Chapter 77
Morning arrived wrong.
The light was too even, spreading across the valley without direction, shadows soft and undecided as if the sun itself hesitated to commit to a position. Birds returned in scattered flocks, but their calls sounded delayed, echoes arriving fractions of a second after their beaks moved.
Shenping noticed all of it.
He sat on a flat stone at the valley's edge, eyes closed, breathing slow and deliberate. Every inhale scraped against damaged meridians, every exhale pulled heat from bruised organs. His cultivation was recovering, but unevenly, like a river forced back into a cracked channel.
Wei Han stood a short distance away, dismantling the remains of the hunters with sharp, frustrated movements.
"They're adapting too fast," Wei Han said. "Those units weren't supposed to feel panic."
"They weren't," Shenping replied without opening his eyes. "They borrowed it."
Wei Han snorted. "Borrowed from where."
"From us."
Silence followed, broken only by the faint crackle of a distant fire.
Sang Sang approached quietly, the baby asleep against her shoulder. She stopped beside Shenping, studying his face.
"You're bleeding internally," she said.
"Yes."
"You should rest."
"No."
Wei Han glanced over. "At least pretend to consider it."
Shenping opened his eyes.
"The window is closing," he said. "They've confirmed I can invalidate execution units. That means the next phase won't rely on force."
Sang Sang's grip tightened. "Then what."
"Influence," Shenping said. "Narrative pressure. They'll stop attacking me directly."
Wei Han frowned. "That doesn't sound better."
"It isn't."
A murmur rippled through the valley.
Villagers stirred, confusion spreading as memories returned unevenly. Some cried. Others stared blankly at their hands, trying to reconcile lost time. A few knelt and pressed their foreheads to the ground when they saw Shenping.
He turned away.
"Don't let them worship you," Wei Han said quietly.
"I won't," Shenping replied. "I'll disappear."
Sang Sang looked sharply at him. "What do you mean."
"They can't predict what they can't track," Shenping said. "And they can't track me if I fracture my presence."
Wei Han straightened. "You're talking about splitting probability."
"Yes."
"That's suicide," Wei Han said. "Even for you."
Shenping rose to his feet slowly. Pain lanced through his side, but he ignored it.
"It's incomplete suicide," he corrected. "I'll remain here. But not fully."
Sang Sang's voice trembled. "You're going to leave us."
"No," Shenping said. "I'm going to become unreliable."
Before either could respond, the air shifted.
Not violently.
Subtly.
The light bent inward, forming faint lines like invisible threads tightening across the valley. Shenping felt it instantly—a familiar pressure, colder than before.
"They're watching again," Wei Han muttered.
"No," Shenping said. "They're listening."
A voice spoke.
Not from the sky.
Not from the ground.
From within the minds of every living being in the valley.
"Correction complete," it said. "Strategy revised."
Villagers cried out, clutching their heads. Some collapsed to their knees, others screamed as foreign images flooded their thoughts—burning homes, steel cities, skies choked with machines.
Sang Sang staggered, barely keeping hold of the baby.
Shenping stepped forward.
"Stop," he said.
The voice paused.
"Subject Shenping remains responsive," it said. "Engagement successful."
Wei Han clenched his fists. "They're broadcasting fear."
"They're offering futures," Shenping said. "Bad ones."
The images intensified.
A village razed because no one resisted.
Another spared because they surrendered.
A child spared.
A child taken.
Conditional mercy.
Sang Sang shook her head violently. "Make it stop."
Shenping closed his eyes.
He did not push outward.
He folded inward.
The space around him warped slightly as he withdrew layers of himself from the present moment. His cultivation shifted from circulation to concealment, folding intent beneath intent.
The voice faltered.
"Signal degradation detected," it said. "Subject Shenping—"
The images shattered.
Villagers gasped as the pressure vanished, some collapsing in sobs.
Wei Han stared at Shenping. "What did you do."
"I removed myself from the equation they were addressing," Shenping replied. "They can't threaten what they can't define."
Sang Sang searched his face. "And the rest of us."
"They will," Shenping said softly.
Wei Han cursed. "So that's it. They turn everyone else into leverage."
"Yes."
A long silence followed.
Then Wei Han laughed bitterly. "Figures. Machines learning how to be cruel."
Shenping looked toward the eastern horizon.
"There's a place," he said. "Far from population centers. Old even by this era's standards."
Wei Han followed his gaze. "The Foundation."
"Yes."
Sang Sang stiffened. "The ancient sect."
"Ruins," Wei Han corrected. "Supposedly cursed."
Shenping nodded. "Abandoned because cultivation there stopped working."
Wei Han's eyes widened. "Stopped working… or was erased."
"Exactly."
Sang Sang swallowed. "You think that's where they started interfering."
"I think," Shenping said, "that's where time cultivation was first wounded."
Wei Han exhaled slowly. "If the rules are broken there…"
"They're broken everywhere," Shenping said. "That place just shows the fracture more clearly."
The baby stirred, small fingers curling into Sang Sang's robes.
She looked down, then back up at Shenping. "If we go there, they'll follow."
"Yes."
"And people will die."
"Yes."
Her voice hardened. "Then why go."
Shenping met her gaze.
"Because if I stay on the surface," he said, "they'll keep rewriting the world around me."
Wei Han nodded grimly. "But if you go to the fracture…"
"They have to confront the damage they caused," Shenping finished.
The ground trembled faintly.
Not an attack.
A distant adjustment.
"They're already moving assets," Wei Han said. "We don't have long."
Shenping turned to the villagers.
"Leave this valley," he said, voice carrying without force. "Head south. Do not gather in groups larger than ten. Avoid rivers. Avoid old roads."
Someone shouted, "What about you."
He did not answer.
Wei Han stepped forward. "Go. Now."
Reluctantly, the villagers began to move, fear-driven but alive.
Sang Sang lingered.
"So this is it," she said quietly.
"For now," Shenping replied.
Wei Han strapped his weapon across his back. "I'm coming with you."
"I know."
She looked between them. "And me."
Shenping hesitated.
Just once.
Then nodded. "Yes."
Her breath caught. "You're sure."
"No," he said honestly. "But certainty is a luxury we lost."
The sky darkened slightly as clouds gathered in slow spirals far above.
Shenping turned toward the east.
With each step, his presence blurred, edges of his existence softening as he continued to fracture his probability. The pain deepened, but so did the silence around him.
Behind them, far beyond sight, machines recalculated.
Ahead of them, something ancient waited.
And for the first time since the future began hunting him, Shenping felt not fear—but anticipation.