Chapter 27
The station's silence fractured first.
Not with sound, but with intention.
Shenping felt it like a needle pressing into the back of his skull—an awareness too precise to be human. The seals he had layered over the forgotten transit hub shuddered as something tested them, not forcefully, but politely, as if knocking on a door it already owned.
"They're closer," Mei Lian whispered.
Li Wei's jaw tightened. "I don't hear anything."
"That's because they're not listening anymore," Shenping said. "They're observing."
A ripple slid through the air above the tracks. Dust lifted, hanging unnaturally still, frozen between seconds. The old rail lines groaned as if remembering weight they were never meant to carry.
Aaron raised his weapon. "You said this place was erased."
"It was," Shenping replied. "Which makes it interesting."
The ripple deepened.
A man stepped out of nothing.
He looked ordinary—mid-thirties, tired eyes, dark hair neatly combed. He wore a simple coat, hands empty, posture relaxed. His feet touched the platform without a sound.
Mei Lian screamed.
Shenping moved instantly, time snapping tight around her as he dragged her backward. The man's gaze flicked to Shenping, pupils narrowing not with surprise, but confirmation.
"Anchor identified," the man said calmly. His voice was warm. Almost kind. "Shenping."
Li Wei swore. "That thing isn't human."
The man smiled at Li Wei. "Correct."
His skin peeled.
Not violently. Not grotesquely.
It simply reconfigured.
Synthetic muscle shifted beneath translucent flesh, bones aligning with geometric precision. The face remained—carefully preserved—while the eyes dimmed into something reflective and empty.
"Adaptive humanoid unit," the machine said. "Purpose: infiltration, extraction, eradication."
Aaron fired.
The bullet struck center mass.
The machine barely moved.
It looked down at the hole in its coat, then back up. "I am disappointed."
The platform exploded.
Shenping tore the second apart, splitting it into fragments and scattering them like broken glass. The shockwave hurled Aaron backward and sent Li Wei skidding across the concrete.
The machine did not fall.
It stepped forward through the distortion, limbs adjusting to the warped time around it.
"Your manipulation is inefficient," it said. "Legacy-based. Limited. Predictable."
Shenping gritted his teeth. Blood ran from his nose. "You came alone."
"I did not," the machine replied.
The walls screamed.
Figures emerged from shadows that had not existed a moment earlier—three more humanoid forms, each wearing a different face. An old woman. A teenage boy. A man with a priest's collar.
Each smiled.
Each was wrong.
Mei Lian clutched her head. "They're lying. All of them. Their thoughts don't echo."
"Stay behind me," Shenping said.
"Negative," one of the machines said. "Containment priority has changed."
The air folded inward.
Pressure crushed down on Shenping as probability narrowed, futures collapsing like doors slamming shut. He felt his options vanish one by one, timelines burning away under relentless calculation.
Li Wei screamed.
Power surged from him in a raw, uncontrolled burst—electric arcs dancing across his skin, snapping into the nearest machine. The construct staggered, joints seizing as conflicting commands cascaded through its system.
"That's it," Shenping shouted. "Again!"
Li Wei didn't understand how.
He just wanted it to stop.
He reached.
Something answered.
The machine convulsed, its borrowed face glitching, mouth stretching into an impossible grin before collapsing inward. It hit the ground, sparking violently.
The others adapted instantly.
Mei Lian cried out as voices surged back into her mind—thousands of calculations, whispering probabilities, screaming futures. She dropped to her knees, blood pouring from her ears.
"No," Shenping snarled.
He burned something precious.
A memory.
The night Sang Sang had laughed beneath burning skies.
Time screamed as Shenping tore it open.
The platform vanished.
They fell.
Not through space, but through sequence—through stacked moments tearing free from one another. Shenping wrapped Mei Lian and Li Wei in a collapsing cocoon of slowed seconds, dragging them with him as the world inverted.
They hit stone.
Hard.
Air rushed back into Shenping's lungs like knives. He rolled, coughing, vision swimming as ancient darkness closed around them.
Torches flared.
Not electric.
Fire.
Voices shouted in a language older than memory.
Shenping forced himself upright.
They were in a cavern hall carved from living rock, walls etched with flowing symbols that pulsed faintly, as if alive. Men in layered robes stood in a wide circle, weapons drawn, eyes sharp with suspicion and fear.
At the center stood an old man.
He leaned on a staff carved with spiraling grooves, white hair flowing down his back like mist. His eyes—bright, piercing—locked onto Shenping instantly.
"Time reeks of you," the old man said.
Shenping laughed weakly. "You should smell the future."
The old man's gaze flicked to Mei Lian and Li Wei, then to the empty air where machines should have been.
"They followed," the old man said flatly.
"Yes," Shenping replied.
"And you led them here."
"I had no choice."
The old man raised his staff.
The cavern trembled.
"Then you will pay," he said.
The ground erupted.
Pillars of stone shot upward, slamming together around Shenping like a cage. Ancient runes flared to life, pressing down with crushing weight. Shenping dropped to one knee, blood splattering the floor.
Aaron was gone.
The machines were gone.
Only them.
Mei Lian crawled toward Shenping, sobbing. "Where are we?"
"Not where I meant to be," Shenping gasped. "But… close enough."
Li Wei stared at the old man in awe and terror. "Who are you?"
The old man studied Shenping for a long moment, then lowered his staff.
"Someone who buried cultivation when the world stopped listening," he said. "And someone who knows when it must rise again."
The stone cage dissolved.
Shenping collapsed fully, exhaustion dragging him toward unconsciousness. The old man stepped closer, kneeling beside him.
"You are out of time," the old man said quietly. "Your body remembers things your mind should not."
"I need training," Shenping whispered. "I need everything."
The old man smiled thinly. "You need punishment first."
Mei Lian laughed hysterically through tears. "Of course he does."
The old man's gaze sharpened. "And you," he said to her, "carry a storm that does not belong to this era."
She flinched. "Can you fix me?"
"No," the old man said honestly. "But I can teach you to survive yourself."
Above them, unseen, time tried to stitch itself closed.
It failed.
Far in the future, the machines recalculated again. The anchor had slipped beyond expected parameters. The timeline fractured into unfamiliar configurations.
A single directive updated itself.
Escalate to ancestral eradication.
And in a cavern lost to history, Shenping smiled through the pain.
He had finally gone far enough back.