Chapter 24 – After Returning

The plaza had completely plunged into hysteria. As Wei An watched the frenzied scene, he felt as though he was still trapped in some nightmare.

Just then, the lights flickered—power was restored.

The eerie, dim hues vanished, replaced by the sharp clarity of modern city lights, bright enough to turn night into day.

Wei An took a deep breath. The light seemed to strike his heart, reminding him that he had indeed returned to the real world. He had an identity, a life, and he knew exactly what to do.

He turned and walked toward a corridor leading to a staff restroom. It was empty inside, brightly lit, giving off the vibe of civilized society.

Wei An stood in front of the mirror, cleaning the blood that had splattered on his face earlier.

He didn’t know how he appeared in Gui Ling’s eyes, but in the mirror, his reflection looked refined and gentle. His hair was slightly damp, but that was normal after the rain. His face bore no trace of violence or cruelty.

He turned to Gui Ling and said wearily, “Wash the blood off your face.”

The other man silently walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, and rinsed away the blood seeping from his wounds. Some remnants had dried on his face and hands.

Gui Ling tidied his hair. The wound had already healed somewhat—now it looked like little more than a small cut.

Once cleaned up, Gui Ling turned to look at him. Wei An thought they both appeared presentable enough to blend into ordinary life.

Of course, there was still some blood on their clothes, but the Prayer Assembly’s mourning attire concealed it well.

Wei An considered his next move. He checked his phone—less than an hour had passed since the blackout, yet it felt like a month.

The signal was back. Likely, the security system’s self-check protocols had resolved the issue. At least the organizers were doing their jobs.

He opened an encrypted app, activated a voice changer, and dialed emergency services.

As soon as he started, Wei An’s tone shifted—now sounding like any other panicked guest.

“Hello, police?” he whispered urgently. “I’m at the Flâneur Hotel’s Forest Hound Hall. I saw armed men—dangerous people—killing guests. They were dragging bodies toward the main hall, talking about staging some kind of sacrificial scene—”

He abruptly stopped, pretending to have been discovered. “Oh no,” he muttered before hanging up.

The act was seamless, his performance flawless.

Next, Wei An closed the encryption app—a Ministry of Internal Affairs tool he had modified to ensure any callback or trace would show the phone as unreachable, powered off, or destroyed.

An untraceable tip-off would raise suspicions, but in a conspiracy of this scale, it was par for the course.

“Tao Jinlai wanted to stage this as a large-scale ancient civilization disaster,” Wei An said. “I don’t know the specifics, but the best move is to do the opposite.”

“Mm,” Gui Ling acknowledged.

Wei An walked back outside. Though his tone had been frantic during the call, he now appeared perfectly calm, as if nothing had happened.

“An anonymous call like this will just be chalked up to one of the victims,” he continued. “The situation’s messy—Forest Hound Hall has no cameras, so we’re untraceable. They’ll pin it on a dead person and call it a day.”

Gui Ling followed quietly, saying nothing further.

Wei An wasn’t sure why he was explaining this. Gui Ling didn’t care. Maybe it was just habit—having someone nearby made him talk.

They returned to the plaza. In the short time they’d been gone, the storm clouds had begun to disperse, leaving the sky translucent in the fading light.

The dark city had completely vanished, as though it had never existed. Sunlight broke through the clouds, dazzlingly bright. The streetlights dimmed as the city returned to normal.

The crowd remained chaotic, but the earlier hysteria had faded.

Wei An spotted plainclothes officers weaving through the throng—authorities were already responding to the “gate” incident at Forest Hound Hall. They would soon seal the scene for investigation.

He knew what they’d find. He had used cleaning drones to dispose of the corpses Gui Ling had killed and erased his own traces, but the “gate” and the pile of bodies, remained as evidence of the conspiracy’s beginnings.

Tao Jinlai’s faction likely had other setups elsewhere, but that was for local law enforcement to uncover. None of Wei An’s concern.

They merged into the crowd, becoming just two more faces among many.

Despite the recent disaster, no one had left yet. Over loudspeakers, the organizers explained that a perimeter sentry post had malfunctioned, and technical teams needed about an hour to deactivate it. They urged everyone to remain calm and direct concerns to Prayer Assembly staff.

Given the large-scale event during these unstable times, the organizers had followed old protocols, deploying an automated sentry—a relic of ancient civilization tech. These days, only their lockdown function remained, sealing off areas and attacking trespassers.

Somehow, the subspace city’s emergence had triggered it, trapping everyone inside.

The world was full of such remnants—hidden in laws, archaic protocols, or forgotten tech. Beneath the veneer of civilization lurked darkness and chaos.

Wei An didn’t know how far Tao Jinlai’s plot would escalate, but between Silver Bay, the Museum Massacre, and the Prayer Assembly, he sensed an undercurrent of loss of control.

If things escalated further, it could lead to a province-wide lockdown, preventing their timely departure.

At that moment, Wei An turned to look beyond the plaza. Crowds had gathered in rings outside, along with rescue teams and news helicopters, all waiting for the lockdown to lift before swarming in.

He had made the necessary call. The government would handle the rest. Though they were still stuck here, the crowd wore expressions of survivors—the worst was over.

Wei An looked up at the sky.

The sun peeked over the horizon, illuminating the clouds in layered brilliance. Only then did he realize it was barely past four in the afternoon. The world was bright; everything that had happened felt like a hallucination.

Wei An took a few steps, then stopped, staring blankly across the plaza.

He wasn’t sure what to do next. This was Tongyun’s busiest commercial district—he could find a quiet lounge, order a drink, and wait comfortably for this to end. But he didn’t feel like it.

He turned to Gui Ling. The man stood beside him, bathed in sunlight, his youthful appearance almost radiant.

They stood amid the crowd, strangers to everyone. Wei An realized he didn’t want to recognize anyone or make small talk with acquaintances.

His gaze drifted to a set of temporary steps at the plaza’s edge—dry, untouched by rain.

Wei An walked over and sat down on one of the cleaner steps.

He patted the space beside him and said to Gui Ling, “Sit here.”

The other man complied, sitting next to him.

They stayed there, on the outskirts of the chaotic plaza, waiting for the sentry post to open.

The post-rain air was crisp, carrying the scent of water—comforting.

Nearby, people photographed the clouds, others picked up trampled flowers and wiped down photographs, and a few sketched in corners.

It reminded Wei An of childhood moments—sitting anywhere, as if perched on the edge of the world, watching the bustle without rules or words.

Children often felt that way—as if they had a natural right to exist in the world, their futures bright and boundless. But growing up taught them otherwise. There were always obligations, unfulfilled desires, and unwanted burdens imposed by life. One had to learn to endure, even embrace them, just to survive.

Wei An sat there, his mind nearly blank. Sometimes he felt like this—disoriented, lost in time and space.

Gui Ling kept silent company beside him.

They sat for a while, watching as reporters interviewed the crowd, as people took photos and videos, dubbing this period the “Sinking Phase.”

Police cordoned off certain areas—likely where bodies had been found.

Someone spotted the petal-like shadows on buildings or the “cores” of Hellflowers beneath anti-slip mats and screamed, sparking fresh chaos.

Security struggled to maintain order while journalists scrambled for footage—a lively scene.

The first Prayer Assembly reports had already surfaced, framed like horror movie coverage.

Footage of the eerie objects under the mats spread instantly online, spawning theories about “The Gate of Hell” and its imminent opening.

But Wei An knew official statements would soon follow, mentioning organized murder and staged scenes, injecting some rationality into the frenzy.

He considered the biochip he’d retrieved from the corpse and made a backup to prevent self-erasure.

“Later, at home, I’ll edit and anonymously release footage of what happened in the hotel,” Wei An said. “This ‘ancient civilization horror show’ is too big. We need more proof it’s just a conspiracy.”

He smiled at Gui Ling. “It’s risky, but if we’re careful with hiding our tracks…”

Gui Ling sat beside him as a droplet seeped through the awning above, landing on his hair before trailing down his face. He blinked, wiped it away, then studied the moisture on his fingers—a strangely vivid gesture.

Noticing Wei An watching, he seemed to feel he should say something.

“Yeah,” he replied absently. “Do whatever you want. Destroy Taoyuan, topple the Federation—it doesn’t matter. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Wei An found the sentiment oddly heartwarming.

“Taoyuan can’t be destroyed. Do you know how much my house cost?

“How expensive can Taoyuan real estate be?”

“Spoken like someone who’s never earned a paycheck!” Wei An retorted. “Even in Taoyuan, it’s a high-end residential area—a riverside property overlooking Suoyun River, no less. Plus, the renovations! Do you have any idea how much work went into—”

He launched into a detailed breakdown of current housing prices, the square footage of his home, the time invested in perfecting the interior design and garden layout.

He had strong opinions on optimal lighting, the importance of open sightlines, and other minutiae of comfortable living, articulating them with scientific precision—like a comprehensive textbook on “The Science of Happiness.”

The clouds had nearly all dissipated, still trailing in wisps.

A breeze drifted by. The scene almost matched Wei An’s idealized vision of a happy life—peaceful, with companionship. That was all one needed.

Mid-sentence, Wei An suddenly stopped and let out a quiet, almost hysterical laugh.

It was fleeting—tinged with despair and madness—but in seconds, he resumed speaking about happiness as if nothing had happened.

Gui Ling sat beside him, unfazed.

“I’ve researched what makes a home conducive to happiness,” Wei An went on. “Back when I was with the Qins… some places were well-designed, beautiful even. But it was their territory, their rules. There…”

He trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I paid attention to these things. I always wondered—what would I want for myself? A house on the outskirts, quiet, where I could sleep well. No one barging in, no demands to be available anytime, obeying every word. Oh, and a big garden…”

He kept talking, his tone light, full of dreams.