Chapter 35 – Accusation

Xu Anran’s sudden awakening caught many off guard.

This situation had never occurred before with a researcher of Xu Anran’s seniority and experience since Blizzard’s stabilization and official deployment.

It was clear that this mission was not as straightforward as initially imagined.

Indeed, the dreamscape of a murderer was bound to be filled with rage, cruelty, misanthropy, and violence.

The other researchers couldn’t help but feel sympathy for Gu Lanshan and Qi Youxuan, who were participating in this operation.

Xu Anran set down the case file in his hand and glanced at the individuals still lying peacefully in the operation pods, his eyes flickering.

Unaware, they remained submerged in the realm of Blizzard.

“President Xu, what’s wrong?” A slender, elegantly dressed secretary handed him a glass of water, her meticulously made-up face full of concern.

Xu Anran didn’t even look at her, addressing the researcher operating Blizzard directly: “I need to return to Snowscape immediately. Run the program!”

“Yes!” The researcher responded without delay, fingers flying across the keyboard. Xu Anran lay back in the pod. The secretary, seemingly unperturbed by his earlier coldness, set down the glass and gently closed the pod door for him with practiced care.

Xu Anran closed his eyes, experiencing the familiar sensation of weightlessness and the accompanying leap of consciousness.

It was a comforting feeling.

Blizzard was meant to be a force for the nation’s benefit and the people’s welfare—something inherently reassuring.

The corners of his lips lifted slightly in a faint smile.

A man long abandoned and condemned by the world still dared to challenge Blizzard, to challenge Weiyao?

First, Wei Qinzhou fell—and now, Yan Ru.

But it didn’t matter. They were all just fools dreaming impossible dreams.

Silence.

All external sounds vanished in an instant.

The only thing I could hear was my own heartbeat, deafeningly loud in the stillness.

We stared at each other in the dark, our gazes piercing through layers of fog to reach the depths of each other’s eyes.

After a long pause, I couldn’t help but laugh.

The sound, forced from my throat, was the only noise in the surroundings.

Even I could tell how eerie and chilling my laughter sounded in the night, but I couldn’t suppress it.

“That year?” I rasped, as if lost in memory, speaking slowly, “Of course! It’s just a pity—I was this close to sending those three bastards to prison!”

This close.

My plan had been completely disrupted by Wei Qinzhou.

I never claimed to be a good person.

Never!

The good in me had died long ago under years of neglect and bullying. If I hadn’t twisted, changed, rotted—how could I have survived in such a suffocating environment?

I just wanted to live a decent life. Was that wrong?

But the person who once asked me if I was looking at the stars, who told me that if I walked far enough and stood high enough, all obstacles would become insignificant—he was the one who turned around and accused me.

I was only doing what he said—striving to move forward, to rise higher!

Why was this naive do-gooder so merciful to everyone?

Why?!

Didn’t he know that kind of kindness could easily get him killed?

No wonder he was dead now.

Ten years ago, on a night just as dark as this one, I hid in the shadows with the camera I’d borrowed from Wei Qinzhou.

The day before, I’d overheard Sun Danhao and Zhou Xin’s conversation and learned about their vile intentions. At first, I was furious, trembling with anger.

This “prank” was more malicious than any before—it could have truly destroyed me.

But just as I was about to expose them, I stopped.

A brilliant idea struck me.

If I simply told someone, it wouldn’t bring me any tangible benefit or change. Knowing them, they’d deny everything and accuse me of slander.

But what if I pretended I’d heard nothing?

If I simply let things unfold naturally—neither participating nor intervening.

I wasn’t committing evil. I was just doing what most people had always done to me—standing by indifferently.

No—not entirely indifferent.

I thought of Teacher Wei Qinzhou’s camera. I could use it to capture evidence of those bastards’ crimes.

Did they really think their youth was a shield? That no evidence would remain? I could personally send them to prison!

That way, I could make those who’d bullied and hurt me pay.

Just as Teacher Wei had said—what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

How true. What could be more satisfying than conquering your past fears yourself?

A complete plan quickly formed in my mind. I was exhilarated, already envisioning my bright future.

Sun Danhao and his gang had tormented me for so long. If they were gone, wouldn’t I finally have peace? But I wasn’t seeking personal revenge. I was just… punishing society’s future scum.

If they hadn’t done anything, nothing would’ve happened. They had only themselves to blame.

So I hid in the bushes, camera ready.

Everything went as I’d expected. They lured Wang Yuehan to a secluded spot, intending to assault her.

My hands trembled as I adjusted the camera, but Wang Yuehan’s screams unsettled me.

I watched as Zhou Xin grabbed her. As she struggled, a tear rolled down from her once-bright eyes.

I suddenly remembered the first time she’d walked into the classroom—those eyes hadn’t been filled with fear.

Should I help her?

Maybe I should.

She was innocent. She’d come to this remote school with enthusiasm—she didn’t deserve this.

But wasn’t I innocent too?

I just wanted to escape my past. That wasn’t wrong… was it?

Besides, self-preservation was the most useful lesson I’d learned from those around me. When I was struggling, when I begged for help—hadn’t they all stood by and watched? No one had ever stepped forward. Now, I was just doing the same.

So I wasn’t wrong.

Just as my resolve wavered, fate made the decision for me.

Wei Qinzhou descended like a god.

Just as he’d appeared on the rooftop that night to save me from the brink, this time, he appeared to save Wang Yuehan.

It ended too quickly. I was disappointed—I hadn’t captured the evidence I needed.

But what came next shocked me even more.

When I returned to the campsite, Wei Qinzhou had already calmed Wang Yuehan and was standing guard outside her tent. The campfire flickered between us, and his gaze pierced through the flames, landing squarely on me.

A chill ran down my spine.

“Teacher Wei,” I greeted him, handing back the camera. “I didn’t manage to photograph the stars.”

I’d borrowed the camera under the pretense of stargazing.

Wei Qinzhou took the camera without looking at it and set it aside. Just as I was about to enter my tent, he suddenly grabbed my arm.

His grip was iron-tight, veins bulging. My arm ached as he dragged me, ignoring my feeble struggles, toward the woods.

I glanced at his profile—his jaw was clenched so tightly I could see the strain.

My heart lurched. I felt inexplicably uneasy, like a child facing an adult’s sudden fury—confused and helpless.

Was he angry? Because of what happened to Wang Yuehan? But why take it out on me?

He pulled me to a spot not too far from the campsite, ensuring our voices wouldn’t carry, before demanding in a low voice, “Where were you?”

I forced a smile. “Taking pictures of the stars.”

“You’re still lying!” Wei Qinzhou hissed. “There are no stars tonight!”

The thick clouds had smothered even the faintest glimmer of starlight.

The forced smile dropped from my face. I stared at him blankly. “You knew I was there.”

“Yes,” Wei Qinzhou spat, fury barely contained. “So you borrowed my camera—was it really for the stars, or were you just coincidentally hiding in the bushes, coincidentally pointing the camera at them?!”

I tilted my head, frowning. “If you already knew, why ask?”

Wei Qinzhou pressed closer, his voice sharp. “When did you find out about their plan?”

“Not long ago. Just yesterday.”

Wei Qinzhou took two steps forward, grabbing my collar. He was much taller—I had to stand on tiptoe to keep my balance.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

The pretense of calm shattered. It was clear now—he blamed me.

He saw me as no different from Sun Danhao and Zhou Xin.

But why? What had I done wrong?

Author’s Note:

Yan Ru is a little madman—his personality is twisted and extreme, far from the conventional definition of a “good person.” Don’t scold him.

P.S.: If you scold him, you can’t scold me anymore, okay?