Chapter 7 – The Contract

After finishing his meal, Wei An made himself a cup of tea and began browsing the news, replying to various messages in his inbox.

The situation outside was about what he had expected. The approximate death toll from Silver Bay had been released, all the necessary parties had made their statements, and conspiracy theories were flying everywhere.

The Federation’s upper echelons had finalized the person responsible for investigating the Silver Bay incident, who was now en route to Taoyuan.

Wei An had been casually skimming through the information, but when he saw the name, he paused and even double-checked the platform publishing the news.

It was indeed an official appointment.

The head of the investigation team was named He Xin—a very ordinary name. The news described him with phrases like “hardworking” and “diligent,” making him seem like a routine figure in the bureaucratic system. But he was anything but.

This man was a top operative in the Federal Intelligence Service, notorious for his ruthlessness and bloodstained hands.

However, his background was lofty, and his family situation was as convoluted as a two-hundred-episode melodrama about wealthy feuds. As his colleagues put it, he had a “thick foundation,” meaning he could get away with such things.

Wei An knew him and considered him a diligent, reliable, and generally decent colleague. But sending someone like him to Taoyuan didn’t seem like an investigation—it felt more like preparing for a massacre in some extremely troublesome region.

He wondered what this meant, and no matter how he looked at it, it didn’t seem right…

But he didn’t dwell on it. He no longer needed to worry about such things.

He was retired now.

After yesterday’s events, everything remained the same as always.

Outside his home, the city continued to function busily. After all, for most people, life went on as usual. Work still had to be done, and trivial troubles didn’t disappear because of what had happened.

The sheer shock of the Silver Bay bombing had faded, and discussions had shifted to questions like exactly how many bombs there were, how they had been launched undetected, and what kind of signal such an extreme attack represented. Society was processing the disaster in its own way.

Because of Silver Bay, most social invitations had been suspended. Wei An, as someone of his status should, stayed home.

He methodically replied to his emails, spent some time handling Gui Ling’s identity matters, and when the time came, he set aside his work to cook.

Lunch was no less elaborate. Wei An prepared a full table of dishes—local specialties—each one visually appealing and fragrant. He forced Gui Ling to sit across from him and eat with him.

With a smile, Wei An chatted about how the dishes were made or shared amusing local anecdotes.

The scene was very warm. Wei An was charming in his conversation, while Gui Ling listened with indifference.

In the afternoon, Wei An sat in an elegant wicker chair, basking in the warm sunlight. It was very comfortable.

Spring sunlight spread generously across the garden, making it shimmer like exquisite brocade. A fine cup of tea sat by his side—everything was perfect.

During some of his most desperate moments, Wei An had fantasized about what kind of life he would choose if he were free. It was almost exactly like this.

This was the kind of beautiful, “meaningful” life you were supposed to have after hard work and suffering—the kind you saw on TV, in novels, and heard about in people’s words.

Wei An felt content. There was nothing more he could ask for. Nor did he know what else he could want.

In the evening, Wei An received calls from a few friends. His social circle in Taoyuan was stable.

One of them was from Xu Chengguang. Their conversations usually revolved around wine tasting, winemaking, or investing in vineyards. Whenever something came up, Xu Chengguang would think to invite him, and Wei An did the same.

Xu Chengguang complained that the vineyard they were supposed to visit tomorrow was in Silver Bay’s restricted zone and had suspended operations. Wei An said he’d also received the news and found it disappointing.

“My properties in Yingtian still haven’t been recovered,” Xu Chengguang grumbled. “The relief process is stuck, and the Federal Military has locked down the area tight—no idea what they’re so nervous about. Did you know that after Silver Bay, they completely sealed off Yingtian? Especially certain districts—total lockdown, no movement allowed. It’s like they’re preparing for war!”

“Will the hotel reopen soon?” Wei An interjected, sidestepping the topic. “Or maybe we could visit privately. I’m quite interested in their batch of ‘Daybreak’—”

“A private visit might be possible if you coordinate with the stationed units, but the whole area is sealed off,” Xu Chengguang said. “One of my relatives mentioned wanting to leave the area for a while, maybe travel somewhere else. They said Taoyuan’s situation won’t be resolved anytime soon, and all kinds of factions are going to make things messy…”

“Wait, you said traveling?”

“Yeah.”

“Mind if I tag along?” Wei An asked. “I’d also like to leave Taoyuan for a bit. The Four Seasons Horticultural Exhibition in Garden City is coming up, and if we leave soon, we can still catch it.”

“Sounds fun. Count me in too,” Xu Chengguang said. “I hear the wine there is good—local shops always have a unique flavor.”

“Ocean City in White Star is also nice…”

They chatted for a bit and agreed to leave Taoyuan together at the designated time.

It was simple. If you had the money, life while traveling wasn’t much different from life on the ground. Large starships had spacious personal quarters, gardens, and well-serviced bars, restaurants, and luxury shops—comfortable and leisurely.

And since interstellar travel was time-consuming, having friends along made it more enjoyable.

Wei An hung up, satisfied with the arrangement.

Though he had invested considerable effort in building his life in Taoyuan, the moment Gui Ling reported to him, he knew he had to leave.

Gui Ling wasn’t some random fugitive. Once his disappearance was discovered, the investigation would be terrifyingly intense. The Ministry of Science would comb through every blade of grass in Taoyuan.

After the Silver Bay incident, the situation in Taoyuan was bound to deteriorate for a while. For those with ambition, this was an opportunity to shine, but for those who wanted no part in it, it was far from pleasant.

Leaving with this group was the least conspicuous way for Wei An to disappear.

Once the power struggles settled and the news ran dry, he could always return to Taoyuan.

Nothing would go wrong, Wei An thought. He had lived through many things in his life. He had the experience, the ability, and an understanding of the rules of upper-class conflicts and concealment.

Ancient civilizations weren’t his area of expertise, but this time, he could still control the situation.

Night had fully fallen, and the evening breeze had grown cooler, making the lights in the house feel even warmer.

Wei An had set the garden lights to turn on at dusk, filling the entire area with a bright and safe atmosphere.

He mused that in a couple of days, he could take Gui Ling out with him, claiming that due to how terrifying the Silver Bay incident was, he’d decided to hire a bodyguard on short notice. He’d keep his tone as casual as possible, making it clear this person was just an insignificant addition, seamlessly integrating him into his life without drawing attention.

Wei An sat in the dark courtyard, in a comfortable wicker chair, surrounded by fresh air. He rubbed his forehead—his headache was still there.

His headaches had been coming more frequently lately. He’d been taking medication for years, and it was likely building up resistance. There was nothing to be done about that.

He stood and walked into the living room.

Gui Ling was, of course, still there. Dressed in Wei An’s cotton loungewear, he sat on the sofa with a cup of cold tea in front of him. He stared blankly into the darkness outside, seemingly capable of zoning out indefinitely.

Wei An said to him, “Aren’t you going to drink your tea?”

The other man glanced at him. “Is that an order?”

Wei An hadn’t intended to order him, but since Gui Ling had brought it up, he affirmed, “Yes.”

Gui Ling picked up the elegant cup and took a sip.

“How is it?” Wei An asked.

“It’s cold.”

“You didn’t drink it earlier.”

“I don’t need to drink or eat,” Gui Ling said, giving him a dark look. “But if you try to flee and can’t get on a ship, I can help you with more… practical problems.”

“As long as you don’t cause me trouble,” Wei An said, “I won’t need that function of yours.”

Gui Ling didn’t respond further. He drank the cold tea, his movements oddly graceful.

Wei An turned away to retrieve his “contract.” He didn’t think for a second that he’d be unable to leave, but if there were any real trouble, he mused, Gui Ling’s existence was indeed the most effective way to resolve overwhelming acts of violence.

Wei An went to the terminal and began modifying the contract—this was the key to his future peaceful life.

The “contract” appeared to be a thin storage disk. It had originally been engraved with spell-like patterns, but over time, they had faded as if washed away by some force, leaving behind the throne emblem commonly seen in ancient civilizations.

When Wei An first obtained it, he had tossed it aside carelessly, mixing it in with a pile of rarely used spare parts.

Now, he finally retrieved it and inserted it into the terminal.

After three years, the main interface slowly opened again. When the archaeological team in Qingshi Province first discovered this thing, it could be accessed via a mobile device. But now, even with the best civilian terminal the Federation had to offer, the loading speed was painfully slow.

The contents of the storage disk were growing.

It took nearly twenty minutes for the main interface to fully open.

Wei An checked it. After three years without any “feeding,” this… “program” hadn’t degraded. In fact, it had grown slightly.

A few more lines of garbled code had appeared at the edges, warped and sickly, their patterns twisted into forms that looked like a body torn open: cells, blood, and shattered bones.

Over time, these would gradually develop into readable information and functional options.

The program’s interface bore no resemblance to the terrifying legends surrounding the contract. Its design was elegant, its operation simple, and its information neatly categorized, which spoke to the systematic education and professionalism of ancient programmers.

At the very top of the screen were the words: “Throne Class-A Take-Over Authorization Protocol.”

Scrolling to the end of the left-side menu revealed an option labeled “Class-A Compliance Monitoring Protocol.”

—Yes, this was the official name of this ancient regulatory program. In comparison, the term “contract” reeked of attempts to domesticate the uncanny.

A project leader from the Ministry of Science whom Wei An once knew had claimed that what they were doing to Gui Ling was “using technology to bind a demon from the Abyss to serve humanity.” The way he said it, you’d think they were the Ministry of Magic.

Humanity harbored all kinds of fantasies about ancient civilizations—dark and fanatical things, far removed from the dull, controlled reality of everyday life.

When this contract was in the hands of the Qingshi faction, it had been fed with the flesh and blood of countless humans. The feeding grounds were scenes straight out of the most horrifying horror films.

Because a fragment of eerie ancient code resided within the storage disk, the staff there had nicknamed it the “Hermit.” They would say things like, “The thing in the cave is hungry” or “Send the sacrifices into the cave,” even selecting victims based on ancient slave-era texts—children and the like—giving off strong cult sacrifice vibes. And yet, this was all being done earnestly, almost legally, by a large group of people.

At the time, Wei An was responsible for the case. He attended meetings with colleagues and negotiated with enemies—everything framed in official, formal terms full of power-struggle jargon.

But during breaks in those bright meeting rooms or work exchanges, Wei An would think: These people have truly lost their minds.

The night deepened. Wei An poured himself another cup of coffee and continued working.

Modifying the contract was a complex and meticulous task. On the surface, it looked like normal coding work, but many researchers had been drained dry at their terminals.

Some said the storage disk housed a unique organism. Others claimed it was a higher-dimensional entity manifesting in lower dimensions. Still others argued it was a reflection of an alien creature from a parallel world. But these were all just guesses.

The only certainty was that the things in the ruins remained deeply bizarre even after all these years—ravenous and aggressive.

The technology that created them was far beyond human comprehension.

But here Wei An sat, bathed in the warm light of his home, the night quiet around him, facing this interface without any real sense of danger.

Gui Ling sat behind him, wearing a soft, oversized T-shirt, watching a—Wei An had forced him to—feel-good family drama.

The flickering light from the TV was illusory yet bright, the music gentle. The man sat on the fabric sofa in a relatively relaxed posture, his face hidden from view.

The noisy glow from the screen enveloped him and the entire space, creating the perfect image of a standard family life.

Countless picture books, TV shows, and advertisements about ideal family life depicted scenes like this.

The whole world insisted these things were important—that a good family life could resolve your confusion, help you find your purpose, and was the key to life’s meaning.

Now Wei An was in one such perfect picture. Even if it was Gui Ling sitting there, making the notion laughable.

Family, warmth, companionship… These mantra-like words were long-standing lies, desires physically embedded in his body. Even now, he could feel their unnatural power, gripping him like a ghost.