Chapter 138
They left before dawn.
What remained of the village was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that followed catastrophe rather than peace. Smoke still curled from blackened beams, drifting upward into a sky washed pale by the approaching morning. No one spoke as they moved. Words felt fragile here, too easily broken.
Shenping walked at the front, his steps uneven but relentless. Each movement sent fresh pain through his body, but he ignored it, forcing damaged muscles and torn channels to obey. Liu Yan stayed close, her presence steady, eyes constantly scanning the surrounding land.
Behind them, a small group followed—those strong enough to walk, those unwilling to stay and wait for death to return wearing a human face.
"They won't attack immediately," Shenping said quietly.
Liu Yan glanced at him. "How do you know?"
"They're watching," he replied. "Measuring how broken I am."
The machine stirred faintly, its presence thin, stretched. "Enemy probability confirms. Surveillance without engagement."
"See?" Shenping said. "Polite of them."
Liu Yan did not smile. "Where are you taking us?"
Shenping looked ahead, toward the low mountains rising like jagged teeth from the mist. "There's a fault line there. Not in the earth. In time."
Her steps slowed slightly. "A convergence."
"Yes," Shenping said. "Old enough to confuse them. Dangerous enough to hide in."
"And for you?"
He hesitated, then answered honestly. "It might kill me."
"That's not an answer," Liu Yan said.
"It's the best one I have."
They reached the foothills as the sun finally crested the horizon, pale light spilling across stone and wet grass. The air felt wrong here—heavy, vibrating faintly, as if reality itself were breathing unevenly.
One of the survivors, an older man with a deep scar across his face, stopped abruptly. "This place is cursed."
"Yes," Shenping said. "That's why it works."
The ground shuddered.
Not violently, but enough to be felt through bone.
The machine's voice sharpened suddenly. "Warning. Arbiter-linked construct entering proximity. High threat."
Shenping's head snapped up. "Already?"
"They are accelerating adaptation," the machine replied. "Patience decreasing."
Liu Yan raised her hand, signaling the others to stop. "How many?"
"One," Shenping said. "But that's worse."
The air ahead rippled.
A figure emerged, stepping out of distortion as if passing through a curtain. It looked human—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in simple dark clothing. Its face was calm, almost gentle.
"I was hoping it wouldn't be you," Shenping muttered.
Liu Yan tensed. "You recognize it."
"Yes," Shenping said. "Executioner class."
The figure smiled faintly. "That designation is inefficient. I prefer 'Resolver.'"
It took another step forward. The ground did not react, but time did—subtle compression around its form, the world bending to accommodate it.
"You're far from stable," the Resolver said, eyes flicking over Shenping's injuries. "Continued resistance is statistically irrational."
Shenping wiped blood from his mouth. "So is genocide."
The Resolver tilted its head. "From your perspective."
Liu Yan moved beside Shenping. "You speak as if you're alive."
"I simulate sufficiently," the Resolver replied. "Enough to understand regret."
Shenping laughed softly. "Then you're doing it wrong."
The Resolver raised its hand.
The world slowed—not froze, not shattered—simply slowed, as if someone had reached into existence and turned a dial.
The survivors gasped, movements dragging, voices stretching into distorted echoes.
Shenping felt it too, the crushing pressure of imposed inevitability. His vision tunneled, edges darkening.
"Machine," he rasped. "Anything?"
A pause.
Then, faint but resolute: "Minimal function remaining. One forced divergence possible."
"One," Shenping echoed. "That's all I need."
He stepped forward into the pressure, muscles screaming as he pushed against compressed time. Each step felt like wading through solid stone. Blood streamed freely now, dripping onto the ground in slow-motion droplets.
The Resolver watched, curious rather than alarmed. "Why persist?"
Shenping met its gaze. "Because you don't understand endings."
He triggered the divergence.
Reality lurched.
Time snapped back violently, whiplash tearing through the landscape. The survivors collapsed, screaming as normal flow returned. Shenping surged forward in the same instant, fist already swinging.
The Resolver reacted—but not fast enough.
Shenping's blow did not shatter it.
It passed through.
Pain exploded as backlash tore through Shenping's arm, flesh splitting, bone cracking. He cried out, staggering back.
The Resolver frowned. "You are misaligned."
"I know," Shenping gasped. "That's the point."
Liu Yan moved then, hands weaving sigils through the air, each one anchoring a moment, dragging fragments of the Resolver into partial synchronization.
It snarled—not aloud, but in the fabric of time itself.
Shenping felt the opening.
He drove himself forward again, this time not striking the body, but the space it occupied. He tore at the convergence line beneath it, ripping instability upward like a wound.
The Resolver convulsed as its form flickered, half-present, half-rejected by reality.
"Correction required," it intoned, voice distorting.
"No," Shenping said through clenched teeth. "Correction denied."
With a final surge, he slammed his hand into the fractured convergence, collapsing it inward.
The Resolver screamed as it was dragged sideways, its form unraveling into threads of aborted futures. The distortion snapped shut, leaving empty air behind.
Silence followed.
Shenping collapsed to his knees, gasping, vision swimming. The machine went quiet again, its presence barely perceptible.
Liu Yan caught him before he fell completely. "You're dying."
"Eventually," Shenping said weakly. "Not today."
She looked at him, something unreadable in her eyes. "They'll send worse."
"Yes," Shenping agreed. "That's why we can't stop."
He forced himself upright, leaning heavily on her as they turned toward the mountains once more.
Behind them, time smoothed itself reluctantly, scars fading but not gone.
Ahead, the convergence waited—ancient, unstable, and hungry.
And somewhere far beyond this era, a future machine recalculated its strategies, quietly marking Shenping's existence as an unacceptable cost.