Chapter Three: The First Peek
2
Who will be the ones to use them?
Zhao Yan clutched the scales, feeling every pair of eyes in the room fixed on him.
Was he the leader? No one had chosen him, but he'd been the first to step forward, slaying Prajna. The scales were his "reward." By rights, they should be his to use.
But Ailin's words echoed in his ears: What if it backfired? What if he went mad? Without their anchor, the group would surely disband—and that would be the end of them.
"I'll take it."
Old Zhang suddenly spoke up. The veteran stepped before Zhao Yan and extended his hand. "I was a scout. My stress-training wasn't for nothing. My nerves are steadier than yours. Plus, I'm older. If something goes wrong, the loss will be smallest."
He said it matter-of-factly, as casually as stating, "Tonight we're having noodles."
Zhao Yan shook his head. "No. You're our strongest fighter now. If something happens to you and we encounter monsters again, no one else can step up."
"Then I'll go," Zhou Ming interjected abruptly. He adjusted his tie, though it was already stained with blood. "I've done years of psychological stress training. I can handle it. And even if I see something, I can stay calm and report it."
"You?" Wang Hu scoffed. "Some rich kid's mental training? Give me a break. You'd probably piss your pants the moment you saw anything."
"Who the hell are you calling that?" Zhou Ming's face darkened.
"Enough." Zhao Yan cut them off.
He stared at the scale in his palm, its eerie blue glow reflecting off his weary face. He recalled the fires, the moments before charging in, never knowing what lay ahead—collapsed floors, exploding gas tanks, choking toxic fumes. But someone had to go in, because someone was waiting to be saved.
Now it was the same. Someone had to use this scale.
"I'll use it," Zhao Yan said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable authority. "I'm a firefighter. Charging into danger is my job. The scales were meant for me, so I'll use them. But—"
He lifted his head, his gaze sweeping over each person. "When I'm looking, you all stand in a line facing me. Don't move, and don't try anything funny. Old Zhang, you keep an eye on them. If anyone dares to move or looks off, hold them down immediately."
"Dr. Erin, stand beside me and monitor my condition. If I look off or start losing it, find a way to stop me immediately."
"Chen Mo, keep monitoring the comments. Report any unusual reactions to the scales immediately."
"Everyone else, stand still. No talking. Keep your breathing quiet. Got it?"
The commanding tone left no room for objection. At a time like this, clear instructions were far better than chaotic confusion.
Old Zhang immediately organized everyone into formation. Nine people lined up in the convenience store's open space, facing Zhao Yan. Neon lights from outside filtered through gaps in the shelves, casting flickering shadows across each face like masks.
Zhao Yan stood three paces away from them.
He took a deep breath, raised the scale, and held it close to his eyes.
The scales were thin. Looking through them, the entire world was veiled in a pale blue filter. The convenience store remained in disarray, Banryo's body still lay on the floor, bloodstained. The people before him were still the same, unchanged.
Zhao Yan frowned. How do you use this? Just stare at it?
He instinctively focused his attention, staring intently at the scales.
Just then—
A buzzing sound filled the air.
His mind felt like it had been struck by something. The scales suddenly grew scorching hot, nearly making him drop them. Immediately afterward, a cool, slippery sensation crawled up his fingertips, shot up his arm, and burrowed straight into his eyes. It wasn't like he'd actually touched anything; it felt more like a mental invasion, leaving his entire body feeling off-kilter.
He "saw."
Not with his eyes, but through a more direct, more bizarre kind of "seeing."
In his field of vision, nine figures stood in a row, each radiating a distinct "color."
Old Zhang was wrapped in a faint golden light, solid as an ancient stone. But along the edges of that gold, thin black cracks appeared—old wounds, knots in his heart, likely comrades he hadn't brought back.
Aileen was enveloped in a silvery-white light, as precise and cold as laboratory equipment, every intricate pattern clearly visible. Yet within that silver-white glow, a small patch remained empty, pitch black, as if her heart had been torn out.
Chen Mo's aura was a pale blue light, like a constantly flowing stream of data, characters flickering in and out. Yet the overall glow was weak, like a screen with poor reception. Occasionally, deep within the data stream, strings of red error codes would pop up.
Liu Qiang's aura was a hazy gray light, so faint it was nearly invisible, like a layer of dust that would scatter at the slightest breath. Beneath that dust lay an even deeper gray—the exhaustion and numbness of endless errands.
Lisa was bathed in a peachy-pink glow, like a disco ball, swaying back and forth. It looked glamorous but was dizzying, radiating a false energy. Beneath the light lay a darker, sticky crimson substance that looked quite disgusting.
Wang Hu radiated a murky, earth-yellow glow, like churned muddy water. Within it churned anger, fear, greed, and a few strands of dark red malevolence.
Zhou Ming radiated a cold silver light, mirror-like, reflecting the surroundings yet concealing his true nature. Cracks marred the surface—arrogance and brittleness, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.
Wu Feng's aura was the strangest—an ink-like black-and-white light that flowed and shifted. One moment it was clear as a painting; the next, it thickened like dark clouds, utterly impenetrable.
Was this their essence? Or their emotions? Zhao Yan didn't know. He could only keep searching for the "gray aura" Qing Xingdeng had mentioned—the mark of the replacements.
He examined them one by one.
Old Zhang. Nothing.
Ailin, nothing.
Chen Mo, nothing.
Liu Qiang, nothing.
Lisa, no.
Wang Hu, no.
Zhou Ming, no.
Wu Feng, no.
None of them?
Zhao Yan's heart sank. Could the scales be useless? Or was the imposter's disguise so perfect that even the Ghost's Eye couldn't see through it?
Just as he was about to give up—
He caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye.
Not on any individual, but in the gap between two people.
No, not a gap either.
It was an overlap.
Earlier, his mind had been so focused that his vision blurred momentarily. In that instant, he saw three faint, ghostly outlines drifting along the edges of the nine figures standing in a row.
Like mold spots on an old photograph, or like the faint imprint left on cold glass when you breathe on it.
So faint it was nearly invisible, and—
it vanished in a flash.
Zhao Yan immediately focused his attention, trying to get a better look. But the moment he concentrated, the gray mist vanished completely, leaving nothing behind, as if it had never been there at all.