Night settled over the Long Estate. A silver crescent moon slipped behind thin clouds, leaving the world so quiet that the faint splash of carp flicking their tails beneath lotus leaves in the distant pond echoed clearly.
Jing Pei sat by her bedroom window and looked up at the moon. After checking the time, she figured it was about right and turned her phone back on. As expected, missed call alerts from Jiang Qing flooded both her numbers. She could easily imagine how panicked he must have been while calling.
She dialed his number back.
He picked up almost instantly. Over the receiver, his voice came through cold and tight, squeezed out from between his teeth. “Long Jin.”
“Ah, my bad,” Jing Pei chuckled softly. “I accidentally drifted off and missed our meeting.”
“You… are… vicious.”
“Thank you! I think quite highly of myself, too.” Jing Pei knew she was being infuriating, but seeing someone despise her without being able to touch a hair on her head was undeniably satisfying.
Furious, Jiang Qing wanted nothing more than to snap the phone in half and hang up. Yet quitting now felt unbearable. Flames of hatred burned in his chest alongside raw confusion. “Why? Why did you do this?!”
He could not fathom it. They could have been on the same side. He would have gladly handed over at least half the organization’s operative network on a silver platter. Why did she choose to force him into becoming her enemy? What was going through that mind of hers?!
“Hmm… You know the famous Trolley Problem, don’t you?” Jing Pei mused smoothly. “I really am terribly sorry, but when the moment came, a choice had to be made. You were simply the ones tied to the tracks. Though, just to be clear, I wasn’t the only one pulling the lever.”
It was a game of chess between two players possessing a God’s-eye view—herself and the rebellious Plot. Both wanted to force Jiang Qing back into the organization. From Jing Pei’s perspective, she needed Jiang Qing to end up on her side in the final stretch. Exposing his identity stripped him of any place in normal society, leaving him with no choice but to retreat into the shadows of the organization.
That was why she had given Wu Ying the intel on Wang Fang, exposing his cover, and then set up the late-night meeting to accelerate the process.
However, from the rebellious Plot’s perspective, it knew what Jing Pei knew and understood what she intended to use Jiang Qing for. To counter her, it upped the stakes. It didn’t just want Jiang Qing back in the organization; it wanted him trapped there permanently, consuming him with a hatred for Jing Pei that severed any possibility of him being turned into her ally.
To achieve that, the Plot had only two targets to leverage: Master Wu and Wu Ying.
If Wu Ying died, Jiang Qing would lose his mind and burn the organization to the ground first—completely derailing the Plot’s goals. Targeting Master Wu, however, yielded a different outcome. Master Wu’s death wouldn’t drive Jiang Qing to destroy the organization, but Wu Ying would never forgive him. And because Jing Pei was the one who lured Jiang Qing out that night, his despair naturally curdled into a burning hatred directed straight at her. Once that seed was planted, Jiang Qing would never turn back to help her.
So, building on Jing Pei’s foundation, the Plot manipulated the Host to send Mr. Fei with a squad of elite operatives and a new viral agent to eliminate Master Wu.
Min Yue’s time rewind could have saved Master Wu, but if the Plot realized Master Wu couldn’t be killed, it would have moved to eliminate Jiang Qing instead—destroying the biggest threat. That was an outcome Jing Pei couldn’t afford. Jiang Qing was the only person in the future who would hold all the deactivation codes. Without those passwords, even if they won the war, the casualties would be catastrophic.
Master Wu’s death became an unavoidable sacrifice.
With Master Wu gone, a delicate balance was struck between Jing Pei and the Plot. The Plot could use Jiang Qing to stall for time and boost the organization’s chances against her, while Jing Pei gambled that she could find a way to extract the codes from Jiang Qing later on. For now, both sides got what they needed.
“How noble of you,” Jiang Qing sneered over the line, his tone laced with venom. “A Trolley Problem, huh? So tell me… who’s the next one you’ll tie to the tracks? Wu Ying?”
“If necessary,” Jing Pei replied without hesitation.
Silence fell hard over the receiver. When Jiang Qing spoke again, his voice cut like a razor. “What if the next person tied to those tracks… is Qiu Fa?”
He had already picked up on the subtle signs between them.
He expected Jing Pei to pause, even for a second. Instead, he heard a light, effortless chuckle.
“What makes you think,” she said smoothly, “I haven’t thrown him onto those tracks before?”
Jiang Qing gripped the phone so hard it groaned in his hand, and a thin crack spread across the screen. He could read almost anyone — their expressions, their eyes, the way they breathed — but Jing Pei was like a blank wall. Every word she said sounded completely, frighteningly real.
She was far more of a monster than he ever was.
“I will kill you,” he whispered, raw malice dripping from every syllable. “Just you wait.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Jing Pei ended the call, set her phone aside, and stretched lazily before collapsing onto her soft bed. Time for sleep.
By the time the sedan reached its destination, Jiang Qing’s phone was utterly destroyed. Broken glass bit into his palm, blood dripping down his fingers in steady droplets. His face was a mask of cold fury.
The sun hovered just beneath the horizon. The convoy cut through a dense forest, emerging at the edge of a coastal cliff. Far below, jagged rocks stood like teeth amidst crashing sea foam. Anything falling over the side would be smashed to pieces.
Yet the lead vehicle didn’t slow down. It rolled straight off the cliff’s edge.
Instead of plunging into the abyss, the wheels caught onto an invisible road. A split second later, the car vanished into thin air. One after another, the remaining vehicles drove off the cliff and vanished. High up in the branches, a squirrel froze mid-bite, its bushy tail stiffened in shock as it stared at the empty air.
Most people believed spatial bubbles were permanently attached to the planet’s dimensional barrier, and that tearing them away would cause them to collapse into a singularity—just as Bubble 109 had nearly done.
That wasn’t entirely true.
The organization’s headquarters was hidden inside a floating spatial bubble—a rare phenomenon that drifted freely through the dimensions, quite possibly the only one of its kind in existence.
It functioned as a massive, invisible floating fortress. Wherever they needed to go, they steered the bubble there. Unless someone knew the exact entrance coordinates, it was impossible to see, touch, or track, shielded by advanced anti-detection systems.
Now, the floating fortress had arrived to welcome their Young Heir home.
Inside the bubble, a vast crowd gathered at the entrance plaza, having waited for quite some time.
“Should be here soon, right?”
“I had no idea our organization even had a Young Heir! Is he the Godfather’s son?”
“No, not the Godfather’s kid. He fought his way through ruthless trial rounds to claim the title.”
“What kind of Atavist lineage does he have?”
“He’s an ordinary human, you idiot!”
Muffled whispers rippled through the crowd like buzzing flies until the entry portal opened. In an instant, the square fell dead silent.
A fleet of black sedans glided inside. The central vehicle pulled to a smooth stop. Curiosity burned through the ranks, but no one dared look directly, stealing nervous glances from beneath lowered brows.
The driver stepped out and opened the rear door. Trained to perfection, the ranks bowed as one.
“Welcome home, Young Heir!”
Jiang Qing removed his wire-rimmed glasses, exposing cold, chilling eyes. His gaze swept across every face in the plaza, sending shivers down their spines.
“Get a healer,” Mr. Fei instructed as he stepped out of the vehicle, noticing the blood dripping from Jiang Qing’s hand.
An executive immediately stepped forward to handle the order.
“Where is the high-ranking member favored by ‘Divine Inspiration’?” Jiang Qing asked, his voice entirely devoid of warmth.
“He failed his duties and is currently confined,” an executive reported quickly. “He hardly deserves the honor of welcoming you.”
“Bring him to me.”
“Where… should we take him? The conference room?”
“No,” Jiang Qing replied flatly. “Before I begin my official duties, I need to jog my memory. Take him there and have him wait for me.”
The executives froze. They all knew exactly what “there” meant.
Escorted by the top leadership, Jiang Qing strode past the silent crowd without a backward glance.
“Well, well… I never expected it to be him,” a man in the crowd muttered, stroking his neat handlebar mustache.
“Old Tang!” A heavy arm clapped down on his shoulder. The man had tight curly bangs dangling over his forehead—the former head of the Atavist Serum Department who had ruined Wen Yuxian and Zhang Simiao.
“Old Tang, you hit the jackpot!” Curly Bangs grinned enthusiastically. “That new poison you brewed actually wiped out Master Wu in one hit! Incredible! You truly are the pillar of our department!”
Tang Woxue smiled faintly. “Good to hear.”
Inside a stark, windowless holding cell that resembled a police interrogation room, the Host paced nervously. Aside from a single metal table and two chairs, the room was bare and cold.
Did Mr. Fei succeed in bringing the Young Heir back from the wetland park?
Just as his anxiety reached its peak, footsteps echoed outside.
“Is the Young Heir back? Does he want to see me?”
“Yes.”
Overjoyed, the Host followed the guard out of the cell. They arrived in front of a looming, ominous building.
A sharp, metallic stench of stale blood hung heavy in the air. As the heavy doors swung open, the stench hit him like a wall. Decades of blood had seeped deep into the concrete floors, staining them a dark, dreadful brown that no amount of scrubbing could ever erase.
Years ago, a young Jiang Qing had walked out of these very doors covered in blood to claim his seat as the Young Heir.
Now, he stood inside once more.
Standing near him were several elite Atavists who had accompanied Mr. Fei on the night’s operation—including the Skin-Shifter who had disguised herself as Wu Ying to strike down Master Wu.
It had been years since the Host last saw Jiang Qing in person. Yet the moment he met those dark, classic eyes, he recognized him instantly.
“Young Heir! You’re back! Mr. Fei!” The Host called out in relief. Surely Mr. Fei would protect him now!
Jiang Qing turned his head slowly, holding his cracked glasses in his bloodstained palm. Without the frames to soften his features, those classic eyes looked terrifyingly cold—devoid of a single trace of human warmth.
A cold pit formed in the Host’s stomach. His smile faltered.
“Mr. Fei, this…!” He turned frantically toward Mr. Fei.
Mr. Fei stood in his gray suit and hawk mask, a polite smile on his face, though his words were utterly merciless. “The Young Heir wants to refresh his memory of fighting his way through the ranks. Why don’t you all spar with him?”
“Don’t be afraid. I’ve got five broken ribs and two fractured fingers. You can run or attack if you want. The rules are the same as always: whoever knocks me down gets a reward.”
Jiang Qing had changed into fresh clothes, but his internal injuries remained untreated. Broken bones pressed against his insides, causing agony that would make an ordinary man collapse in cold sweat. Yet he stood perfectly straight, showing not a single hint of pain.
The Host turned pale, looking to Mr. Fei once more for help.
Mr. Fei said nothing.
He had never promised to protect the Host. Jiang Qing had been forced back into the fold under brutal circumstances, and he needed an outlet to vent his rage. The Host was the perfect punching bag.
Realizing he was completely abandoned, terror flooded the Host. He wanted to beg for mercy, but he knew Number 9 never spared anyone.
Driven by sheer survival instinct, a desperate gamble seized him. The moment Mr. Fei signaled the start, the Host didn’t flee into the maze like the other Atavists. Instead, he lunged straight at Jiang Qing!
He wanted to strike first and take the Young Heir down!
Yet before he could even close the distance, a hand moved faster than thought!
The palm slammed directly into the Host’s face—like a basketball being brutally dunked into the hardwood. His head cracked backward, his feet flying out from under him.
BANG!
The Host slammed into the floor with crushing force. His world went instantly dark, his mouth agape, his pupils dilating into nothingness.
Jiang Qing slowly stood tall, wiping his hand as he glanced back at Mr. Fei and the others.
“I used too much force,” Jiang Qing remarked coldly. “Then again, a man whose willpower couldn’t even break five is useless. One round of torture by the enemy and he would have sold out the entire organization. He’s better off dead. Don’t you agree?”
“A-Absolutely, Young Heir!”
“Of course! We were just waiting for you to handle him yourself!”
“Close the doors,” Jiang Qing commanded.
With an Atavist firearm in hand and a sharp, calculating mind, this deadly labyrinth was his personal hunting ground.
The heavy steel doors creaked shut, locking them in.
