Day 7 back in B-07, routine returned to normal.
06:00, ten-kilo weighted vest, Tang Lan's combat training. Today she used a real blade—oscillating sword, edge unsharpened but coated with rule-interference lamination. A hit would briefly paralyze nerves. She slammed me nine times. On the last fall, my derivative workbook spilled from my bag, opened to the "implicit differentiation" page.
Tang Lan glanced at it: "You got this one wrong last time."
"Fixed it this time." I got up, stuffing the workbook back.
"Good." She sheathed the blade, "Remember in combat—if you mess up, fix it. Once fixed, don't repeat."
07:30, equipment maintenance. Zhou Fang's workbench always looked bombed, but he could precisely grab the needed part from the mess. He handed me a small box: "Your jammer, fixed. Added a module that blocks mirror-reading."
"Image Master can read equipment?"
"He can't." He said, "But it's reassuring."
He bent back over the captured Parker pen, nib broken, but still studying its internals. I noticed a new tool set on the bench, untouched, placed in the most convenient spot.
"Who's that for?" I asked.
"For whoever needs it." He didn't look up, "Hasn't arrived yet."
09:00, tactical simulation. On Gu Yan's board, the Jin's Chaos zone returned to normal size, the stick figure now accompanied by a golden outline labeled: [Image Master (predicted)]
"Image Master's real body is in the classroom." He adjusted his glasses, "But the classroom isn't his lair—it's his trap. He's waiting for you to return, like a teacher waiting for homework."
"I'll turn in a blank sheet."
"A blank sheet is still an answer." Gu Yan swiped his tablet, "What he fears most isn't you fighting—it's you doing nothing."
10:30, spatial marking training. Shen Xingyao didn't throw darts today. She had me stand in the training room's center, close my eyes.
"Perceive." She said, "Not the marks—perceive me."
I closed my eyes, world sinking into darkness. Six silver light points emerged—her usual marking positions. But seventh, eighth, ninth... lights multiplied like stars, filling the space. Counting to the seventeenth, I stopped.
"The seventeenth—at your heartbeat's location." I said.
She didn't speak. But I knew she smiled—not her mouth, her heartbeat rhythm changed, quickening by 0.3 seconds.
"Good." She said, "Now, mark me."
I froze: "Me?"
"Your ability is rule rewriting, right?" Her voice was calm, "Then rewrite my rules—make me marked."
I raised my hand, pencil tip aimed at the void. Not at her—at the concept of "space." I wrote: [Shen Xingyao, observed at this location]
The pencil tip flashed silver. A thin line connected from her chest to my fingertip.
She looked down at that line, pupils contracting to needlepoints.
"You marked me." She said, "At the rule level."
"Mm."
"Who taught you?"
"White Gloves." I said, "Said the best defense is turning hunter into prey."
She fell silent three seconds, then the folder landed precisely on my occiput.
"Never use this on teammates again." She said, "It's an enemy-only technique."
"Copy that."
She left, but the line didn't break. It floated like spider silk between us. I knew she could cut it anytime, but she didn't.
---
12:00, cafeteria.
I sat at the usual spot, tray holding protein blocks, nutrient paste, a compressed vegetable slice. Zhou Fang hummed, perfectly on-key this time—"Jasmine Flower." Tang Lan's tray was a mountain, she ate fast like racing time. Gu Yan's tablet lay screen-down on the table, unusually not displaying data.
Shen Xingyao walked over with her tray, sat, silent.
The atmosphere was quiet, like holding a vigil.
"Who's on duty this afternoon..." Zhou Fang started, "Who goes?"
"I will." Tang Lan said, "Blade needs maintenance."
"I'll join you." Zhou Fang said, "Jammer needs tuning."
"I'm reviewing equipment inventory." Gu Yan said, "Level-B mission next week."
"Lin Jin." Shen Xingyao suddenly called, "Your homework."
I pulled out the derivative workbook, handed it over. She flipped through, circled three problems in red: "Wrong. Redo."
"Now?"
"Now." She said, "Write here, finish before eating."
I took out my pencil, wrote on the cafeteria table. Silvery-white letters faded fast. A mechanical arm reached to clear the table, Zhou Fang hit pause.
"Let him finish." He said.
I redid the three problems, pushed the workbook back. She glanced, circled one: "Still wrong."
"Where?"
"Steps correct, result correct, but logic wrong." She shoved it back, "Rethink."
I rewrote it using her logic—spatial folding, treating derivatives as displacement change rate.
She finally nodded: "Correct."
She pushed her tray to me: "Eat mine, yours is cold."
I froze. Her tray held protein blocks cut into small pieces, like kindergarten food.
"Can't finish." She explained, "You help."
"Against regulations..."
"I wrote the regulations." She said, "Now, eat."
I ate. Tasted no different, but the fullness was real, like a full meal.
---
14:00, shift change.
The monitoring room on sublevel three required 24-hour staffing. Zhou Fang drew day shift, I drew night.
"Don't sleep." He said during handoff, "If you see golden text on-screen, hit the red button immediately."
"Golden text?"
"Image Master's mark." He said, "He might be testing our systems."
"Testing what?"
"Testing if we'll get tired." He smiled, "After all, we caught Narrator once—gotta guard against a second round."
He left. The monitoring room held only me. Twelve screens displayed Administration corners. I watched three hours, eyes straining, but saw no golden text.
22:00, night shift began.
Shen Xingyao entered with two coffees.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, "Not your shift today."
"Tang Lan's blade needs maintenance, Gu Yan's model is running data, Zhou Fang drank too much water in the toilet." She said, "Covering an hour."
She handed me a coffee, no milk, no sugar, bitter as chemical reagent.
"Good?" She asked.
"Awful." I said honestly.
"Good." She drank a sip, expression unchanged, "Duty coffee—the worse it tastes, the better it keeps you awake."
We sat side by side, watching screens. Nothing unusual showed—just mechanical arms cleaning the cafeteria, patrol robots in corridors, the theory classroom on D-7 still lit, Old Chen lecturing new adaptoids.
"Where do you think Image Master is?" She suddenly asked.
"Changzheng High." I said, "My classroom."
"Why?"
"Because that's my origin." I said, "To rewrite my story, he must start from page one."
She didn't speak, just took that mark from her pocket and placed it on the table.
"This, return to you." She said, "Useless for me to keep."
"Didn't you say in emergencies, crush it and you'd come?"
"That was a lie." She said, "If it shatters, I won't come. I'll directly lock your coordinates and dig that coordinate out of the Rift Zone."
"What's the difference?"
"The difference," she turned to me. In the monitor light, her silvery-white pupils were like cold jade, "Is the former is teammate rescue, the latter, captain's responsibility."
"Responsibility over teammates?"
"Responsibility includes teammates." She said, "But not superfluous emotions."
She finished her coffee, stood to leave. At the door, she paused again, not turning:
"Specialized Derivative Training Set 10—due tomorrow. No mistakes."
"Copy that."
She left. The monitoring room returned to silence.
---
23:00, shift ended.
I returned to my dorm, changed from uniform to school uniform. The workbook in my bag had reached Set 10, the final problem was composite function differentiation—hard, took me three methods to solve.
I lay in bed. The bracelet showed sync rate 39.9%, stable.
But I couldn't sleep.
I got up, went to the window. The stationery shop's second-floor window faced the old district—darkness there, Changzheng High's teaching building stood like a tombstone in moonlight.
I took out my pencil, wrote on the glass:
[Image Master, I'm waiting for you]
Silvery-white letters flashed three seconds, then vanished.
But I knew they didn't truly vanish. They stayed in the glass's molecular gaps, like a virus, like a seed, like a scar only I could see.
I wiped the glass's condensation, lay back down, closed my eyes.
Tomorrow more training, more homework, more raps on the head from Shen Xingyao, more off-key humming from Zhou Fang, more Gu Yan miscalculating my behavior patterns, more protein blocks from Tang Lan.
Days were ordinary, ordinary as if nothing happened.
But the pencil's cracks remained, sync rate held golden contamination, invisible words on the glass, Shen Xingyao's mark burning in my pocket.
And I knew, Image Master also lay on my Class 12-3 desk, writing his diary with golden ink.
[Today, Lin Jin wrote my name on glass]
[Ugly handwriting, but good attitude]
[Tomorrow, time to assign him homework]
I fell asleep. The bracelet vibrated once in the darkness.
Sync rate: 39.9% → 40.0%
Perfect.