Chapter 5: The Betrayed Soul

Mo Yan didn’t hesitate; the muzzle of his gun immediately followed the direction of Mu Yu’s finger.

By now, the sun had already broken free from the horizon’s restraint, spilling its brilliance without reserve. Dazzling sunlight poured through the shattered window, bathing the entire room in a faint golden hue. The lighting in this ward was unexpectedly good—it was easy to imagine how the designer had poured thought into letting patients feel warmth and comfort. Every inch of the space glowed with a soft orange warmth under the sunlight.

Yet, in such a peaceful and serene environment, a bead of cold sweat slid slowly down Mo Yan’s cheek, catching the light in a mesmerizing glint.

Nothing.

The spot Mu Yu pointed to, behind the curtain, was just an empty, silent corner in Mo Yan’s eyes. There was no sign of anyone, no trace of anything amiss.

Mo Yan hesitated for a moment, then fired a probing shot, leaving a pitch-black bullet hole in the floor.

“Are you sure?”

His tone was thick with doubt. The bullet hadn’t deviated or ricocheted; it truly seemed to have passed through nothing but air, giving not even the faintest sensation of impact.

“...Boss, aim properly, don’t let your hand shake,” Mu Yu said, his expression a little odd. He pointed again at a spot in the corner.

He couldn’t help but think: the boss must be a master with blades and has little time to practice shooting—he’d actually let the muzzle swing off when firing.

Mo Yan's sharp, blade-like brows furrowed as he glanced back at Mu Yu. “Are you sure…”

But before he could finish, a pair of broad hands gripped his face and forcefully turned his head back. The strength made his cheeks ache and his pallor deepened.

“What are you doing!” he tried to snap, but Mu Yu’s grip held his head firmly, not allowing him to look back.

“Boss, he’s moving! He’s moving! Don’t look at me, look at him!”

In Mu Yu’s eyes, the figure holding the blade in front had suddenly surged forward the moment Mo Yan turned his head. With the speed of a bird in flight, he was suddenly right in front of them, but as Mo Yan was forced to face forward again, the figure froze, unmoving as if wary, standing still like a statue.

Mo Yan seemed to realize something, his brow furrowing in confusion. “When did he start moving?”

“It was right when you turned your head, boss. I was watching that old devil the whole time—he rushed forward as soon as you looked away.”

“But boss…” Mu Yu swallowed nervously, his face contorted as if suffering constipation. “What is it? Just say it,” Mo Yan asked, still staring forward, not daring to turn his head.

“Boss, you’re standing face to face with him right now. Don’t you feel anything?”

Mo Yan’s hand holding the gun trembled; his handsome face was full of disbelief. “Where?”

Mu Yu hesitantly pointed less than half a meter in front of Mo Yan’s eyes. “Right here—this is his head.”

Bang!

The thunderous gunshot rang out again. The Institute had spared no effort to enhance the weapon’s firepower, with no thought for the concealment a handgun should provide.

Mo Yan vaguely recalled, back when he’d asked out of curiosity how to use such a gun for covert operations, a research fellow in a white lab coat, full of impatience, had snapped back, “If you kill everyone, no one will find out.”

A profound truth—at the time, Mo Yan couldn’t even muster a word of protest; he’d only nodded sheepishly.

Yet, still, nothing happened. The bullet passed through the broken window and vanished.

“Boss, your marksmanship is… honestly…” Mu Yu looked as though he wanted to complain but didn’t dare.

From his view, Mo Yan’s shooting wasn’t just a shaky hand; it was as if he was swinging his arm like a windmill.

Mo Yan said nothing, his gaze lingering on the window. He’d aimed straight ahead, but the bullet had veered off by nearly sixty degrees.

Could it be…

After a moment’s silence, Mo Yan asked, “Is he still in the same spot?”

“Yes, boss, he hasn’t moved in ages. He didn’t even dodge when you shot. Do you think maybe he thinks he can’t beat the two of us and is planning to run?”

“Run away? …Forget it. You try next.”

Mo Yan rolled his eyes. Even now, this chatterbox hadn’t realized the thing across from them might not even be human.

He turned the gun downward and handed it back to Mu Yu, though he retained a trace of skepticism about Mu Yu's account.

But with things as dire as they were, any further delay would only doom them here. Mo Yan hadn’t forgotten the grim situation outside; if they couldn’t find a way to break the deadlock, thousands would lose parents, lovers, children.

Mu Yu was startled, waving his hands in refusal. “No, no, boss, I never said your shooting was bad. I’ve never even touched a gun before, let alone seen one—better you do it.”

Mo Yan suppressed his rising irritation. By nature, he would meet insults with a cold glare and a fist, but in the short time since meeting Mu Yu, he’d found his emotions slipping more than once.

“First, it’s not that I can’t hit him. When I shoot, it’s as if my vision is distorted.”

He spoke with a hint of uncertainty. It sounded absurd, but after repeated attempts, the least likely explanation seemed the only possible truth.

“Second, the opponent moves when fewer than two sets of eyes are on him. Right now, you’re the only one who can see—give it a try, there’s no harm. Understood?”

“Yes, boss, got it,” Mu Yu replied, taking the gun.

He wasn’t a fool—after reading so many novels and comics, he shouldn’t have been so slow to catch on. But this entity had always appeared in his field of vision; when you can see something, it loses its mystery. Mu Yu had assumed “it” was just a flesh-and-blood person.

The gun, a composite of PVC and steel, was heavy and cold, still carrying a trace of Mo Yan’s warmth. This man who always seemed so calm was not as unshakable as he appeared. In front of others, he had to maintain composure—if even he panicked, the situation would spiral into chaos.

As head of the Fengzhou City Investigation Team, this was both a necessary and essential trait.

Even after losing contact with the outside world, losing the support of the Research Division, it remained true.

Mu Yu imitated Mo Yan’s shooting posture, clasping the grip with both hands. His tense muscles stood out, straining with nervousness.

Bang!

Mo Yan felt a wave of heat graze his face, but he didn’t dare blink, instead widening his eyes, afraid to miss the slightest detail.

But the bullet, like all those before it, cut through the air and struck the wall, leaving a deep dent.

“Did you miss?”

There was no hint of reproach in Mo Yan’s voice, just a simple question.

“…Yeah,” Mu Yu replied after thinking about where he’d aimed, uncertain. It was only half a meter away, but whether it was the nerves of firing a gun for the first time, or because his target was a person… His arm had veered off at the last moment.

“Don’t get nervous. If it comes to it, we can just watch him until reinforcements arrive. Pretend he’s a target dummy, don’t let it weigh on you.”

Mo Yan seemed to guess what was on his mind. He reached forward, grasped the still-warm barrel, and rested it on his own shoulder, voice gentle.

“Try again. I’ll help you with the recoil.”

Mu Yu suddenly noticed a slickness on Mo Yan’s dark overcoat. Glancing curiously, he saw a deep, inconspicuous tear.

The blade that had been deflected by the hospital bed had not come without cost. The strike meant for Mu Yu’s head had, thanks to the bed’s obstruction, plunged into Mo Yan’s shoulder instead.

A wound that pierced the entire shoulder, yet the blade was so slender it was hard to notice—but all the more severe for it. A normal person would have lost the use of their arm from muscle damage alone.

But Mo Yan had dragged Mu Yu across half the room, firing through two magazines despite the recoil.

His face was even paler now, not with anger but from the blood loss steadily draining his remaining strength.

The team’s standard-issue uniform was not for show—neither to mimic some clandestine organization nor to look cool. It was simply so that blood and wounds would not be easily seen.

They were the last line of defense, the people’s shield and spear. Even to the death, they could not reveal a hint of weakness to the enemy.

Mu Yu’s breath grew heavy, as if blood was rushing to his head. He suddenly pushed Mo Yan aside; the tension in his jaw made his face seem fierce and solemn.

Mo Yan glanced at him, worried that Mu Yu, in a moment of confusion, might do something rash. His muscles tensed subconsciously.

He stared in disbelief as Mu Yu took two steps forward, steadied himself, and seemed to press the muzzle of the gun against some invisible, spherical object—then pulled the trigger.

There was no spray of blood and flesh as expected. Instead, a shattering, crystal-like substance tumbled to the floor. A half-transparent, headless corpse appeared as if from nowhere, collapsed to the ground, and before Mo Yan could see clearly, it turned to dust, scattering in the sunlight and vanishing.

Mo Yan let out a long breath and sank to the floor, his body collapsing with exhaustion as the tension abruptly left him. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. Perhaps he was simply losing too much blood.

“What’s wrong?” Mo Yan managed to lift his head, seeing Mu Yu motionless where he stood. Thinking it was his first time firing a gun and the experience unsettled him, Mo Yan tried to comfort him.

“Don’t take it too hard. If you hadn’t fired, it would probably be us lying there…”

“Boss.”

The interruption made Mo Yan pause.

He saw Mu Yu turn his head, his expression strange and tinged with fear, as though he’d glimpsed an endless abyss.

“Boss, don’t you think… it’s kind of like him?”

The sunlight-filled, warm room suddenly seemed to be swept by a chill wind straight from hell, making Mo Yan shudder.

Where Mu Yu pointed, a figure crouched low, a blue-black face twisted in a mocking sneer.