Roland’s intervention was an inevitable outcome. The source of all the supernatural phenomena was none other than Luo Shang himself. His actions had warped the world line into an anomaly, and that anomaly was destined to seek him out, drawing him into its web of causality.
As for Su Mingyao’s rebirth, it wasn’t a true rebirth at all.
As a mystical counterpart capable of rivaling Luo Shang, and as this world’s Child of Destiny, Su Mingyao naturally received the world’s favor and bias—but only because Luo Shang had already awakened his extraordinary powers. In a world governed by the “Book,” this favoritism took the form of implanting Su Mingyao with knowledge from the Akashic Records concerning his own future. The intent was to elevate him to the same level as Luo Shang, who had returned from the Reincarnation Space.
Of course, with this world’s psionic levels far below Luo Shang’s own capabilities, such efforts were futile. They merely served to position the relevant players more effectively at Luo Shang’s service.
After absorbing the message Ke Yanjin had passed along—details on suspicious purchases within the Reincarnation Space—Luo Shang ran the world’s entropy through its cycle once more.
This time, he reset the timeline to ten minutes before Su Mingyao entered the living room.
The world… restarted.
Shen Changqing’s eyes snapped open.
To Luo Shang, it might have been less than ten minutes. But to Shen Changqing and Su Mingyao, that pitch-black void had stretched into endless eons.
Even with each other’s company staving off utter isolation, those interminable ages had eroded their sense of humanity. Their very consciousnesses had nearly merged into one—a bond far more intimate than the soul-deep connection they’d shared in their previous lives.
Returning so abruptly, Shen Changqing had momentarily forgotten what he’d even been saying.
A glance at the System’s nearby cheat sheet, however, and at Luo Shang—who wasn’t watching the TV but fixating on his every move—jolted Shen Changqing fully awake with a shudder.
No wonder Su Mingyao, Su Bingyao, and the others despised Luo Shang’s world-ending antics. No wonder Su Mingyao had even sacrificed himself to buy time against Luo Shang, ensuring his own escape.
In that instant, Shen Changqing empathized completely with Su Mingyao and forgave him.
If their positions were reversed, he would have done the exact same thing!
The aftermath of Luo Shang destroying the world was utterly horrifying!
This world truly held terrors worse than death. Perhaps death itself was the kinder fate.
So thought Shen Changqing, ever the educated man.
Solid ground beneath his feet once more. Familiar human faces and tabletops in view, not the mind-shattering twisted patterns. Snacks and drinks scattered across the table.
Shen Changqing felt tears welling up.
But with Luo Shang still there, he didn’t dare let them fall.
No time for delays now. Shen Changqing launched straight into reciting his script lines with practiced speed.
He and Su Mingyao had discussed it in that post-apocalyptic void: Su Mingyao shouldn’t interrupt his conversation with Luo Shang. Still, Shen Changqing couldn’t shake his unease.
The sooner he wrapped this up and sent Luo Shang on his way, the better. What if Su Mingyao ignored their Nihility Space pact and barged in anyway?
Shen Changqing didn’t fully trust the man—especially after that previous betrayal. Even their near-merger in the Nihility Space hadn’t dispelled his doubts.
Su Mingyao’s own situation was precarious too. He needed a way to avoid being hauled off by the authorities.
Yet neither of them knew it.
Luo Shang’s latest world reset had triggered other consequences as well.
Far away in X City, distant from B City, deep within an underground research facility hundreds of meters below the surface…
A figure clad in ancient priestly robes stood at a precisely calculated position—the exact center of the Nine Tripods’ distribution, shielded by the power of all nine artifacts simultaneously.
In his hands, he held a desiccated turtle shell, which he thrust into the flames.
Beyond the room’s transparent wall, a team of researchers clustered alongside massive detection instruments and computers linked to vast databases. Printers spat out sheets detailing historical records and archaeological interpretations of turtle shell divination patterns, while a dedicated team worked to decipher the emerging markings.
Crackle, pop.
The turtle shell scorched in the fire, emitting sharp bursts of sound. The room’s built-in speakers carried every noise clearly to the observers on the other side.
The patterns quickly emerged along the scorch marks on the turtle shell. Thanks to the high-definition cameras, thermal imaging, electronic scanning, and other advanced technologies in the room, they appeared on the computers across the way. Not a single tiny line escaped the computer’s magnification and analysis, with the generated images updating at thirty frames per second.
The team responsible for interpreting the turtle shell consisted of experts in the field, led by the country’s first archaeologist to unearth a divination turtle shell. He was also accomplished in ancient texts, classical literature, and history, making him the unrivaled authority on turtle shell divination.
Professor Lü stared intently at the magnified cracks on the display screen, his expression deadly serious, sweat beading on his forehead and trickling down.
Everyone around him held their breath, not daring to interrupt his reading.
Right before their eyes, the turtle shell in the ritualist’s hands cracked along those very lines amid the flames.
It shattered into four large pieces, which fell to the floor and broke into even smaller fragments.
An omen of utter disaster!
Even those ignorant of turtle shell divination could grasp that crystal-clear message. The room plunged into a stifling silence.
Professor Lü turned his attention to the crack pattern the computer had captured through its various sensors just before the shell disintegrated.
He said nothing.
“What’s the matter, Old Lü? Do you need to head back, pore over some ancient texts, and study it for a few days?”
Only his old classmate and close friend—the head of this research base, Director Zhao, or Old Zhao—dared speak up at a time like this.
The PhD students and Master’s students Professor Lü had brought along stayed utterly silent.
The Master’s students weren’t too worried; they knew they were just there to gain experience and broaden their horizons. Professor Lü didn’t expect answers from them, so they kept quiet. The PhD students, though, were sweating bullets. They bowed their heads, desperate not to be singled out by Old Lü for their thoughts.
“No need,” Professor Lü said in a heavy voice.
“Everyone else, you’re dismissed. I’ll fill you in privately.”
They exchanged a glance, and Director Zhao realized this result couldn’t be shared with the whole room. He nodded.
“Let’s step over there.”
The research institute had no shortage of rooms.
In a new one, Director Zhao wasted no time grilling Professor Lü.
“I saw that shell shatter. The outcome can’t be good…”
As classmates, Director Zhao had picked up some knowledge on the subject—just nothing like Professor Lü’s depth.
“How bad is it, exactly, that you had to pull me aside like this, Old Lü?”
They’d only wanted to use this ancient method to pinpoint the anomaly’s location and gauge its severity.
The divinations for the Nine Tripods and the Qin Emperor’s Mausoleum back in the day hadn’t ended with a shattered shell!
“An omen of world destruction…” Professor Lü shook his head.
“That’s what showed up on the turtle shell—an omen of world destruction!”
“This…” Director Zhao wasn’t fully convinced by Professor Lü’s reading.
He got it, though. No way could you drop a bombshell like that in public; it’d shatter morale.
Who could hear about the end of the world and keep a straight face?
Director Zhao had been through plenty of storms over the years, but even he wouldn’t claim he could.
Professor Lü holding it together until now to tell him one-on-one? That took real steel nerves.
Must come from years in research, Director Zhao figured. He’d gone administrative after school, dabbling in projects for promotions but never diving in like Professor Lü.
“That’s not the main point,” Professor Lü said.
Director Zhao: “Huh??”
Not the main point? Then what was?
“Old Zhao, check out this pattern.” Professor Lü pulled up the crack image he’d scrutinized—the snapshot from right before the shell broke.
“Interrupted three times. Great misfortune every single one.”
“And that means…?” Director Zhao knew the basics but not the nuances; Old Lü’s point sailed over his head.
“Our world has already been destroyed three times,” Professor Lü said.
His eyes burned with gravity, tinged with absurdity.
Director Zhao: “???”
How the hell did you read that?
Director Zhao’s gut reaction was flat-out rejection.
For any being inside this world, the notion it’d been obliterated three times was too outlandish, too far beyond comprehension.
“How could that be? How could that even be possible?”
He repeated himself.
“I don’t want to believe it any more than you do, but this is the limit of what I can discern,” Professor Lü said, waving it off.
“I think it’s ridiculous too.”
Professor Lü was just as skeptical as Director Zhao. If someone else had handed him this reading, he’d have torn them a new one—told them to admit they couldn’t read it instead of spinning wild tales.
But this was his own interpretation! He couldn’t very well curse himself out!
“This is the result under the power of the Nine Tripods, excluding other supernatural factors. In theory, it should be the most accurate,” Professor Lü said.
“Then there’s only one possibility,” Director Zhao said eagerly.
“You got it wrong. Go back and check the ancient texts again!”
“I hope I did get it wrong,” Professor Lü replied. “You’re right. I should double-check the ancient texts on omens of good fortune and disaster. And the Yin Soldier General at the Qin Emperor’s Mausoleum might know something—they’re closer to the Shang Dynasty that used Turtle Shell Divination, at least closer than we are…”
Professor Lü muttered on.
“It’s definitely wrong!” Director Zhao declared confidently.
Just then, Director Zhao’s phone rang with an urgent tone.
“What’s this? Who’s calling me at a time like this?” Director Zhao grumbled. He pulled out his phone, ready to hang up, but then he noticed it was from the emergency contact number.
That number meant the situation was so critical he had to answer immediately, no matter what he was doing.
“What’s the emergency?!” Director Zhao’s expression turned grave as he tapped to connect the call.
“The Nine Tripods… three of the Nine Tripods have shattered!!”
The frantic voice burst from the other end.
“Just moments ago, three of the Nine Tripods suddenly shattered!!”
Director Zhao and Professor Lü’s faces drained of color at the sound from the phone.
