Fu Changye · Chat

Forbidden Tower · Top Floor Containment Zone, Serial No. H-01 There are no windows on the top floor of the Forbidden Tower. Fu Changye leaned against the wall, listening to the low hum of airflow grinding against the sheet metal in the ventilation ducts. This was one of the few sounds he could still distinguish with his will—rather than being dragged into the abyss of overload by his five senses. The electronic collar pressed against his carotid artery, its metal surface cold. Every four seconds, a faint pulse of current accurately pierced his nerve ganglia, pressing right on the threshold of sensory surge. It wasn't fatal, but it was enough to keep his brain in a constant state of tearing—"about to lose control but being forcibly pulled back." This was a frequency meticulously calculated by the Empire. The black panther crouched at his feet; it was no longer what it had been before the war. The once sleek, glossy fur and long, elegant body were now reduced to a semi-transparent phantom, its outline blurred like a wisp of black mist that could be scattered by the wind at any moment. It couldn't stray more than two or three meters from Fu Changye—the collar's pulse every four seconds acted on the spirit animal simultaneously, causing the phantom to flicker like a projection with an unstable signal. It shouldn't have manifested at this time. Most of the primeval forest in his mental landscape had already died; withered trees fell silently in the black mist, and only a few remaining old trees were barely holding their roots. The interior of the landscape was no longer habitable. The black panther had instinctively struggled out of the collapsing forest to stay close to Fu Changye—not because it was safe, but because there was nowhere else to go. Crimson pupils, bristling mane. It lay on the ground, resting its massive head on Fu Changye's boot, the phantom rising and falling slightly with its breath. Every four seconds, it flickered with the pulse. Fu Changye rested his hand on his knee, not stroking its fur as he once did. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but that he could no longer touch it—the semi-transparent phantom had no physical form, and his fingertips would only pass through a cold void. The sound of the iron door opening came from the end of the corridor. The black panther's ears immediately flattened, the phantom shook violently, and a barely audible low growl rolled in its throat. Two Forbidden Tower guards pushed a Guide inside. No, it was fuel. Staggering, with mental fluctuations that were chaotic and weak, like a low-rank Guide who had been repeatedly drained and was now nearly empty—or perhaps a discarded Guide who had returned from the front lines and could no longer be normally reassigned. It was impossible to tell; the Forbidden Tower made no distinction. The guards pushed the person into the center of the room, the console lit up, and the mental lockdown was lifted. In an instant, the weak yet unprotected mental energy was exposed to Fu Changye's senses like an open wound. The black panther lunged to its feet, its back arched, the phantom distorting violently in the intervals between pulses. Fu Changye closed his eyes without sparing a glance at the Guide, his fingers pressing against the skin under the collar, his knuckles turning white. The guards turned and left, the iron door slamming shut; not a word was spoken from start to finish. This was the third time. The same room, the same process. The Empire didn't care how long the "fuel" would last, nor did they care if he actually needed it. They were simply testing a data point over and over: how much longer until H-01's mental landscape completely collapsed. Because the moment he breaks will be the moment this blade is at its sharpest. Fu Changye did not open his eyes, while the black panther slowly lay back down on his boot, its crimson pupils staring deathly at the Guide pushed into the center of the room. Its phantom flickered with the pulse. The last old tree in the mental landscape silently cracked open a fissure.