The door to the rear room closed.
…No.
The door had never opened.
The Crimson Moon was still there.
The red glow was still there.
The red spider lilies were still growing.
Sheng Chengxiu was still pinned against the door.
And Su Muchen was still standing by the back door.
“Su Jinye, stop!”
The door opened.
Fragments of memory were like countless stones thrown into the surface of water at the same time.
They stirred up ripples upon ripples, overlapping until it was impossible to tell which came first.
He could no longer distinguish them.
Which memories belonged to his present self?
He thought he would die.
Or perhaps he thought he had already prepared himself to accept that outcome.
Every time, it was the same.
Every time, he thought he had calculated everything precisely enough.
Every time, he thought that as long as he disappeared first, everything would stop.
But every time he woke up, he was still here.
He closed his eyes.
The snow beneath him was beginning to soften, as though something were melting it.
He began to fall.
When he opened his eyes, the counter at Guichen Studio was right in front of him. The scent of old wood, the dim yellow light—everything was just like countless other nights.
Except the lights were not on.
Su Muchen sat behind the counter, looking down as he sorted through documents.
His movements were very gentle, as though he were putting away something he would never need again.
Xiao stood up and walked to the counter. With a smile, he said in the same lazy tone he had used countless times before,
“Muan, I’m back.”
Su Muchen did not look up.
He continued sorting the documents, stacking them one by one.
Xiao stood across from the counter and waited for a while before speaking again.
“Muan?”
Su Muchen finally raised his head.
His eyes were red.
Not the kind of red that came from crying, but the kind that came from going many days without sleep, many days without closing one’s eyes.
He looked at Xiao as though he were looking at someone who had already left long ago.
“You came back too late.”
His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.
“It’s no longer necessary.”
Xiao wanted to speak.
But the scene before his eyes had already shifted like a cut in a film.
The second scene came even faster than the first.
Inside the greenhouse in the eastern courtyard, the light was dim.
The lingering warmth of the charcoal fire gently warmed the air, while the morning light filtering through the window paper slowly shifted.
Xia Lanshi sat on a low stool, holding a small bowl and feeding a little snow owl curled up in a pile of dried grass.
Its feathers were gray-white, like a disheveled ball of fluff.
Xiao stood at the doorway and called softly,
“Huaiyu.”
Xia Lanshi did not turn around.
He set down the little bowl and took a letter from his sleeve.
Xiao recognized it.
It was the letter he had not managed to finish when writing his reply.
“Have you named the little snow owl yet? If—”
Xia Lanshi unfolded the letter and read it once.
Then he held it toward the charcoal fire.
The edges of the paper began to curl.
Flames spread upward across the page, consuming those words.
Ash fell beside the brazier and scattered in the wind.
“In the end… I still didn’t wait for you.”
Xia Lanshi’s voice faded into the snowy wind.
The third layer of the dream arrived quietly.
The gates of the Northern Frontier city stood amid the wind and snow.
They had not collapsed yet, but there was no one guarding them anymore.
The black flags were still there, but the wind had already torn them into fragments.
Xiao stood beneath the city wall and looked up to see someone standing atop it.
A black cloak whipped in the wind, blood staining the shoulder.
Xiao Yuan did not look at him. He was only watching the road beyond the city gates, now filling with firelight and moving figures.
The Sheng family’s banners had been thrust into the cracks of the city gate.
Sheng Chengxiu stood at the head of the formation, a smile playing at the corner of his lips—the same smile Xiao had seen countless times before.
The Crown Prince’s men and the Sheng family’s people were slowly passing through the gate that was no longer being defended.
Xiao Yuan finally turned around.
“I trusted you. Unfortunately, you calculated wrong.”
The city tower began to burn.
All he could see was the fire climbing upward along the walls, like a crimson flower slowly blooming in the night.
Sparks and ashes scattered across the Northern Frontier night sky.
Soon, they obscured Xiao Yuan’s figure.
When the fourth layer came, he was lying in the snow, just as he had been at the beginning.
A silver-gray sky.
Fine snow falling endlessly.
A person stood in the distance, dressed in familiar black clothes. His black hair was unbound, and his figure looked remarkably similar to his own.
He was looking at him.
Then he spoke.
“Thirty-seventh time.”
Xiao said nothing.
But the person continued.
“Failed again.”
Then a second person appeared at the edge of his vision.
There was an old scar on his face, already faded, as though it had been left there a very long time ago.
He spoke as well.
“Thirty-sixth time. Failed again.”
The third person said, “Thirty-fifth time.”
The fourth person said, “Thirty-fourth time.”
The fifth person said, “Thirty-third time.”
Each wore different clothes.
Each one was Su Jinye.
Different scars.
But all of them were him.
They stood in an arc around him, neither approaching nor leaving.
All of them spoke at once.
“Failed again.”
Their voices were as calm as repeated sighs.
He felt his gaze shifting.
The second self.
The third self.
The fourth self.
Each one was speaking.
Not one person.
All of them were speaking at the same time.
And yet Xiao began to lose track of which one was truly him.
He did not know which self the body lying there belonged to.
He did not know whether this moment he was experiencing had already happened countless times.
He did not know whether, if he failed again this time, he would still remember who he was when he woke up next.
This time…
What number was it?
The fifth self stood the farthest away.
He was wearing glasses, the reflection hiding his eyes completely.
He said,
“Do you still want to start over?”
He did not answer.
Because he did not know.
The sound of horse hooves came from the distance.
Very far away.
Very indistinct.
He did not open his eyes.
The hoofbeats grew closer.
Mixed with the voices of people shouting something.
He could not make out the words, and he had no intention of trying.
…He had failed again.
This time had ended in failure as well.
Everything was already too late.
It was all his fault.
“Su Jinye!”
He heard someone calling him.
He did not like the name Su Jinye at all.
It represented him as the Gatekeeper.
It also represented him as the one who had failed.
He wanted to say, Stop calling me.
But his eyelids felt as heavy as a thousand pounds.
He could not make a sound either.
Snow flew through the night.
Where, exactly, was the end?
When would this endless dream of a long night finally be over?
He had no answer.
Suddenly, he was very tired.
So tired that, for the first time, he sincerely wished—
he would never wake again.
◆◇◆◇◆
Xia Lanshi was startled awake by a faint, fragmented sound.
He abruptly opened his eyes from his light sleep. His body reacted faster than his consciousness, immediately checking the condition of the person beside him.
Xiao was still trapped in a deep nightmare, his brows tightly furrowed.
Xia Lanshi glanced at his pocket watch.
The ticking hands reminded him that this was only the twenty minutes of breathing room he had been able to spare today.
His palm was still resting over the back of Xiao’s hand. The scorching heat radiating through his skin was even stronger than before.
Xia Lanshi lowered his eyes, his gaze sweeping over the numbers fluctuating on the monitoring band.
The vital signs Su Muchen had repeatedly instructed him to watch had become cold conclusions in his eyes:
Thirty-eight point five degrees Celsius.
Elevated heart rate.
Rapid breathing.
But all were still within the expected range.
He carefully removed the now-warm damp cloth, soaked it in the cold water basin, wrung it out, and placed it back over the man’s forehead.
At that very moment, a sharp pain seized his wrist without warning.
Xia Lanshi did not even have time to cry out before a tremendous force yanked him.
The person who had been unconscious on the bed had somehow opened his eyes.
His left hand clamped tightly around Xia Lanshi’s wrist bone, the force so great it seemed as though he wanted to crush the bones outright.
Those eyes had no focus.
They were filled with the brutality and chaos of a dying beast.
After a brief standoff—
Xiao slowly blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The gray haze clouding his pupils seemed to be scattered by the wind.
Only then did the faintest trace of light slowly emerge.
The fingers gripping Xia Lanshi’s wrist gradually loosened.
Then the corner of Xiao’s lips lifted into an almost nonexistent smile.
“Huaiyu…”
He stared at Xia Lanshi, his gaze ethereal and distant, and whispered,
“…you’re here too.”
A chill suddenly ran down Xia Lanshi’s spine.
He clearly realized that Xiao was not looking at him.
Rather, he was looking through him, toward another distant time and space.
That gaze was far too quiet and empty, like someone gazing at an old acquaintance who could never be reached again.
Xiao raised his hand, his fingertips seeming about to touch Xia Lanshi’s cheek.
But then Xia Lanshi’s voice fell like an icy spring.
“Master Xiao, is there anywhere that hurts right now?”
That polite and distant form of address—“Master Xiao”—was like a binding spell.
Xiao’s fingers froze in midair.
His consciousness gradually returned.
Only then did he confirm his circumstances.
His gaze toward Xia Lanshi slowly settled.
The unnecessary emotions were once again forced back down.
“…Thank you for your concern.”
He withdrew his hand, his expression returning to indifference.
He tried to turn over, but the movement pulled at the wound in his shoulder.
In that instant, the tearing pain forced him to stop.
“You have an injury on your shoulder. If you want to turn over, I can help you.”
Xia Lanshi rose to support him, only to see Xiao suddenly lower his eyes and unconsciously rub his right shoulder.
“You know?”
“If you mean the mark on your back, yes.”
Xia Lanshi tilted his head slightly.
“…You saw it.”
“His Highness and Doctor Su saw it.”
Xia Lanshi’s voice was calm, without the slightest fluctuation, as though he were merely stating an utterly ordinary fact.
Xiao closed his eyes and remained silent for a long time.
Only then did he whisper in his hoarse, exhausted voice,
“…You’re not going to ask?”
If this had been the Xia Lanshi of the past, he would never have missed such an opportunity to investigate the truth.
“If I ask, will you be willing to answer?”
“…”
“Actually, whether you answer or not doesn’t matter. It is enough that Huaiyu understands.”
“You don’t understand…”
“I know that you cannot speak freely. I know you are hiding secrets that cannot be spoken.”
Xia Lanshi leaned forward slightly, looking directly into those deep eyes.
“I may not know everything, but I know that you have been carrying all of this alone.”
“You don’t know.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“You really don’t know!”
He suddenly reached out and seized Xia Lanshi’s wrist, gripping it as though it were the last rope keeping him from falling.
Using all the strength he had left, he pulled him toward himself.
Xia Lanshi lost his balance and fell against Xiao’s warm, faintly rising chest.
Their breaths mingled, close enough for each to feel the other’s disordered breathing.
Xiao wrapped one arm around his waist, his grip stubborn and heavy.
“You really… don’t know…”
Xiao’s voice sounded beside Xia Lanshi’s ear.
His voice was so hoarse it was almost pleading, and there was a despairing darkness in his eyes.
“If you really knew, you shouldn’t be here.”
Xia Lanshi did not struggle.
He carefully pushed himself upright, avoiding the other man’s wound, allowing their gazes to meet directly in the dim light.
A very faint, almost tender smile appeared on his face.
His cool hand gently rested against Xiao’s feverish cheek.
“…Xiao.”
He called his name softly, his voice like a breeze passing through a deep valley.
“I used to call you this, didn’t I?”
Xiao’s pupils contracted sharply.
Yet he did not lose his reason because of that single word.
Was Xia Lanshi testing him?
Or had he truly seen through the truth?
He remained silent for a long time.
Eventually, he released his hand and turned his gaze toward the darkness.
“…I’m tired. I want to rest.”
He really was tired.
In every possible sense.
So he decided, for the moment, not to think about what Xia Lanshi was trying to do again.
At that moment, the door creaked open.
“Xia Lanshi, how is he now—”
Chi Banyue strode into the room in a rush, only to freeze when she saw the nearly embracing position on the bed.
She was silent for a moment.
Then she awkwardly slapped a hand against her forehead and withdrew the foot she had just stepped inside.
“I’ll come back later.”
The door closed again, and the room fell silent once more.
Xia Lanshi: “…”
Xiao: “…”
Xia Lanshi slowly straightened and sat upright.
He closed his eyes briefly, adjusting his disrupted breathing.
Then he raised a hand and smoothed his slightly disheveled hair.
Xiao’s gaze swept over the several startling red marks around Xia Lanshi’s pale wrist.
A trace of darkness flashed through his eyes.
“…I’m sorry. I hurt you.”
“There’s no need to dwell on it. It’s nothing.”
Xia Lanshi gently pulled his sleeve back down.
“Go rest. Have the military physician come.”
Xiao’s voice was cold.
“You don’t need to force yourself to come here out of some false show of affection just because you think I once saved you.”
“I wasn’t thinking that.”
Xia Lanshi turned his head, his expression cool but resolute.
“Being indebted to you is one thing. Wanting to take care of you is another.”
Xiao wanted to turn his back to him, but with his injured right shoulder, he could only force his eyes shut and avoid that stubborn gaze.
“Xiao.”
“Lord Xia, you and I should not address each other this way.”
His tone was indifferent.
But Xia Lanshi paid no attention.
“Xiao.”
“…”
“There’s something I want to say while you’re still conscious.”
“…What?”
Xia Lanshi’s slightly cool hand gently covered his feverish fingertips.
“—I finally waited for you.”
The room was silent for a long time.
The charcoal fire gave a soft crack.
Xiao did not answer.
Those words seemed to be swallowed by the fire.
And yet, at the same time, they were like a heavy hammer, smashing through the final layer of defense in his heart.
He simply remained silent and endured the weight of it.
But he…
He knew better than anyone what kind of abyss of utter ruin awaited them after this.
He had never been someone anyone waited for.
He was merely the last person standing before the door before calamity arrived.
◇◆◇◆◇
Inside the top-floor office of Shaohua Center.
Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows was the nightscape of Yunjing City, with the blood-red moon hanging high in the night sky.
More than an hour had passed since the operation at Guichen Studio.
After the final scream from the front line, accompanied by intense electronic interference, Sheng Chengxiu and the elite unit he had led had vanished like a stone sinking into the sea, completely cut off from the outside world.
Behind the desk sat an elderly man with a full head of silver hair, yet still vigorous and imposing.
The true head of the Sheng family.
Sheng Chengxiu’s grandfather—
Sheng Wenchang.
At this moment, his chief assistant reported with a deathly pale face.
“Chairman, the eldest young master’s side… has completely lost contact. Our informants stationed outside Guichen Studio reported that after the eldest young master entered Guichen Studio, he never came back out. But the man himself has disappeared.”
“Why panic?”
There was not the slightest trace of grief on Sheng Wenchang’s face. Not even his eyes showed the slightest fluctuation.
He was waiting.
As for losing Sheng Chengxiu, his nominal “best heir,” he felt not the slightest bit of sorrow as a grandfather.
The Sheng family was powerful and enormous, with countless descendants in the various branches.
The obedient, the talented, the ruthless—
As long as the Sheng family’s power remained, countless replacements could be chosen at any time.
But the “door” was irreplaceable.
At the exact moment two full hours had passed since contact was lost, a crisp “click” suddenly sounded in the office.
The top-secret safe linked to Sheng Chengxiu’s vital-sign monitoring and timed signal had automatically unlocked and opened after its timed non-response mechanism was triggered.
Before Sheng Chengxiu had gone to the meeting, he had already anticipated that the Gatekeeper named Su Jinye might try to kill him.
So what he left behind for the Sheng family had never been some useless “distress signal.”
It was a poisoned blade that would drag the Su family into hell even if he died, continuing to force the Su family to surrender its secrets.
Sheng Wenchang slowly walked forward and removed a sealed top-secret document bag and an encrypted flash drive from the safe.
Inside the document bag was a notebook.
Affixed to its first page was a blood analysis report belonging to Su Muchen.
Written in red were the notes:
“Genome sequence pending confirmation.”
“Possible extremely early branch.”
“Unrecorded mutation.”
“Specific chromosomal region: highly conserved.”
Along with abnormal activity data.
Sheng Wenchang’s cloudy eyes narrowed slightly.
This report had scientifically and ruthlessly confirmed one thing—
Su Muchen truly was the “key” capable of opening the door to miracles.
He then inserted the flash drive into the computer.
Sheng Chengxiu’s final legacy appeared in full on the screen.
There were detailed charts, surveillance footage from around Guichen Studio showing collective distortions during specific periods, records of severe GPS drift caused by magnetic-field strength exceeding measurable limits, and abnormal reports documenting large numbers of advanced electronic devices burning out simultaneously.
At the end of the mountain of data was the restored text of the Sheng family’s “fragment,” passed down for four hundred years.
There was also a handwritten notebook.
It was made from paper crafted using a special ancient method.
Electronic files and data required technology and electricity to read, but writing on this kind of paper could survive for as long as a thousand years if properly preserved.
It contained the deductions Sheng Chengxiu had written down using extremely rigorous logic.
The final page read:
“Grandfather, if you are seeing this information, it means I have lost contact. If I disappear, do not try to find my body. If that happens, it proves one thing—the door is real. It is not a legend. And I will be the first person in four hundred years to step through the door.”
Then, on the page beside it, the entire sheet contained only a single line:
“The door can determine the direction in which civilization advances through human will.”
The handwriting was different from the original.
It lacked the rationality and composure of the earlier writing and contained a trace of joy that the writer could not conceal.
As Sheng Wenchang looked at Sheng Chengxiu’s final words, his withered fingers began to tremble unconsciously.
Then a suppressed, feverish chuckle echoed through the empty office.
“Haha… Good! Very good!”
Almost insane greed and delight erupted in the old man’s eyes.
If Sheng Chengxiu had died, it would have been impossible for the scene to contain not even a scrap of clothing or a single drop of blood.
But in reality, there was nothing.
It was as though this person had never existed at all.
He slowly closed the files.
No body.
No blood.
No explosion.
Only an enormous magnetic anomaly.
After a long silence, Sheng Wenchang suddenly let out a low laugh.
“Chengxiu may not still be alive. But there is one thing we can be certain of—the door is real.”
Combined with the magnetic-field data and the distortion of the temporal sequence, there was at least an eighty percent probability—
Sheng Chengxiu had successfully touched the “door” and had already entered that other world containing endless gold and the secrets of immortality.
Whether Sheng Chengxiu was alive or dead no longer mattered.
As long as he had not died at the scene, it meant the door existed.
This breakthrough sent Sheng Wenchang’s face almost beyond his ability to conceal his delight.
“Haha… So it really is true. Four hundred years… Four whole centuries. That book… The ancestors of the Sheng family never lied to me. None of it was wasted.”
There was a trace of madness in the old man’s eyes.
“Chairman, should we immediately use our connections and have the police conduct a comprehensive search of Guichen Studio on the grounds of kidnapping or unlawful detention?” the chief assistant hurriedly asked.
“Foolish!”
Sheng Wenchang abruptly wiped the smile from his face and barked sharply,
“Calling the police will only make those strange Gatekeepers even more vigilant. What if we force them into a final confrontation and they seal the door completely? Or what if the higher levels of the government notice the anomaly there? Wouldn’t four hundred years of planning by the Sheng family end up benefiting someone else?”
He then calmly issued a series of ruthless and precise countermeasures.
“First, issue a public announcement stating that Sheng Chengxiu is stepping down from all positions in the Sheng Group effective immediately due to health reasons and poor investment decisions. Sheng Xingxu from the second branch will serve as interim replacement. Suppress all information concerning his disappearance. Anyone who dares leak a single word—deal with them permanently.”
“Second, redeploy all surveillance around Guichen Studio. Watch it twenty-four hours a day. Do not miss anything.”
“Third, rebuild the network of relationships for everyone who has had contact with Su Muchen.”
“Fourth, under the name of the Sheng Group’s real-estate companies, acquire all the land and old buildings surrounding Guichen Studio at any cost!”
The chief assistant looked troubled.
“Chairman, we investigated this before. The land ownership around Guichen Studio is extremely complicated. A large portion was bought up long ago by obscure people with the surname Su.”
“Then use every means necessary to wear them down! Even if we can only buy a single residential house, I want us anchored there!”
Sheng Wenchang stared at the blood analysis report, his voice as cold and venomous as a snake.
“Send people to monitor Guichen Studio and every move made by the Su family twenty-four hours a day. Since Chengxiu has gone over there, he will eventually find a way back. The door will open again someday as well. That key called Su Muchen—I will hold it in my hands sooner or later.”
The old man took a deep breath and slowly leaned back against his chair, looking at the neon lights outside the window with a cruel, expectant smile.
He knew he was already old.
Perhaps he would not live long enough to see the day he completely controlled the door.
But he could afford to wait.
And so could the Sheng family.
“Pass down my orders. Within the family, select the smartest and most loyal young talents. Starting today, send them to the world’s top research institutions overseas. Have them specialize in spatial physics and unknown genetics. The Sheng family will begin cultivating the next generation of scholars.”
He paused for a moment before adding,
“Also, by tomorrow, I want the establishment proposals for a Quantum Spatial Research Center, an Extreme Magnetic Field Laboratory, a Genetic and Hereditary Medicine Center, and a High-Energy Materials Research Institute.”
The chief assistant hurriedly recorded this string of orders, not daring to miss a single one.
Then he rushed off to relay the instructions to the relevant people.
“Chengxiu, if you’re alive, find the door for the Sheng family. If you’re dead, then prove the door exists for the Sheng family.”
Sheng Wenchang chuckled softly.
“Either way, your death will not have been in vain.”
Sheng Chengxiu had used his own disappearance to smash open the door to a new world for the Sheng family.
He took an extremely old genealogy book from the safe.
He turned to the final page.
There was a single sentence written there.
“If the door opens again, and the two become one, the Sheng family shall continue the unfinished work of its ancestors.”
The old man gently stroked the page and smiled.
“Finally… the wait is over.”
The night grew deeper.
This greedy hunt, spanning four hundred years and involving the lives of countless beings across two worlds, had not come to an end with Sheng Chengxiu’s disappearance.
It was still continuing.