Chapter 402: In the Shadows |
Pointing at several scrolls traced with pale-gold cloud patterns on the table, Mo Ran said to Xuan Che: “These record the cases of cultivators falling into demonic deviation and the disappearances that have occurred in Mo City over the past few months.” Then she drew another jade slip from the nearby shelf and set it before him: “This one is the most recent incident, from just a few days ago.”
Xuan Che gave a slight nod, took up the jade slip, and casually unrolled it.
A hazy radiance rose from the slip, projecting a series of image dossiers and written records compiled by the investigators. The contents were meticulous and detailed.
As he read, Xuan Che’s brows knit. A moment later he lifted his gaze, looked through the midair hologram at the woman standing across from him, and said: “A refining-tower manager? After clocking out and going home, he suddenly changed temperament, his cultivation surged, and he began a spree of destruction?”
“Yes,” Mo Ran answered with a slow, grave nod: “Then during the City Patrol’s pursuit he broke through three successive cordons, throwing his life away as if it meant nothing. The last witness saw him leap into a geovein fissure at the base of Refining Tower No. 10. After that he disappeared. We organized teams to probe that fissure, but we never found a body.”
Xuan Che did not speak and continued to study the remaining material. Across from him, Mo Ran went on: “Based on everything we have so far, the individuals involved come from all walks of life. Their identities, backgrounds, and sect lineages vary; there is nothing in common on that front. And they are not all human. There are demon immortals, spirit immortals, even naturalized spirits and ghosts. It seems the ‘culprit’ that drove them into demonic deviation does not discriminate and is acting at random.”
She paused, then added: “Of course, taken together, the cases are not without commonalities. The greatest is this: every person involved had reached at least the level where one can project divine sense outside the body and let the soul roam beyond physical bounds.”
Xuan Che’s brow tightened as he looked up at Mo Ran and said: “Which means they may have been affected and driven into deviation while releasing their divine sense and observing with the mind?”
“That is our most likely hypothesis,” Mo Ran said with a nod: “But we still cannot determine how this ‘deviation’ is actually occurring. The very first thing cultivators learn when practicing separation of divine sense is how to protect their own minds. It is true that some are undertrained or careless and can be beguiled during the process, but so many people deviating in such a short time is abnormal.
“Contaminated even without divine sense leaving the body?” Xuan Che’s frown deepened. After a moment’s thought he spoke slowly: “Indeed, cultivators know how to guard their minds, especially when they have not projected their divine sense. In theory there should be no way to be tainted. But if what they faced was a deranged ancient great cultivator, that would be another matter.”
Mo Ran’s expression finally shifted: “A deranged ancient great cultivator?”
“Do not speak of this to outsiders,” Xuan Che said after a brief silence, warning her before telling the truth: “First, it would cause panic. Second, the one behind this may be so advanced he has attained the level of communing through thought. If word spreads and ordinary people of lower cultivation, in their fear, keep thinking his name, they may draw his gaze.”
“To that extent…” Mo Ran’s features tightened, disbelief in her voice, but she recovered quickly: “I understand, Immortal Envoy. Please continue.”
Steadying himself, Xuan Che said: “This series of events likely relates to an ancient great cultivator named Yun Qing Zi, and this respected senior is very likely already mad.”
…
A deep cave ran into a passage, the manmade passage into crisscrossing ravines. In the wasteland far from Mo City, a hidden underground refuge formed a vast labyrinth where human-made traces intertwined with native geology, burying every secret beneath strata of rock and soil.
On this remote frontier mining planet, long since in decline, there were countless forgotten corners.
A thousand years ago, pioneers built innumerable outposts, collection stations, and terraforming facilities in this harsh alien environment. With the passing centuries, many of these sites became history. Some fulfilled their design mission, some were undone by irresistible environmental changes. Whatever the cause, one after another of these installations, abandoned over a millennium, became graves, swallowed by Sentinel Silence’s endless rainy season and slowly mildewing in chill and damp.
Now, in the depths of one such forgotten grave, something darker and more dangerous than mold had clearly taken root.
In what had once been the core of a subterranean stronghold, later-installed equipment had replaced long-dead arrays, mechanisms, and arcane artifacts. A dozen foreign-looking “outsiders” hurried among intricate devices, while in the center of the hall stood a black chair.
Countless conduits and cables fed into that chair. The tangled lines spread like roots, linking devices throughout the underground palace, some disappearing into ceiling and floor as if extending to places farther still. Seated in the chair was a stern-faced, middle-aged man in white robes.
His eyes were shut, his brows drawn tight. Cables ran from beneath his robes into the chair’s ports, and nerve-like organic tissue had grown directly from the back of his head, merging with an interface above the headrest and twitching now and then.
After an unknown span, when a high-ranking technical cultivator of the Hermetic Order glanced up at the black chair for the third, uneasy time, the man finally opened his eyes.
The neural tissue at his nape detached from the chair and slowly retracted into his body. Not far behind the chair, several incubation pods emitted a low hum, and the surface of one unit lit up.
“Great Sage,” the robed technician stepped forward two paces with a slight bow and said: “You are recovered?”
“Mm,” the one addressed as the Great Sage nodded. For all his imposing air, the fatigue in his eyes could not be concealed: “I still need some time to return to peak condition and to organize my memories.”
He raised his head and looked at the Hermetic Order faithful bustling about the hall.
“How are your findings? Did you analyze anything useful out of the return signal?”
“Only disordered fragments,” the technician said helplessly as his hands moved over a control device: “Your previous clone died too suddenly, too completely. There was no time to transmit a full memory copy. From what we can read, the brain’s black-box chip vaporized in an instant. The protective shell around it barely functioned.
“Also, there was powerful spatial interference at the scene of death, unlike any jamming technology we have seen. It severely disrupted the memory return. The memory gaps and cognitive breaks you are experiencing come from this.
“These are the very few images with any meaning that we could reconstruct from the limited ‘deathbed signal’.”
As he spoke, the technical cultivator turned slightly and activated the holographic projector before the Great Sage’s chair.
Chaotic and blurred light rippled in the air. One could vaguely make out driving rain, lightning, and scenes of fierce combat. The images were inverted and broken, not only hazy but riddled with irrational phantasm and illusion like the unraveling of a nightmare.
Missiles streaked overhead but were somehow imagined as flaming tails. Someone sat astride one of those tails, flying about with a strange and vicious cudgel in hand. Spider silk webbed the sky, weaving a vast net, and at its center crouched an immense, terrifying presence.
Grotesque, chaotic, bereft of reason, these were the dreams sketched at the edge of awakening in a mind near destruction. It was obvious the clone’s sudden death had thrown the brain into confusion, sending memory and imagination out of control.
At the end of all this frenzy was the final image returned by the black-box chip.
It was even blurrier than the rest, yet because of the recorder’s extreme terror it was overlaid with lurid, intricate color. Within that color stood a figure raising her hand, seemingly a woman in a black, sumptuous dress, her eyes crimson as blood, lifting her hand toward this side as a brilliant light gathered at her fingertips and swelled.
“This is the last image before termination. From the timestamp, this should be the enemy who killed your clone,” the technician said: “But for some reason, the memory data extracted with this frame shows the enemy as very small. Physically, only a few dozen centimeters, like a doll.”
Expressionless, the middle-aged man in the black chair was silent for several seconds before he spoke slowly: “You are telling me I was killed by a doll?”
“That is likely a misperception caused by death and transmission interference,” the technician said quickly, lowering his head: “You saw how many distortions there were. The clone’s brain at death twisted many memories.”
The Great Sage neither agreed nor denied it. He kept his face dark as he stared unblinking at the figure swathed in mad color on the hologram, saying nothing for a long time.
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