Chapter 17 – Kill Them

Wei An nervously examined Gui Ling’s wound. The bleeding had barely stopped, but this man’s recovery ability was slightly better than most.

Their gazes met. The scent of blood was thick in the air, and Gui Ling’s eyes were icy cold. The surroundings were drenched in blood, while those professionals continued their work diligently, creating this inhumane slaughter scene.

Tao Jinlai stared at the scene. If he had wanted to see Wei An panicking, then he had succeeded.

His expression was no longer purely malicious, as if reveling in a colleague’s downfall—there was something more complicated in it now.

After a while, he spoke: “There’s no need for you to pretend like you can really start a new life. Qin Wei, the Qin family treated you well. Serving the family is your duty in this life, but what have you done? After your adoptive father passed away, you let the entire family die out.”

“I don’t go by that name anymore,” Wei An said through gritted teeth.

“You belong to the Qin family. No matter how much you resent it, this is the truth. What you should do next is go to the reproduction department and arrange for the next head of the family to be cultivated, not cause a huge mess and retire,” the other man said. “Your relationship back then didn’t end well, and it’s the same now. You’ve violated the most fundamental rules.”

Wei An gave him a dark look but didn’t respond.

Tao Jinlai looked down at him. Wei An was kneeling in front of Gui Ling, his hands covered in blood, still wearing an expression of concern and unease.

The entire scene was like something out of a melodramatic TV show—full of clichés, tragedy, and the unmistakable air of a doomed ending.

“What were you thinking, Qin Wei? You’ve completely ruined your life. You had a promising career, but you threw it all away,” Tao Jinlai said. “The family represents protection. Power brings safety. We all know this, yet you abandoned everything.”

Wei An’s headache worsened, and he became obsessively convinced that on some vague spatial level, something enormous was approaching—not just a hallucination.

That nightmare of an experiment would swallow him whole one day.

“You’ll never amount to anything, Qin Wei. Pretending to be devoted won’t help,” Tao Jinlai continued. “You don’t have that kind of capability. You were raised by the Qin family—you can never escape that. This whole act is just you clinging to a pathetic lifeline.

“Retirement? That’s laughable. Someone like you doesn’t even know what you want.”

*Damn it, I can’t argue with him*, Wei An thought. He’s right.

He glanced at Gui Ling. The blood made the man look wretched. Gui Ling was watching him too, his eyes like those of a horror movie corpse—lifeless, waiting.

Wei An lowered his head, pressing a hand to his forehead. The pain was unbearable, making him furious.

“Kill them,” he said.

What happened next was horrifying.

In the blink of an eye, half the skull of a tall bodyguard opposite them was sliced clean off. Blood sprayed out, some splattering onto Wei An’s face, warm and fresh.

Something hovered in the air for half a second. Wei An saw it—it looked like… a knife. Gray, rusted, ancient, dull.

He had never seen a knife like this before. It was too long, grotesque, floating midair.

Then he realized: it was a fish.

About three feet long, razor-sharp, suspended like a ghost. Every part of its form was designed for killing.

It vanished in an instant. The next second, Wei An heard the sound of something heavy hitting the ground behind him. A head rolled into the edge of his vision.

The bodyguard restraining Gui Ling was already dead.

Wei An’s hair stood on end. This was the first time he had truly witnessed Gui Ling’s slaughter in action.

Compared to this, the scene in the lobby earlier had been nothing but a clumsy imitation. This was an apocalyptic sight.

The moment Gui Ling moved, the light in the hall dimmed. It was the “petals” of the Rapid-spawn Hell—when Gui Ling acted, they stretched like living things, as if some dark fury was spreading outward.

The “petals” were derived from ancient ruins of technology from the time of the old civilization. People had dismantled that ancient power, and while the fragments looked broken and strange, they could still be controlled.

But at this moment, an overwhelming, terrifying force seeped out from those fragments. A rustling sound filled the air as the floor, glass, and walls began to change. Darkness spread, scales appeared, hunger radiated. It wasn’t any known creature—it was something indescribable, leaking from the Abyss.

It took on the shape of a living thing in combat, scales bristling in response to the slaughter.

Tao Jinlai stood opposite them. For a moment, he still wore the same mocking expression, unable to comprehend what was happening in the three seconds it took for the killing to begin.

Wei An caught a glimpse of his face—completely bewildered. Tao Jinlai had meticulously planned his career and had achieved his goals. He couldn’t understand what was unfolding in front of him.

Though in truth, they all knew this possibility existed in theory. Things could go horribly wrong in an instant—especially when it involved the ancient civilization. It could quickly escalate into an incomprehensible horror, defying all logic.

But when you were the one killing others, eliminating obstacles, you never thought about that. You always assumed that if you planned and worked hard enough, things would go according to script.

Wei An thought about what Tao Jinlai had just said—what he should have done if he hadn’t left.

He could have applied to produce the next head of the family. The fertilized eggs were already there. He could have stayed with the Qin family—it wouldn’t have been that hard. He could have held power, raised an heir according to his own vision.

Wei An also knew what Tao Jinlai had in mind for him once he was captured.

He wouldn’t kill him immediately. He’d cripple him first, torture him, then drag him back to the Core Sector and sell him to one of his enemies for a tidy profit.

Tao Jinlai would also kill Gui Ling, this “bodyguard” who seemed to have a good relationship with Wei An. Before that, he’d torture him severely, making sure Wei An was present—or at least forced to watch via video—just to make him suffer. Because he had abandoned power, trampled on fate, squandered a golden opportunity, and taken the wrong path.

Wei An was familiar with people like this. He’d seen it too many times—sometimes it felt like looking in a mirror.

But as he thought about all this now, he just felt exhausted.

Wei An stood up and saw the knife-like fish pause behind Tao Jinlai for a moment before darting forward.

He had always wanted to kill Tao Jinlai. But at this moment, he suddenly lost interest in the details—perhaps because in such a setting, everything seemed bloody and desolate.

Wei An turned away. In the corner of his vision, he saw a flash of crimson. The death was abrupt, simple—there was nothing to prepare for.

For Gui Ling, all this power, all these rules and struggles—they were just things he could obliterate in an instant.

Wei An didn’t even glance back in Tao Jinlai’s direction as he walked toward the equipment by the glass wall.

“Bring me Tao Jinlai’s phone,” he said.

He didn’t hear Gui Ling respond, but he knew he’d get what he wanted.

Wei An wiped the blood from his face and stepped over the pools of blood and dismembered limbs to reach the window.

He couldn’t see the bizarre fish in the air clearly—it was too fast, entirely silent, radiating a terror that seemed intent on slaughtering everything.

A flash of artillery-like light flickered in a corner—probably some ancient weapon—but it vanished as quickly as a hallucination at the edge of his vision.

Ten seconds. More than half the people were already dead.

Wei An could imagine Gui Ling’s blank expression.

When he did these things, there was no cruelty or anger, just malice without a target. He killed with an almost elegant emptiness.

Amidst all this blood, Wei An’s mind turned coldly analytical: I’m still safe.

Everyone who knew the identity of “Qin Wei” was now gone—from the mercenary who had vividly described the “Gate” to him, to the people they’d encountered on the road who recognized them—all were in this hall now.

His retired identity could still hold. He was still Wei An, a good man, living a… beautiful, leisurely, peaceful life.

Wei An checked the equipment. Several technicians lay nearby, including the one who had wielded the boning knife earlier.

The light in the hall, filtered through countless black petals, looked eerie. These things were like mold from ancient times, casting the surroundings in a twilight hue—neither fully dark nor bright, making everything indistinct, where anything could happen, primarily things that were bloody and incomprehensible.

This was more like a large-scale sacrificial site from the ancient civilization: silent slaughter, dim light, an air of death.

Not far away, the “Gate” of corpses stood quietly. Everything about the scene felt wrong, ominous.

Wei An saw the terminal screen by the window, filled with lists and data.

The interface was typical of ancient civilization tech—blue, flat, and dull, with a primitive technological feel. As if that terrifying science was built from the most basic 1s and 0s.

At a glance, he saw that all seven spatial cohesion rates were skyrocketing. One value—unidentified (no one knew; the ancient civilization often represented things with numbers and codes)—was alarmingly high, already in the red. The others were being dragged up as well, all orange-red. The spatial stability value kept dropping.

He quickly reached out to adjust it, but the data flickered twice before the controls grayed out.

Wei An froze, then realized: in these few seconds, the values had already surpassed the safety threshold and locked.

He stood there, horrified.

For a moment, his hair was drenched in cold sweat. Somewhere, an extremely sharp, piercing sound seemed to echo—

He almost screamed—maybe to tell Gui Ling to find a way to stop this—but then, suddenly, the light around them brightened.

It was the Flâneur Hotel’s famous imitation-natural warm lighting. The spreading petals of the Rapid-spawn Hell receded, and the hall returned to its normal appearance.

Wei An turned his head. Gui Ling had finished killing.

In those twenty seconds that felt like falling into another world, everyone—the undercover agents, bodyguards, technicians—were all dead.

The building was filled with corpses, the stench of blood suffocating.

The glass walls regained their clarity, like a fragile surviving fragment of civilization. Wei An saw his reflection—one side of his face splattered with blood, yet he still looked like an innocent victim.

Outside, the rain was still pouring down. All the lights in the commercial district were on, and the city seemed to float like a ship in an endless stormy night, its reflection splintered into flickering shards by the pelting droplets.

A phone was handed to him. Wei An turned to see Gui Ling.

The blood on the man’s face hadn’t dried yet, but his expression was calm. He wore the stylish jacket Wei An had carefully picked out, looking flawless. His bizarre fish had vanished, and the way he handed over the phone seemed perfectly normal, like something from everyday life.

A chill ran down Wei An’s spine—perhaps because Gui Ling looked too perfect, like a reflection from some nightmare, draped in the illusion of sunlight, home, and fantasy, yet with eyes whose monstrous hue could barely be concealed by contact lenses.

Wei An took a deep breath and pushed the thought aside, accepting the phone from Gui Ling.

He moved as gently as possible, as if afraid of disturbing something.

The phone screen was locked, but the number was still there—a clue to unraveling these people’s schemes. Wei An pocketed it. He wasn’t interested in deep conspiracies, but since the information had fallen into his hands, he might as well investigate and prepare.

“They summoned something. From the data, there’s been a large-scale spatial cohesion event targeting us,” he said to Gui Ling. “The control systems are all locked—”

“It’s fine,” Gui Ling said.

He looked at Wei An, his gaze intent. Despite the massacre, he himself wasn’t covered in blood—only the earlier wound remained, half-wiped away by Wei An, making him look like some wealthy young man who’d gotten into a minor scuffle.

His voice was soft, almost tender—if one didn’t know his true nature, it might have sounded like sweet nothings.

“I’ll protect you,” Gui Ling said.

Wei An shuddered.

The monster’s eyes reflected ordinary lights and glass—a tiny, inverted abyss.

Then Wei An realized there was something else in those eyes… waiting. Gui Ling was waiting for something.

Wei An was about to speak when—outside the window—a thunderclap exploded overhead. For an instant, it was as if the sky had split open, revealing a terrifying rift leading to the unknown.

At the same time, the lights flickered and went out.

A blackout.

Wei An turned to the window.

It was a large-scale power outage. The entire square plunged into darkness, looking like a circular abyss from above.

Another flash of lightning streaked across the sky, casting the city in stark brightness, shadows black as ink.

For a moment, Wei An wasn’t sure if it was his imagination—but something about the scenery outside seemed off, as if something extra had appeared…

He didn’t get a clear look. Goosebumps rose all over his body. At this moment, the world was too dark—in such conditions, anything insane could happen.

Staring at this dark city crowded with people, Wei An whispered, “We have to fix this.”

He waited three seconds before finally turning back to look at Gui Ling. In the dimness, he could barely make out his silhouette. But then another lightning bolt illuminated him—that creature stared back, unnaturally pale under the flash, like a ghost clawing its way out of the cracks of hell, wielding unspeakable power steeped in absolute darkness. Something humanity yearned to control but could never truly touch.

“These people were professionals,” Wei An continued. “They had equipment and connected to something huge. I’m certain—whatever they summoned is extremely—”

He couldn’t find the words. The approaching force was too terrifying to describe.

“I can feel it, that power…” he said, his voice strained. “It’ll destroy this place. It’s too big—it could wipe everything out effortlessly! This makes no sense! This is a city—so many people, so many families—how can it just end like this?!”

“Plenty of things can destroy a city,” Gui Ling said softly. “This world has always been one where a few act, and many pay the price.”

“I know, but… I still have to live here. I put so much effort into building a home, getting familiar with this place—we *have* to resolve this—”

He stopped speaking as the lights flickered back on.

The backup generator had activated.

But a place like the Flâneur Hotel had too many chandeliers, wall lamps, and spotlights—not to mention central air conditioning—so the power consumption was astronomical. The backup generator couldn’t handle it all, so only auxiliary lighting came on.

Light was usually a symbol of civilization, but the illumination now… was unsettling. He didn’t know how it had been designed, but the light was a dull yellow, like something from an old painting.

Under this light, no matter how vibrant the original colors had been, everything seemed bleak and faded.

For a moment, neither spoke. They just turned to look outside.

Below the window, the streetlights stained the square with the same sallow yellow, as dusty and fragile as crumbling ancient scrolls.

At some point, the thunder and lightning had stopped. The surroundings were eerily silent.

The entire scene was like a waking nightmare, enveloping Tongyun Square and the surrounding buildings—in dreams like this, anything could happen.

Rain fell onto the square, reflecting the streetlights like weak flames burning over an abyss.

Further away, the human city vanished. A darker city appeared in the distance.