The special reconnaissance unit had no banners, no official name, and no glory attached to it. In the imperial records it appeared only as Reconnaissance Group C-17, a cold designation that reflected exactly what it was: a set of replaceable pieces meant to go where others could not—or would not.
Lin Ye was led to the group's assigned area as dusk fell. It was not a common barracks, but a semi-subterranean structure reinforced with layers of spiritual metal and stabilization runes. The air inside was dense, filled with a faint hum that never fully ceased—the sound of multiple formations operating at their limits to maintain something resembling normality.
Inside, there were already six others.
They were not ordinary youths.
The first to catch his attention was a short-haired young man with a relaxed posture and sharp, calculating eyes. His robe was simple but made of high-quality materials, and at his waist hung a black plaque engraved with a small golden sun.
"Another one," he said quietly. "I thought they wouldn't bring in fresh meat today."
A pale-skinned woman with gray eyes looked Lin Ye up and down.
"He has no aura," she murmured. "Is this a mistake?"
"No," replied a deep voice from the back. "The Empire doesn't make mistakes."
The man who spoke was tall, with visible scars on his neck and hands. His cultivation was evident—solid, though not ostentatious. He looked like someone who had survived too many missions to still believe in grand speeches.
"Sit," he said to Lin Ye. "I'm Han Lu. In the field, I decide when we advance and when we retreat."
Lin Ye nodded and sat without a word.
The youth with the golden sun studied him with renewed interest.
"Wei Shun," he introduced himself. "Secondary imperial branch."
That explained the plaque.
Wei Shun didn't smile, but there was a natural, unforced superiority in his expression. He wasn't the typical arrogant youth—he was someone who knew exactly where he stood in the hierarchy… and had still been sent here.
"And you?" he asked.
"Lin Ye."
"Dominion?"
"White Ash."
Wei Shun raised an eyebrow.
"Ah. Then you're the one who doesn't exist in the records."
The comment was casual, but precise. Lin Ye did not respond.
Han Lu tapped the table lightly.
"Listen. Tomorrow we enter the Gray Zone of the Southern Front. It's not a battlefield. It's worse. Imperial formations can't fully map it. Space folds, time fluctuates, and the beasts don't follow normal patterns."
The gray-eyed woman spoke for the first time.
"Three teams didn't return last week."
No one reacted. They already knew.
"Our objective is simple," Han Lu continued. "Identify active distortion points and mark passable routes. No heroics. No unnecessary fights. If something looks strange, we go around it. If something looks impossible… we run."
Wei Shun gave a sideways smile.
"And if we can't run?"
"Then," Han Lu replied, "someone stays behind."
The silence that followed was heavy—but honest.
That night, Lin Ye did not sleep. He remained seated with his eyes closed while the fragmented clock floated before his consciousness. For the first time, it was not completely motionless. Small fragments of the surrounding environment appeared reflected in its broken gears, as if responding to a dangerous proximity.
It wasn't fear.
It was resonance.
At dawn, the group departed.
The Gray Zone began less than an hour from the camp, but the transition was abrupt. The air grew thick, as if breathing required more effort. Colors seemed slightly muted, and shadows didn't always match the sun's position.
"Maintain visual contact," Han Lu ordered. "Don't separate by more than five steps."
Lin Ye moved at the center of the group, alert to every irregularity. To the others, the terrain was chaotic. To him, it was almost… readable. Not in maps or shapes, but in tensions—in subtle tugs in the temporal flow that revealed dangerous areas.
Twenty minutes in, the first incident occurred.
One of the scouts, a sturdy youth with earth affinity, stepped forward and vanished.
He didn't fall.
He didn't scream.
He simply ceased to be there.
"Stop!" Han Lu ordered immediately.
The group froze. Where the youth had stood, the air rippled faintly, like disturbed water.
"Phase distortion," the gray-eyed woman muttered. "Damn it."
Wei Shun clenched his teeth.
"Can we retrieve him?"
Han Lu shook his head.
"If we enter without an anchor, we'll only add more names to the list."
Lin Ye stared fixedly at the empty point. The fragmented clock vibrated intensely. It wasn't a complete dead instant—but it was close. Time there was… incomplete, as if someone had torn out a second and left the gap unrepaired.
"If we move two steps to the right," Lin Ye said suddenly, "the edge stabilizes."
Everyone looked at him.
Wei Shun frowned.
"How do you know?"
Lin Ye hesitated for a moment.
"I don't," he answered. "But there… the air breathes differently."
Han Lu studied him for a second that felt longer than it should have.
"Mark it," he finally ordered. "If you're wrong, we pull back."
Lin Ye moved carefully, drove a marker stake into the ground where he had indicated, and stepped back. Nothing happened. The space remained stable.
"Interesting…" Han Lu murmured.
Wei Shun said nothing, but something new gleamed in his eyes—genuine interest.
They advanced with greater caution after that. Lin Ye began pointing out dangerous zones before they fully manifested. Not always with perfect accuracy, but enough to avoid immediate losses.
By late afternoon, they reached the primary objective: a broad depression in the terrain where the air seemed to rotate slowly around itself. The ground was riddled with irregular cracks that followed no geological logic.
"This is it," Han Lu said. "The highest concentration of temporal failures in the area."
Lin Ye felt a violent tug in his consciousness.
The fragmented clock reacted with unprecedented force. The eye at its center opened wider, and for the first time, Lin Ye felt something like… recognition.
This was no ordinary place.
It was a wound.
An ancient wound.
At the center of the depression, time did not flow continuously. It advanced, retreated, halted for imperceptible fractions. A chaos barely restrained by distant imperial formations.
"We're not getting any closer," Han Lu ordered. "We mark it and withdraw."
Wei Shun stepped forward.
"Wait," he said. "If the Empire wants answers, a superficial mark won't be enough."
He turned to Lin Ye.
"You," he said. "What do you see?"
Lin Ye swallowed.
If he told the truth, he would draw dangerous attention. If he lied, someone might die.
The fragmented clock vibrated.
Not in warning.
In expectation.
"I see… layers," he said at last. "As if this place has been pierced more than once by something that doesn't belong to this world."
Wei Shun smiled slowly.
"Exactly what I was hoping to hear."
Han Lu cursed under his breath.
"Retreat," he ordered. "Now."
Too late.
The ground shook.
The depression began collapsing inward, and the air tore with a sound that wasn't a sound, but its absence. An invisible wave expanded from the center.
Lin Ye felt time around him shatter.
The fragmented clock surged violently into his consciousness. The eye opened wider than ever before, and a clear—terrifying—certainty formed in his mind.
"Major dead instant detected. Use not recommended."
Lin Ye had no time to decide.
The world folded.
And for the first time, time bled.