman who had chased γ-7 for half a century, and said softly:
“Shen Huaishan.”
“The game is over.”
Just as she spoke—
The police megaphone called from downstairs: “Everyone inside! You are surrounded! Drop your weapons! Walk out with hands on your head!”
Shen Huaishan’s hand finally lowered.
The gun clattered to the floor.
He collapsed against the stairs, hands over his face, shoulders trembling.
Not crying.
A deeper, more complete breakdown.
Jiang Mian didn’t look back.
She turned and walked down the stairs.
Fu Chenyi and Zhou Jian were on the first floor, surrounded by seven or eight Shen family thugs. Police streamed in through the main gate, flashlights crisscrossing.
Fu Chenyi approached, quickly scanning her: “Are you hurt?”
“No,” Jiang Mian said. “It’s over.”
Zhou Jian came over, saw her empty hands, glanced at her calm face, and didn’t ask about the sample.
He simply said: “Let’s go. Police need you for a statement.”
Jiang Mian nodded.
The three of them walked toward the warehouse gate.
Outside, flashing police lights turned the fog into a red-and-blue ocean. Police set up barricades, and ambulances had arrived.
Jiang Mian stopped outside the line.
She looked up at the night sky.
The fog was clearing.
A few stars twinkled against the deep blue canvas.
She stared for a long time.
Then, softly, she said:
“I did it.”
No response.
But she knew someone was listening.
Always would be.