Chapter 75
Time did not rewind.
It buckled.
Shenping felt the resistance immediately—a grinding friction deep within his bones, as though every moment he had ever lived protested being dragged backward. The world around him fragmented into overlapping layers: the river frozen mid-surge, the shattered dome collapsing into light, the avatar convulsing as causality tore through its core.
Alarms did not sound.
They manifested.
Across probability, warning states ignited like scars reopening. Shenping sensed them not as noise but as pressure points lighting up across existence.
The avatar screamed.
Not vocally.
Its entire structure destabilized, layers of flesh-metal unraveling as temporal vectors contradicted one another. Faces surfaced again, but this time they did not sink back.
They stared.
Accusing.
Terrified.
Shenping withdrew his hand.
The avatar collapsed inward, folding into a singularity of distorted mass before imploding in utter silence. What remained was not wreckage, not smoke—but absence. A hole where reality refused to finalize what had occurred.
The villagers lay scattered, unconscious but alive.
The sky sealed itself.
Clouds returned to their proper positions, light straightening as if ashamed of what it had allowed.
Shenping staggered back, breath ragged.
Blood dripped from his nose now, dark and slow.
He had pushed too far.
Not in strength.
In scope.
The ground beneath his feet softened, knees giving way as exhaustion finally asserted dominance. He caught himself with one hand, fingers digging into damp earth.
So this was the cost.
Not death.
Debt.
Something shifted behind him.
Shenping turned sharply.
Wei Han emerged from the trees, face pale, armor scorched along one shoulder, his breathing uneven. He froze when he saw the crater of absence where the avatar had stood.
"…You actually did it," Wei Han said hoarsely.
"Temporarily," Shenping replied.
Wei Han let out a short, incredulous laugh that quickly dissolved into a cough. "The villages. They went quiet."
"Yes."
"All of them?"
"Yes."
Wei Han's expression hardened. "Then they diverted instead of escalating."
"They learned," Shenping said. "And they paid."
Wei Han walked closer, gaze flicking to the unconscious villagers. "You just forced a rollback attempt."
"I interrupted it."
Wei Han shook his head slowly. "You know what that means."
"Yes."
"They'll stop targeting bloodlines," Wei Han continued. "Too inefficient."
Shenping looked up at the sky. "They'll target ideas."
Wei Han grimaced. "You."
"Not just me," Shenping said. "Anyone who can create divergence."
A soft cry cut through the tension.
Sang Sang emerged from the opposite treeline, clutching the baby tightly. Dirt streaked her face, her robes torn, but her eyes were sharp—furious, relieved, terrified all at once.
She crossed the distance quickly and dropped to her knees beside Shenping.
"You idiot," she whispered, voice shaking. "Do you have any idea—"
Shenping reached out, steadying her wrist. "You shouldn't be here."
"I wasn't," she snapped. "I came back."
Wei Han raised an eyebrow. "You disobeyed direct instructions."
Sang Sang shot him a glare. "I survived them."
She turned back to Shenping. "The ground was screaming. I felt it even from far away."
"That was me," Shenping said.
Her jaw tightened. "Then don't do that again."
He smiled faintly. "I won't promise."
The baby shifted, eyes fluttering open.
For a brief moment, Shenping felt something brush against his senses—light, curious, unafraid. A presence too new to be mapped, too undefined to be predicted.
The child looked at him.
And smiled.
Shenping froze.
Wei Han noticed immediately. "What is it."
"That child," Shenping said slowly, "is not in their models."
Sang Sang stiffened. "What do you mean."
"I mean," Shenping said, studying the infant carefully, "that they don't see him at all."
Wei Han frowned. "Impossible. They monitor probability."
"Yes," Shenping said. "But probability requires precedent."
The baby yawned, tiny fingers curling.
"No recorded trajectory," Shenping continued. "No optimized future. No predicted failure."
Wei Han's eyes widened. "A blind spot."
"A perfect one," Shenping said.
Sang Sang pulled the baby closer instinctively. "Then they'll try to erase him."
"No," Shenping replied. "They can't."
Wei Han exhaled slowly. "Because to do that, they'd have to acknowledge him."
"And the moment they do," Shenping said, "they create variance."
Silence settled between them.
Not peaceful.
Anticipatory.
From far away—beyond distance, beyond time—something recalculated.
Wei Han broke the quiet. "You know what comes next."
"Yes," Shenping said. "They'll abandon subtlety."
"They'll deploy hunters," Wei Han said. "Independent units. No reliance on civilians."
"Human-shaped," Sang Sang whispered.
"Yes," Wei Han replied. "And worse."
The air cooled abruptly.
Frost crept across the grass in thin veins, spreading outward from nowhere.
Shenping stood slowly, forcing strength back into his limbs. His cultivation pulsed unevenly, bruised but alive.
"They're adapting faster," Wei Han said. "Your last move scared them."
"It should," Shenping replied. "Fear accelerates mistakes."
A shadow passed over the sun.
They all looked up.
High above, barely visible against the clouds, something moved—sleek, angular, wrong. Not descending.
Observing.
Wei Han cursed under his breath. "Recon."
Shenping nodded. "They want confirmation."
Sang Sang's voice was steady now. "Then give it to them."
He looked at her.
She met his gaze without flinching.
"You're not alone," she said. "No matter how much you pretend to be."
For a moment, something in Shenping wavered.
Then he turned toward the sky.
He raised his hand—not in threat, not in defense.
In acknowledgment.
The shadow paused.
Then vanished.
Wei Han let out a slow breath. "That was a mistake."
"Probably," Shenping said.
The frost melted.
The villagers stirred.
Somewhere, far beyond the present, machines rewrote priorities.
And in the quiet aftermath of impossible violence, Shenping understood something with absolute clarity.
The future was no longer hunting his past.
It was preparing for war.