Beihai Outer Perimeter, Somewhere.
The remnants of the old era interlocked with the abnormal terrain, forming a bizarre, dangerous, and uninhabited no-man’s land.
The towering skyscrapers of the old era were nothing but scorched skeletons, like the dead bones of colossal beasts, silently pointing at the lead-gray sky, forever devoid of stars or moon.
Broken concrete blocks, twisted steel bars, and shattered glass covered the earth like scabs.
The air was thick with dust, ozone, and a faint, lingering sweet-rotten, metallic stench of decay.
Deep within this ruin, inside the remains of a relatively intact building.
It was less a building and more a concrete shell whose interior had been hollowed out, leaving only a few floors and load-bearing columns barely holding it up.
Wind howled through the massive holes and broken windows, sounding like a mournful wail, stirring up the dust and debris that had accumulated over who knows how long.
Yet, on one floor of this dilapidated shell, in an inconspicuous room that might have been an executive office or a small meeting room, there existed a state of cleanliness and order… completely out of place with the outside world.
The room was small, about thirty square meters.
The broken floor-to-ceiling windows were tightly covered by thick, dark green velvet curtains, their edges tied back with golden cords, forming elegant folds.
The floor was covered with a wine-red Persian wool carpet, intricate in pattern, its edges slightly worn, yet still thick and soft, completely covering the original cracked concrete floor.
In the center of the room sat a classical dark walnut writing desk with exquisite carvings.
The desk surface was spotless, holding only a brass inkwell and a quill pen—though neither contained ink nor paper.
Beside the desk was a large, dark leather high-backed armchair, the leather on its armrests worn to a warm sheen by long use.
In the corner stood an equally classical brass floor lamp with a frosted glass shade, unlit at the moment.
The entire room, except for the lack of books, decorative paintings, and a fireplace, was almost a perfect replica of an old European nobleman’s study from a bygone era.
It formed a stark, jarring contrast with the outside world—derelict, dangerous, and reeking of death.
It was as if an invisible hand stubbornly maintained a long-shattered dream here.
Creak…
A faint, nearly silent sound.
The room’s heavy oak door, also covered with a leather soundproofing layer, was gently pushed open from the outside.
Someone entered.
He was dressed in a perfectly tailored, impeccably pressed black tailcoat, with a crisp white shirt collar and a dark red silk bow tie.
On his feet were shiny black Oxford shoes, their tips reflecting a faint gleam in the dimness.
He moved with composure, each step as if precisely calculated, silent like gliding across the thick wool carpet.
The most striking thing was the antique medieval European oil lamp he was carrying.
The lamp was made of brass, its surface showing a dark patina from oxidation.
The handle was carved with intricate patterns of vines and roses.
The glass chimney was polished exceptionally clean, revealing a small, flickering yellow flame inside.
As he walked steadily, the flame swayed slightly, casting his elongated, distorted shadow onto the walls and velvet curtains, giving it an ominously eerie air.
The newcomer stopped by the desk.
He lowered his head slightly, his gaze sweeping across the desktop, as if checking its cleanliness.
Then, he reached out, his movements steady and gentle, and placed the oil lamp right in the center of the desk.
Thump.
The lamp’s base touched the hard walnut wood, producing a faint yet distinct, crisp sound.
The dim light spread out from the center of the oil lamp, barely illuminating a small area around the desk, plunging the rest of the room into deeper, warm-toned shadows.
Having set down the lamp, the man seemed to have completed some important ritual step.
He turned and walked towards the single armchair, sitting down gracefully.
The high-backed chair perfectly supported his body; the tails of his coat spread out smoothly without a single unnecessary crease.
He sat there quietly, his back straight, hands naturally folded on his knees, his gaze seeming to rest on the lamp’s flame on the desk, yet also seeming to pierce through the flame, looking at some distant, unknown place.
Time flowed in silence.
Only the extremely faint crackling sound of the lamp’s flame occasionally broke the stillness, along with the sound of wind coming through the window, as if from another world.
The patterns on the mask, under the dim, flickering light, seemed extraordinarily intricate, mysterious, carrying a kind of non-human, frozen beauty.
That smooth surface, with no holes, cut off all possibility of prying eyes, hiding all the wearer’s emotions behind this exquisite piece of craft.
He sat there in silence, like a meticulously carved wax figure, a shrine for a long-forgotten faith.
A long time passed.
So long it seemed the lamp’s flame would dim in the solidifying time.
Finally, he moved.
His folded hands slowly separated.
With that characteristic, unhurried elegance, his gloved right hand lifted, reaching toward the inner pocket on the left side of his tailcoat.
His fingertips touched the cold, familiar metallic texture.
Then, slowly, he pulled out the coin.
The dim light illuminated it.
The material seemed like bronze, but not quite, bearing a muted luster of long sedimentation.
Its surface was covered with a uniform, warm patina, as if touched and prayed over by countless hands.
The edges weren’t smooth, bearing fine, barely perceptible signs of wear, telling of the long time it had witnessed.
One side of the coin was engraved with a relief of a sleeping person, eyes closed.
The face’s expression was exceptionally serene, peaceful, even carrying a hint of a relieved smile.
The carving lines were soft and profound, as if not etched into metal, but a direct imprint of a soul’s state.
Just looking at it involuntarily made one feel tired, calm, a compulsion to slumber along with it.
The other side of the coin was a blurry pattern of a slowly rotating hourglass.
This pattern wasn’t static.
Under the subtle changes of light, the lines forming the hourglass seemed to truly flow and rotate slowly, symbolizing the passage of time, the irreversibility of fate, and a certain… predetermined cycle.
Yan gently placed the coin on the edge of the desk closest to him, lined up with the oil lamp.
The soft clink of metal on wood was exceptionally clear in the silence.
Then, he raised his hand again, reaching for his face, reaching for the intricately patterned mask covering his entire visage.
His fingertips touched the cold edge of the mask.
He paused for half a second.
Then, millimeter by millimeter, with extreme gentleness and steadiness, he began to… lift the mask upward.
In the dim light, the mask rose, inch by inch, like lifting a mysterious veil.
First, a clearly defined, slightly gaunt jawline was revealed.
The skin was a pallid, sickly white, deprived of sunlight.
Next, thin, bloodless lips were pressed together.
Then, a nose bridge as sharp as if carved by a knife.
Finally…
The mask was completely removed.
A typical male Europid face was now fully exposed in the dim, flickering light of the oil lamp.
Golden hair, combed immaculately, reflected a dull sheen in the light.
Deep eye sockets, the orbital bones sharply defined.
But the most striking feature was the eyes—ice-blue pupils, like two most pure polar ice crystals set in the pale face.
These eyes should have been mesmerizing, but now, they held no spark of life.
Only an empty calm, as if having seen through endless void, and beneath the calm, an indescribable fatigue and… desolation.
His features could be called handsome, a classical, distant, sculpted beauty.
But now, all vitality seemed drained from the face.
Skin clung to his cheekbones, the jawline was sharply gaunt, showing an unhealthy, skeletal thinness.
Reflected in the dim, swaying lamplight, this pale, thin, handsome yet lifeless face wasn’t beautiful but emitted an eerie, hair-raising feeling of… inhumanity.
He gently placed the removed mask on the armrest of the sofa, his movements as delicate as if handling a fragile antique treasure.
Done with this, he slowly, as if exhausting all his strength, leaned back into the high back of the chair, closing his ice-blue eyes.
The rise and fall of his chest was so faint it was nearly invisible.
He just sat there quietly, like a noble corpse just arranged and waiting for encoffining.
Time froze again.
Even the wind outside seemed to quieten, as if the whole world was holding its breath, waiting.
After what seemed like an eternity,
Yan’s long, butterfly-wing-like, pale gold eyelashes trembled slightly.
‘Still…’
‘Can’t sleep?’
He slowly opened his eyes.
The ice-blue pupils were first unfocused, fixed on some point in the air.
Then, with agonizing slowness, they moved, finally settling on the edge of the desk—on the ancient, eerie coin lying quietly there.
His gaze, like the most precise instrument, swept inch by inch over the closed-eyed face on the coin, over the slowly rotating hourglass pattern.
There was no emotional fluctuation in his eyes, only a nearly reverent focus, and beneath the focus, a bottomless… yearning.
He was silent.
Only the flickering lamplight and his nearly inaudible breathing remained in the room.
Finally, he reached out again.
That pale, almost translucent right hand, with clearly visible bluish-purple veins, reached directly for the coin.
His long fingers, with a nearly devout posture, gently pinched the icy piece of metal.
He held the coin in his palm, feeling its unique weight and texture.
Then, he raised his other hand, and with the pads of his thumb and index finger, began to rub the coin’s surface patterns extremely gently, repeatedly.
The movement was as gentle as caressing a lover’s skin, or a blind man reading a sacred braille text.
He closed his eyes, as if through the touch of his fingertips, he was communicating on the deepest level with the coin, and with the existence the coin represented.
An extremely soft murmur escaped his bloodless lips, dispersing like the finest dust in the dim air: “My Lord…”
His voice was hoarse, raspy, yet carried a heart-stopping, near-maniacal piety.
“Please grant…”
His rubbing motion quickened slightly.
“…Your merciful gaze…”
Each word seemed forced from the depths of his soul with all his might.
“Even if…”
He opened his eyes, his ice-blue pupils fixed intently on the coin in his palm, erupting with a light that mixed humble supplication and extreme obsession.
“Just for a moment.”
The prayer was finished.
He had no hesitation.
His fingers holding the coin suddenly exerted force, and with a decisiveness bordering on desperation, he flicked the coin onto the walnut desk before him!
Ting—clang-clatter—!
The metal struck the hard wooden surface, producing a crisp, continuous sound!
The coin spun rapidly in the air, drawing a silver arc, then landed on the desk, bouncing and spinning crazily as if given life!
Under the dim light, the coin became a blurry streak, the two sides flashing alternately in quick succession—the peacefully sleeping face, the flowing hourglass, the face, the hourglass…
The moment the coin left his hand, Yan’s body completely relaxed.
He leaned back in the chair, his ice-blue eyes unblinkingly, desperately following the spinning, bouncing coin, as if his whole life, his entire will, his very existence, were tied to this small metallic disc.
The coin’s kinetic energy gradually weakened.
The bounce height got lower.
The spin got slower.
The amplitude… got smaller.
Finally.
After a final faint, almost inaudible click.
The coin came to a complete stop.
It lay motionless on the smooth walnut desktop.
The side facing up was—the rotating hourglass pattern.
The very moment the coin stopped, the pattern settled!
As if some invisible switch was suddenly flipped!
In the armchair, Yan’s features, which were merely relaxed and slightly decadent, suddenly twisted violently, as if kneaded and wrenched by an invisible giant hand!
They contorted into a ferocious grimace with an amplitude completely defying human anatomy!
A fine, cold sweat instantly broke out on his forehead and temples, reflecting an eerie gleam in the lamp light!
His entire body first stiffened as if struck by lightning, every muscle tensed to its limit, veins on his neck and arms bulging like earthworms!
Then, without warning…
An uncontrollable, violent tremor and convulsion, like the most ferocious electric shock, instantly swept through his entire body!
His limbs twitched and jerked uncontrollably, his fingers digging deeply into the leather of the armrests, producing a ripping sound!
His head threw back, his neck bent at an angle that seemed ready to snap!
Ugh… hk… ah… aahhh…!
Broken, agonizingly painful low growls and gasps were forced out from between his clenched teeth and spasming throat, sounding especially mournful and terrifying in the silent room!
The sound was utterly inhuman, more like the final wail of a dying beast.
What was even more hair-raising…
Along with this violent agony, the vitality within him receded as swiftly as an ebbing tide!
The light in his ice-blue pupils instantly dimmed and became unfocused, finally losing all luster completely, becoming two hollow glass beads.
The blood drained from his pale skin in an instant, turning as dead-white as plaster.
The rise and fall of his chest, in a mere two or three seconds, went from violent spasms to faint trembles, and then to a complete… stop.