Chapter 220

Chapter 220: The Balance on Both Sides 01

This night was eerily silent.

Kui Xin glanced at the old tobacco factory; all was quiet with no signs of xenomorphs emerging.

However, the silhouette holding the scale she had seen during the world shift was unusual, an encounter she had never experienced before. The situation seemed to be sliding toward disaster. Kui Xin felt a loss of control as if she were driving a car on a mountain road—carefully navigating the bends but still unable to prevent the car from slipping off the cliff entirely.

The path ahead was blocked by a dangerous, unknown obstacle.

Near the tobacco factory, Li Wanran and Song Tingshuan regained consciousness.

Li Wanran immediately rushed to the monitor and began checking the footage recorded by the distant drones. However, an unexpected situation appeared.

At 23:59:59, the monitor showed the old tobacco factory under the cover of darkness, everything was ominously silent.

At 00:00:00, the monitor screen blacked out briefly, then jumped to 00:00:03 the next second.

Where did those three seconds go? Why did the video jump directly and what was not recorded?

Li Wanran contacted her teammates on the other side: “Did anything happen at midnight?”

“No, all was normal. We passed through it smoothly,” her teammate responded.

“Did you have a timer? Were you watching the stopwatch?” Li Wanran pressed further.

“No, I kept watching the tobacco factory, worried about those creatures emerging…” her teammate explained.

Li Wanran put down the communicator and looked at Song Tingshuan, “Did you feel something wrong?”

Song Tingshuan looked puzzled and shook her head, “Just like usual, things went back in a blink… What’s going on?”

“It might be the time flow theory…” Li Wanran took a deep breath, “But no, maybe it wasn’t about the time flow… It’s like something used a pair of scissors to cut our time away, leaving a three-second gap. There’s nothing recorded.”

Song Tingshuan paused and thought intently, “Could it be just a fault in the monitor? At the first opening of the Dark Gate, the monitors mysteriously malfunctioned due to unknown forces.”

“This time is different. Last time, the monitor short-circuited. This time, the images were recorded, but there’s a three-second blank.” Li Wanran said, “Something is off.”

She held her forehead, her face as pale as death.

Listening to her words, Song Tingshuan’s skin prickled, “Our three seconds vanished? How is that possible…”

“Our world is becoming increasingly absurd; nothing is impossible anymore.” Li Wanran looked at the tobacco factory, contemplating. “We need to see inside. Launch the drone.”

A camera-equipped drone separated from the swarm of dark drones and slowly flew into the broken window of the tobacco factory. Just as it crossed the window frame, it suddenly lost power and fell from the sky. It should have hit the window edge, yet it went straight through the window frame and wall, crashing onto the ground in pieces.

The external drones captured this bizarre scene, and Li Wanran, who had been watching the footage, broke out in cold sweat.

The sight of the drone going through the building and falling off was too strange… It was like objects glitching in a game, or a solid phantom swallowing the drone.

Li Wanran quickly connected the scene to the daily floating mirages, but this time, a real building was turning into a mirage. The old tobacco factory should be standing where it was, but it seemed to disappear, leaving only its faint trace.

“We need to get closer to investigate…” Li Wanran stepped out of the vehicle.

Song Tingshuan hurriedly said, “This is too dangerous! Let me go with you!”

Li Wanran paused for a moment, thinking, “We don’t have to go that close… We can shoot signal flares into the building to check the situation.”

She soon called her comrades and had them aim a signal flare at the tobacco factory wall.

“Whoosh—”

The signal flare burned brightly as it reached the sky but didn’t seem to hit the wall. Instead, the signal flare, glowing in various colors, went right through the wall, its light fading.

Song Tingshuan could no longer stay calm, she exclaimed in shock, “Does this tobacco factory really exist?”

“It may not fully exist anymore,” Li Wanran murmured.

Song Tingshuan stiffly said, “Do we need to go nearby? If we want to understand what happened inside, we’d better send in living entities…”

Everyone present was prepared to make sacrifices, but human resources were scarce and insufficient enough as it was.

“First, let’s run animal tests, such as lab monkeys. We can tag them with ropes and collars for easier retrieval. Then watch how these test subjects react after entering the tobacco factory.” Li Wanran said.

“I’ll contact people to prepare right away.” Song Tingshuan pulled out her walkie-talkie.

Li Wanran glanced again at the darkening skies and told Song Tingshuan, “I’ll head to the perimeter.”

Immediately, a fully armed person followed her, wanting to protect her. But Li Wanran declined, “No need to follow me. I’m going alone. Don’t worry, nothing will happen. I’ve got it.”

Alone, Li Wanran left the group and headed straight to the outskirts of the old industrial zone.

After walking for over ten minutes, Song Tingshuan and the comrades lagged behind, and Li Wanran arrived at an open space, where she quietly waited.

Before three minutes passed, a few meters ahead, the rustling of crushed branches and leaves indicated someone’s presence.

“It seems so, as I thought, you would come find me,” Li Wanran’s expression relaxed slightly, “I saw you that time. That must have been you.”

She referred to seeing a scene of investigating the Popov Clan family during scenario reenactment in the Second World.

“Yeah, I knew you were part of the team,” Kui Xin said, “Thanks for covering for me.”

“It’s nothing,” Li Wanran replied, “Looks like you’re well-informed about information, not just mine but from both worlds as well.”

Kui Xin pondered for a moment and shared a little, “Beyond myself, I have companions and teammates. We have different roles and responsibilities. One of my teammates excels at gathering intelligence. It was he who uncovered your information.”

“You mentioned the code name ‘Mao Tou Fu’ when we last met.” Li Wanran said.

“Yes,” Kui Xin confirmed.

Li Wanran asked bluntly, “Are you the ‘Black Snake’?”

“That isn’t me; the Black Snake is the leader, I’m just a follower.” Kui Xin calmly stated.

Seeing this, Li Wanran’s face revealed some understanding, “I see.”

“You taking risks for me, telling lies, carries a potential risk. In the Second World, abilities can vary vastly, and if someone can detect lies, you could be in grave danger.” Kui Xin said.

“I’ve taken precautions,” Li Wanran assured, “Thank you for the reminder, I will be more careful.”

Kui Xin asked, “Did you experience anything unusual during the world shift?”

“You sensed the time issue too? Three seconds were missing.” Li Wanran’s brow was deeply troubled.

What Kui Xin really wanted to ask was whether she had seen the silhouette holding the scale. From Li Wanran’s answer, the answer seemed to be no.

Only Kui Xin had seen the scale.

Being special wasn’t always good. Kui Xin became a player, distinguishing herself from ordinary people in the First World, becoming one of the elite. She became a Remover, joining a unique tier beyond ordinary players. Now she viewed the red and blue gem scale that others hadn’t, making her even more special.

Being special could mean having stronger abilities than others, or it could mean facing harder challenges and taking on greater responsibilities than most. It made her journey incredibly difficult compared to others.

It was hard to say if this was good fortune; in many ways, it was bad luck indeed.

Kui Xin steadied her composure and asked, “You’re saying it wasn’t the flow of time, but the cutting of time itself?”

“Yes.” Li Wanran affirmed, “This is my personal guess; there isn’t yet enough evidence to support this, nor is it the suspension of time…”

“It can’t be. It must either be time flowing normally or time being shortened—never paused,” Kui Xin insisted, “I’ve set alarms. If our time here were static, the alarm shouldn’t have gone off with incomplete lyrics.”

Li Wanran cautiously added, “We weren’t fully prepared this time. Next time, we should use multiple methods to verify the time. We’ve underestimated the impact of the Second World on the Real World. The effects spread far more rapidly than predicted. We need to take vigilance seriously.”

Kui Xin gestured towards the tobacco factory, “About the tobacco factory…”

“Not looking good,” Li Wanran tersely said, “We need to quickly conduct animal experiments. The true meaning of the Dark Realm’s arrival, we must understand soon.”

Kui Xin fell silent. She had been closely monitoring the situation at the tobacco factory. Whatever Li Wanran had seen, she had seen too.

The arrival of the Dark Realm, the mission’s name, now seemed to be truly happening. An invisible realm had enveloped the area, making the tobacco factory appear both in the First World and as if it didn’t belong to this world anymore.

If the arrival of the Dark Realm was the work of a deity, was the Dark Realm then a domain of deities?

A while later, Kui Xin said, “Similar to the time flow theory on forums, we have a speculative theory of our own.”

Li Wanran said, “Feel free to share. I believe any suggestions or theories are valuable at this stage. Even if not correct, they can provide a direction.”

“The anchor point mooring theory,” Kui Xin stated, “Imagine players as anchor points. The Second World is a vast ship drifting in infinite darkness, while the First World is akin to a port where ships can dock. For a ship to reach the shore, it needs an anchor point—thus, the ship casts its anchor—the player. With the anchor point’s help, the ship can safely reach land.”

Li Wanran froze, feeling struck by some ominous force, a chill creeping from her heels to the top of her head. A wave of dread and absurdity overwhelmed her.

She struggled to say, “Players are anchor points?”

“Isn’t that fitting? Roots of anchors are planted in the port—our world—but the chains extend to the Second World’s grand ship,” Kui Xin explained, “We bear traits of both worlds, serving as the starting point of our fusion. Our world, once mundane, without gods, xenomorphs, or extraordinary powers, changed with the arrival of the players. Our bodies are assimilating with the Second World, as is our entire world.”

Li Wanran was momentarily speechless, immersed in Kui Xin’s theory, then she urgently asked, “Is it because of us that the trend of World Fusion cannot be reversed?”

“Perhaps,” Kui Xin considered, “but we are not the root cause. We’re simply unfortunate—chosen.”

She thought about Fang Zhi, herself, and the silhouette holding the scale, “Red gem and blue gem, which do you choose?”

“We hypothesize your theory correct,” Li Wanran said cautiously, “Can an anchor point be removed? If we remove the anchor points, could this stop the World Fusion?”

“It’s uncertain. This is just a hypothesis,” Kui Xin answered.

“But proposing this theory means your organization has some backing, right?” Li Wanran pressed, “What basis do you have? Besides the changes in players and the world, do you have other evidence?”

“Yes.” Kui Xin pointed to the darkened tobacco factory, “That’s it.”

Li Wanran instinctively gazed at the tobacco factory, her gaze filled with complexity.

“A particular xenomorph died there, and thus it became the site of the Dark Realm’s descent,” Kui Xin said, “We can consider that xenomorph as an anchor point, the Dark Realm covering the tobacco factory is like a small ship breaking off from the main vessel of the Second World, an advance team.”

“A special xenomorph?” Li Wanran turned to Kui Xin, questioning further, “Special in what way?”

“He was remarkably powerful.” Kui Xin simply said, “In the Second World, consuming divine blood without dying makes one believed selected by the gods. Ancients bestow them extraordinary abilities beyond mere physical regeneration. Cult followers claim they can communicate with the gods, and gods exist in the Second World. They might not be lying.”

“On this foundation, you believe the deceased hetero-blood, Fang Zhi, to be an anchor point?” Li Wanran summarized, “He was chosen by the gods?”

Kui Xin nodded.

Another piece of evidence, a nagging concern that had long haunted her—Death Rebirth.

This ability did not fit with her other powers, possessing extraordinary strength, and getting near after each use caused slight deterioration.

Thus, it is highly likely related to a god.

The six warnings from entering the game resurfaced—there is always a cost.

“Is it possible then, that only the hetero-blood among players can serve as an anchor point?” Li Wanran suggested.

Kui Xin merely noted, “Railway.”

It dawned on Li Wanran—the railway had also claimed another hetero-blood’s life, but no abnormal occurrences had happened at that location—it wasn’t every hetero-blood that could become an anchor point.

“So could it be,” Li Wanran continued, “only certain special players are anchor points?”

Li Wanran voiced exactly what Kui Xin was most concerned about.

Kui Xin paused briefly, “Very likely.”