A whistle.
Two figures emerged from the dissipating dust and smoke.
The one in front wore a helmet, his heavy boots crunching on broken tiles as he walked, a length of dark chain hanging from his hand.
Following close behind was a guy with eye-catching pink hair, a garish floral shirt, and flip-flops.
Pink Hair scurried over to where Mo Bai lay, squatted down, and with fingers clad in fingerless gloves, began expertly patting down the bloodied robe, searching the lapels, the waist.
"Tch, broke-ass," he spat, a glob of phlegm landing on the now-dulled, spiritless "Divine Beast" boots.
"Disgusting," a muffled voice came from under the helmet, dripping with undisguised disgust.
Helmet avoided the injured side, flicked his wrist.
Clatter—snap!
The dark chain shot out, coiling precisely around Mo Bai's other ankle, auto-tightening and locking with a cold, metallic click.
The moment the chain locked, the last faint traces of the flowing cloud patterns on the boot's surface completely faded.
Helmet hoisted the chain over his shoulder. Mo Bai was lifted upside down like a piece of cargo, swaying limply.
Ting.
A faint, clear sound of jade.
An object slipped from the loosened rhinoceros-horn belt, clattering onto the broken tiles.
A piece of dark green jade, glowing faintly with its own light, engraved with intricate constellation patterns—the Star-Patterned Dark Jade.
"Yo-ho!" Pink Hair's eyes lit up. His hand darted out, quick as lightning, snatching it up. His fingers rubbed the jade's surface, a greedy grin spreading across his face. "Hit the jackpot! Quality stuff!"
"Worth how much?" Helmet asked without turning, his voice flat.
"None of your business. Guild rules." Pink Hair swiftly tucked the jade into his shirt's inner pocket, patting it for security. "You'll get your cut. Usual spot, I'm buying supper, drinks on me!"
"You still owe from last week. And the week before."
"I'll settle it all! Now hurry up, get this 'cargo' into storage. We're running out of time!"
The two of them dragged the inverted Mo Bai toward the far end of the room, to a stone wall scarred with charred cracks.
Pink Hair reached out, tracing a finger lightly over a specific scorch mark on the wall.
The wall rippled like water, parting to reveal an irregular, door-shaped fissure, its edges flowing with a milky-white cold light.
"Identity verification," an emotionless, cold female voice issued forth.
Helmet pressed something on the side of his helmet. Pink Hair swept aside his pink bangs—beneath the skin of his forehead, a point of intricate azure light flickered complexly.
"Permissions confirmed."
The light-door suddenly dilated, a surge of milky-white light gushing out, engulfing the two men and the upside-down Mo Bai.
The next moment, the light-door contracted violently, shrinking into a flickering point of light that wavered twice before utterly vanishing.
Silence. A dozen or so breaths later.
The room began to "repair" itself. Bloodstains flowed backwards and disappeared. Charred marks faded. Cracks sealed. Debris flew back together. The shattered rose window restored itself to new.
Outside the window, the sky, that enormous dark red number, blurred at its edges for a ten-thousandth of a second, unnoticed by anyone.
All trace of the "41" was completely erased.
A brand new, icy number was silently branded onto the center of the firmament—
"42".
Eyes opened again.
No window, no rain, no square.
Only a cramped, dimly lit room. The air smelled of dust and old fabric.
Mo Bai found himself lying on a narrow single bed, a faded plush teddy bear crushed beneath him.
He sat up.
No confusion, no pain. He was brimming with energy, his mind frighteningly clear.
Everything from the previous day—the colossal "41", the shattered glass, the dark red blood pupil, the devouring maw, the seeping green light, the silence of the zero-point reset—was embedded firmly in the depths of his consciousness, every detail vivid.
That was no dream.
He looked down. His white robe was perfectly intact, not even the slightest scorch mark remained. He lifted an arm; his skin was smooth, all the old and new scars from yesterday's fierce battle had vanished.
Perfect. Like an item freshly unpacked, never used.
He got off the bed, stood. Closed his eyes, focused his mind. The Twelve Celestial Mechanism Arts - Second Form: Reflective Insight.
His consciousness swept over himself like light. Bones intact, internal organs strong and healthy, energy sea full and surging.
Those three Memory Core Crystals rotated slowly in the void of his consciousness, emitting a steady, faint glow.
Creak.
The door was pushed open from the outside.
A figure shrouded entirely in a wide white robe, face concealed by a pure black, smooth mask, shuffled in with measured, unnervingly even, tiny steps. The white robe had a hood, not an inch of skin was visible. In the dim light, it looked like an inauspicious "shroud" that had floated in on its own.
"White Shroud" stopped in the center of the room. The mask turned slightly, facing Mo Bai.
It took a step forward. A gloved hand extended from beneath the robe, pressing down on Mo Bai's shoulder.
The pressure wasn't heavy.
But Mo Bai couldn't resist—not because his strength was suppressed, but because of something more fundamental. His body, the abundant memory-force he had just sensed, were rendered meaningless before this simple touch.
He was pushed backward, his back hitting the mattress, the back of his head sinking into the faded plush bear.
Standing at the head of the bed, White Shroud's right sleeve shifted slightly.
A slender, cold-gleaming silver needle silently extended. A point of condensed chill light gleamed at its tip.
No warning, no wind-up.
The silver needle became a blurry afterimage, plunging down vertically at a speed far beyond what the naked eye could capture!
Shhk.
The needle met no resistance, piercing with unerring accuracy into the very center of Mo Bai's head—the Baihui point. It sank in halfway.
Too fast.
So fast Mo Bai's body didn't even have time to tense or flinch on instinct before the cold foreign object was deeply wedged into the vital point governing all bodily energy, commanding all yang channels.
The instant the needle tip fully penetrated—
A powerful, brutal, strangely ordered vibrational force, carrying a non-human sense of order, transformed into countless minute, icy pulses. Using the Baihui point as the origin, they shot along hidden pathways of bone and nerve, charging madly toward the deepest recesses of his brain!
Sight, hearing, touch… his five senses remained, but the thought "I want to move" sank like a stone in still water, eliciting not the slightest ripple from his body.
Just as those will-erasing pulses were about to reach Mo Bai's consciousness sea…
In its deepest depths, that third Memory Core Crystal, the most serene and gentle, trembled violently—soundlessly.
At its core, that cherry blossom-shaped halo released a ripple, soft yet incredibly tenacious, as if possessing a higher order.
The ripple met the狂暴 pulse乱流 with perfect timing. A silent collision rippled through the plane of consciousness.
Wherever the emerald ripple passed, the pulses were deftly deflected, dismantled, and finally harmlessly dissipated at the edges of the consciousness sea.
The deception was completed in that split second, seamless.
Now, from the outside, within the detection logic of the silver needle, he was indistinguishable from one who had "passed the re-evaluation normally"
—memory blank, like a newborn babe.
Only he himself knew.
Beneath that seemingly inert shell, his consciousness churned like an undercurrent. Three Memory Core Crystals hovered quietly. The Verdant Gleam sword sigil in his palm burned faintly. All memories of the "41", the green dress, the cherry blossom brooch, the Celestial Mechanism Pavilion, the blood pupil, the zero-point reset… remained perfectly intact.
Time flowed in absolute silence, stretching for what felt like an eternity.
The needle embedded in the Baihui point emitted two short, crisp beeps from its end.
Beep. Beep.
Then, it began to flash steadily with a soft, "passing" green light.
White Shroud seemed to nod—a minuscule, formulaic motion.
It pinched the needle shaft, steadily, slowly drawing the silver needle from Mo Bai's head.
The moment the needle tip left his skin, that cold, heavy feeling of physical禁锢 receded like a tide.
Mo Bai's fingers twitched almost imperceptibly, then he forced them to relax instantly, resuming the appearance of complete numbness.
White Shroud showed no reaction to this tiny movement. It merely retracted the needle into its sleeve and announced in its flat voice:
"No. 12, re-evaluation passed. No anomalies. Reborn."
With that, it turned and shuffled out of the room with the same measured, even, tiny steps.
The room returned to silence.
Mo Bai lay still for another ten breaths.
Then, he slowly sat up.
And that "White Shroud"… that "No. 12"… what did it all mean?
Mo Bai got off the bed, examining the room. Gothic carvings, a modern wooden desk, a wicker chair, a narrow bed, a plush teddy bear.
Everything exuded a deliberate, discordant sense of being "staged."
Then, his gaze fell on the room's only door.
He walked over, grasped the cold metal doorknob. The chill spread through his palm.
No lock.
He took a breath, forcing down the surge of questions and the bone-deep, icy vigilance. Then, slowly applying force, he pushed outward—
The door opened.
Light, mixed with a vast, low, steady, unnatural background hum, flooded in.
Mo Bai stood at the suddenly yawning doorway, his pupils constricting sharply.
The scene outside the door made his breath catch in his throat.