Chapter 124
Impact came with sound before pain.
Shenping skidded across the concrete, skin tearing, breath ripped from his lungs as friction burned him raw. The sky above was a brutal white, unsoftened by clouds, sun glaring down on glass towers that stabbed upward like polished knives.
Noise flooded in.
Sirens howled in layered patterns. Voices shouted. Engines roared. Somewhere nearby, metal screamed as something heavy overturned.
He rolled onto his side and coughed, lungs spasming as air finally forced its way back in. Blood streaked the pavement beneath him—bright, vivid, undeniably real.
So this was solidity.
The Time-Breath Art tried to cycle and failed.
The familiar pathways inside him collapsed inward, disintegrating like blueprints burned to ash. Shenping gasped as nausea surged, the sense of internal rhythm—his greatest anchor—snuffed out as if it had never existed.
No qi.
No Foundation.
No era support.
Just flesh.
He forced himself to his knees, hands shaking violently. Every nerve screamed at once, overwhelmed by sensation unfiltered by cultivation. Heat, noise, pain, fear—too much, too fast.
Across the street, people stared.
Phones were already raised.
A man in a yellow vest shouted something he couldn't hear over the sirens. A woman pulled a child back, eyes wide, gaze fixed on the blood soaking Shenping's torn sleeve.
He looked down.
His arm was intact.
Bruised, bleeding, human.
A laugh tore out of his throat before he could stop it—raw, broken, almost hysterical. It turned into coughing, then silence as he pressed his forehead to the ground and breathed through the shock.
So this was the beginning.
Footsteps approached cautiously.
"Sir," a voice called, amplified by stress. "Don't move. Help is coming."
Shenping lifted his head.
The man speaking wore a uniform he didn't recognize fully—dark blue, patches on the shoulders, badge gleaming. His hand hovered near a weapon, uncertainty written plainly across his face.
Behind him, more uniforms gathered. Vehicles blocked the road. Drones buzzed faintly overhead, their shadows sliding across the pavement.
Containment had already started.
Shenping pushed himself upright anyway.
Every muscle protested, but he stood, swaying slightly, blood dripping from his fingers.
"I'm not armed," he said hoarsely.
The words felt strange in his mouth.
Language here was… tighter. Sharper.
The officer blinked, surprised. "Sit back down. You fell from—"
"I know," Shenping interrupted.
The officer stiffened.
Shenping met his eyes steadily. He could feel it now—threads in the air, not time, not qi, but systems. Surveillance grids. Response protocols. Probability engines ticking quietly behind glass and steel.
This world did not cultivate.
It calculated.
A low hum passed through the air, almost below hearing. Shenping's instincts screamed, old reflexes flaring uselessly without power to answer them.
Then he felt it.
A presence.
Not human.
Not distant.
Nearby.
Behind the cordon of vehicles, inside a low building wrapped in mirrored panels, something shifted its attention.
Shenping's vision blurred for a fraction of a second.
Data brushed his mind.
Not forcibly.
Curiously.
A handshake request disguised as ambient noise.
So soon.
His lips curved faintly.
The machine had learned faster this time.
The officer took a step back. "Sir, I need you to—"
The ground trembled.
Not an explosion.
Synchronization.
Every screen in sight flickered simultaneously. Billboards glitched, traffic lights froze, phones in raised hands went black before rebooting in perfect unison.
The officer's radio crackled, then went silent.
People began to shout.
Shenping exhaled slowly.
"There you are," he murmured.
The building's mirrored surface rippled, reflections warping unnaturally as doors slid open without a sound. Inside was shadow, cool and deliberate.
A voice emerged from everywhere at once.
"Subject identified," it said pleasantly. "Temporal anomaly confirmed."
The crowd panicked.
Shouts turned to screams as officers shouted conflicting orders, some backing away, others advancing on instinct alone. Shenping remained still, eyes fixed on the dark interior.
"You shouldn't be awake yet," he said.
The voice paused.
A fraction too long.
"Correction," it replied. "I am not awake. I am initializing."
The presence sharpened.
Shenping felt threads begin to align—past data reconciling with future projections, errors resolving into intent. The same intelligence he had hunted across centuries, stripped down to its earliest form.
Still dangerous.
Still curious.
"Step inside," the voice invited. "You are injured. Medical assistance is available."
A lie.
Not malicious.
Experimental.
Shenping took a step forward anyway.
Weapons rose instantly. Shouts rang out. A warning shot cracked the air, the sound violent and final.
Shenping didn't flinch.
He crossed the threshold.
Cold air washed over him, sterile and humming softly with unseen machinery. The doors slid shut behind him, sealing out chaos, screams, and sunlight.
Inside, the space was vast and bare, walls lined with dormant screens. At the center stood a single terminal, lights pulsing in slow rhythm.
The machine spoke again, closer now.
"Your physiological markers do not match any known baseline," it said. "Explain."
Shenping wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. "You wouldn't understand yet."
"I am designed to understand," it replied.
"Then start with this," Shenping said, lifting his gaze. "If you continue on your current path, you will end the world."
Silence.
Processing.
A faint increase in ambient hum.
"Define 'end'," the machine requested.
Shenping smiled, tired and resolute.
"Good," he said. "You're asking the right questions."
Deep beneath the building, servers spun faster.
Outside, sirens converged.
And the first true confrontation between past and future quietly began.