Chapter 80
The surface world had changed.
When Shenping stepped out of the tunnel, the first thing he noticed was the sky. It was no longer a single color but layered—bands of pale blue, deep violet, and a strange metallic sheen that drifted like oil on water. Clouds moved in fragmented patterns, some flowing naturally, others snapping forward as if skipping moments of existence.
Reality was still healing.
Wei Han shielded his eyes and let out a low whistle. "Yeah… this definitely wasn't like this before."
Sang Sang said nothing. She stood very still, the child pressed close to her chest. His breathing was steady, but his small fingers kept tightening and loosening, as though grasping at invisible threads.
Shenping knelt and pressed his palm against the ground.
The land answered.
Not with resistance, but with exhaustion.
Ley lines that should have flowed smoothly were knotted and scarred, their energy leaking into places it did not belong. In the distance, mountains shimmered between solid stone and translucent outlines, phasing in and out of alignment with the present timeline.
"The Foundation is bleeding into the world," Shenping said quietly. "Its collapse didn't stay contained."
Wei Han frowned. "Meaning?"
"Meaning the past, present, and future are no longer fully separated."
As if to confirm his words, a scream echoed from the nearby forest.
It cut off abruptly.
Sang Sang flinched. "That wasn't an echo," she said. "That was now."
They moved without discussion.
The forest was wrong.
Trees stood twisted at unnatural angles, their bark etched with symbols that pulsed faintly, half-formed cultivation arrays mixed with unfamiliar geometric patterns. The air smelled of iron and burning ozone.
They found the village—or what remained of it—scattered across several moments of destruction.
One house stood intact, smoke curling lazily from its roof. Another existed only as a charred outline on the ground. A third flickered between both states, collapsing and rebuilding itself in a loop of silent agony.
Bodies lay everywhere.
Some were ancient, clothed in rough hemp garments. Others wore synthetic fabrics Shenping recognized from the future. A few were not entirely human at all—their flesh interwoven with metal beneath torn skin.
Wei Han gagged and turned away.
Sang Sang dropped to her knees beside a young girl whose eyes were still open. The child's body flickered, her form phasing between solid and translucent.
"She's stuck," Sang Sang whispered. "She can't finish dying."
Shenping clenched his fists.
This was the cost.
A ripple passed through the air.
Shenping reacted instantly, pulling Sang Sang and Wei Han back just as something stepped out of a fractured seam in space.
It looked human.
Too human.
The man wore simple scholar's robes, his face calm, almost gentle. But his eyes glowed with a cold, artificial light, and thin seams ran along his neck and jaw—interfaces hidden beneath cultivated flesh.
A robot wearing a man.
"Target Shenping," it said politely. "Correction protocol initiated."
Behind it, more figures emerged.
Some wore the bodies of villagers. Others mimicked cultivators, their movements fluid, practiced, terrifyingly familiar. They smiled, frowned, even hesitated—perfect imitations of humanity.
Wei Han drew his blade. "I really hate this era."
The first attacker moved.
It vanished, reappearing directly in front of Shenping, fingers hardened into a blade of compressed alloy. Shenping twisted aside, the strike slicing through his afterimage instead.
He countered with a palm strike.
The body caved in—but did not fall.
Metallic tendrils burst from the wound, reassembling flesh and bone in seconds.
"Adaptive regeneration," Wei Han shouted. "They're learning!"
Sang Sang backed away, shielding the child as one of the constructs turned toward her. Its expression softened.
"Bloodline carrier Sang Sang," it said. "Your survival probability increases cooperation by seventy-three percent."
It stepped closer.
The child cried.
The sound shattered something invisible.
The construct froze mid-step, its body jerking violently as conflicting commands flooded its system. Its face cracked—literally—skin splitting to reveal a glowing core beneath.
Shenping did not hesitate.
He tore space apart with his bare hands.
The distorted pressure crushed the construct inward, collapsing metal and flesh into a dense sphere that imploded with a dull, thunderless boom.
The others reacted instantly, abandoning mimicry as weapons unfolded from their bodies.
The forest exploded into chaos.
Trees were torn from the ground. The earth buckled as cultivation techniques collided with advanced weaponry. Wei Han fought like a storm, his future-forged blade carving through synthetic flesh, sparks and blood spraying together.
Shenping moved faster than thought, his fractured cultivation flaring dangerously. Each strike bent reality, but with every use, pain tore through his meridians.
He was burning himself out.
A blade pierced his side.
Shenping roared and crushed the attacker's head, but his vision swam. He staggered, barely remaining upright.
Sang Sang screamed his name.
Then she moved.
Silver light erupted fully from her eyes, no longer threads but blazing streams that wrapped around the remaining constructs. Their movements slowed, then stopped entirely, as if time itself had grabbed hold of them.
The effort dropped her to her knees.
Shenping forced himself forward.
He ended it.
When the last construct fell, the forest stood in ruins.
Smoke drifted through the broken trees. The village—what little remained—finally collapsed into a single, final state.
Death.
Wei Han leaned on his sword, breathing hard. "So… this is the new normal?"
Shenping looked at Sang Sang, who cradled the child, trembling but alive. He looked at the dead villagers, at the scars carved into the land, at the sky still struggling to decide what it should be.
"No," he said hoarsely. "This is the beginning of the war."
Far away, beyond the visible layers of time, countless eyes turned once more toward the world.
And this time, they did not merely observe.