The floor of the "Greed Exchange" felt like stepping on vocal cords.
Every step sent a low vibration, like someone speaking beneath your feet—not language, but the sound of currency flowing. Walls built from cash, gold, diamonds—not solid, but conceptual condensation. Here, "money" was alive—it breathed, blinked, quietly shifted positions to make you think your wealth had increased.
Zhou Fang staggered. The golden text on his chest came alive like vines, wrapping his throat. He grunted, hand clamped over his mouth, silvery-white blood seeping between his fingers.
"Six hours." Gu Yan's voice was calm as a clock, "Now five hours forty-two minutes remain."
"Enough." Shen Xingyao didn't turn. Her cloak was undone, black fabric billowing in the Rift Zone wind, revealing her Administration uniform. The silver badge gleamed coldly under the Level-C5 purple light like provocation.
"Not enough." The omnipresent voice said, "The price of admission is letting the corrosion complete."
The voice emanated from every money wall, reflected from every diamond facet, a chorus: "For every minute you delay, corrosion accelerates by one minute."
"What do you want?"
"Trade." The voice said, "Trade Lin Jin's homework notebook for Zhou Fang's life, for Image Master's intel."
"Just a homework notebook?" Shen Xingyao narrowed her eyes, "Worth that much?"
"It is." The voice said, "Because that notebook isn't ordinary. You wrote in it for 47 days with a Rift Zone pencil—every page retains rule rewrite traces. It's already a Level-C Rift Zone item."
My heart clenched. The specialized derivative workbook stayed in my bag—I wrote in it daily with that cracked HB pencil. But I never thought it could be "contaminated" into an item.
"More importantly." The voice continued, "The notebook holds Lin Jin's 'story.' Not memories, but story. How he used a pencil to write 'I haven't died yet' in a Rift Zone seventeen different ways. That's what Image Master wants."
"Why doesn't he want my actual memories?"
"Memories can be tampered with—stories can't." The voice said, "Once a story is written, it gains inertia, gains weight. Your workbook's current black market valuation equals half a Level-B Rift Zone core."
"Who priced it?"
"I did." The voice said, "I'm the buyer, and the seller."
Shen Xingyao didn't speak. I could see countless silver lights flashing in her pupils—she was using spatial sovereignty to simulate the trade's possibilities.
"Deal." She finally said, "With one condition."
"State it."
"Lin Jin must be present to hand in the homework personally." She said, "He must witness Zhou Fang's purification."
"Acceptable." The voice said, "But the trade location is deep within the Mirror Labyrinth. There, his sync rate will exceed 50%. You may lose him."
"That's my concern."
"Agreed."
Accountant handed over a contract—golden paper, black text, written in rules. Shen Xingyao bit her finger, signed in blood. Tang Lan, Gu Yan, Zhou Fang signed in turn.
When it was my turn, I paused.
"Sign." Shen Xingyao said, "Use the pencil."
I pulled out my cracked HB pencil, wrote at the contract's end: Lin Jin.
Silvery-white letters, like blades.
The contract burned. Golden flames had no heat but made hearts race. When flames extinguished, Zhou Fang's chest corrosion halted. The golden text receded like a tide but didn't vanish—sealed in place.
"Three hours." Accountant said, "Within three hours, bring the workbook to the labyrinth core, Zhou Fang lives. Exceed it, he becomes an Echo, you become cargo."
"Where's Image Master?"
"At the labyrinth's deepest point." Accountant said, "He's waiting for homework submission—teacher awaiting student, natural as can be."
The labyrinth entrance stood at the exchange's end—a mirror.
Inside the mirror, we wore school uniforms, carried schoolbags, like five high schoolers heading to evening self-study. Outside the mirror, we wore cloaks, bore weapons, like five warriors marching to death.
"After entering, Lin Jin walks in front." Shen Xingyao said, "You're the student, he's the teacher. Student meeting teacher, goes without saying."
"What about you?"
"We're your parents." Tang Lan said, "Here for the parent-teacher conference."
The mirror shattered. We stepped through.
The Mirror Labyrinth differed from the theater labyrinth. No text, no rules—only infinite copies of "us." Every ten steps, a new mirror appeared showing another B-07 squad doing different things—some fighting, some eating, some sleeping, some... holding Lin Jin's funeral.
"Don't stop." Shen Xingyao said, "The mirrors are illusions."
"I know." But I stopped because one mirror showed a familiar scene: chemistry class, me sleeping, Teacher Zhang calling roll, Rift Zone descent, me slashing the exit with my pencil.
But in the mirror, I didn't slash.
In the mirror, I died.
My body was torn apart by Rift Zone text, became silvery-white light points. Shen Xingyao's marks tried to lock them, failed. She knelt, folder falling open—my dismissal notice inside.
"Don't look." Shen Xingyao blocked my view, "That's Image Master's cheap story."
"He wrote it pretty realistically." I said, "Real enough to make me think I died."
"You won't die." She said, "At least not today."
She reached out, slashing the mirror. It cracked, the scene shattering into light. But the light didn't vanish—it flowed out, seeping into her sleeve.
"Contamination." She frowned, "His mirrors can corrupt reality."
"What about Zhou Fang..."
"Zhou Fang's corruption is corrupted reality." Gu Yan explained, "The stabilizer he touched connected to the Mirror Labyrinth. The longer we stay, the faster he corrodes."
"How much time left?"
"Two hours three minutes."
"Move faster."
We ran, cloaks trailing black. We shattered mirror after mirror. Each time, Image Master's voice rang out:
[Take your time, Lin Jin. I haven't graded your homework yet]
[Three problems wrong, needs rewriting]
[Will your teammates last until you finish?]
Zhou Fang vomited blood again—golden blood, hitting a mirror. The mirror immediately spawned new mirrors, multiplying the blood infinitely.
"Don't touch the ground!" Shen Xingyao shouted, "His rules spread through blood!"
But too late.
When Tang Lan helped Zhou Fang, her hand got blood on it. She frowned, said nothing, just wiped it on her cloak. But where she wiped, the cloak became mirror.
"Damn." She cursed softly, "My shield..."
"Don't use it." Shen Xingyao said, "Here, your judgment will be mirrored. He copies your shield, then corrupts it."
"Then what do I use?"
"Fists." Tang Lan sheathed her oscillating blade, clenched her fists, "At least fists—he can't copy my resolve."
She punched the mirror. It shattered—no reflection, no corruption, simply broken.
"Works." She said, "Lin Jin, lead."
I walked at the front, the pencil burning in my sleeve. The barrel's cracks pulsed like a heartbeat, each pulse reminding me of that first mission—chemistry class, Rift Zone descent, me writing "Lin Jin" with the pencil tip.
The labyrinth began rotating, mirrors shifting into two rows like honor guards.
At the end stood the largest mirror, a podium before it.
On the podium stood Teacher Zhang.
Not real Teacher Zhang—Image Master's face, wearing Teacher Zhang's skin. He wore the chemistry teacher's white coat, held a pointer in hand, golden like a fountain pen.
"Lin Jin." He said, "Brought the workbook?"
I pulled out Workbook Set 11, cover reading "Specialized Derivative Training."
"Brought it."
"Hand it in."
I stepped forward, but Shen Xingyao held me back.
"Wait." She said, "Purify Zhou Fang first."
"Fine." Image Master snapped his fingers. The golden text on Zhou Fang's chest began receding like a tide. But halfway, it stopped.
"What?" Shen Xingyao asked.
"Purification has a price." Image Master said, "Equivalent exchange, you know."
"What price?"
"A story." He pointed at me, "Lin Jin, tell the story of your first rule rewrite. Real, complete, with details."
"After telling, you'll release him?"
"After telling, I'll consider."
I opened the workbook to page one, the date written in pencil: March 17, 2025, chemistry class.
I began.
"That day I fell asleep, dreamed I was solving derivatives on erosion rates..."
I spoke fast, but Image Master interrupted: "Not real enough."
"What's real then?"
"Real is—you were terrified." He said, "You feared death, feared never returning to class, feared failing Gaokao, disappointing parents. You rewrote rules not from bravery, but cowardice. Cowards change rules to survive."
I didn't speak—he was right.
"Continue." He said, "Finish your cowardice, and I'll release him."
I looked at Shen Xingyao. She had no expression, but I knew she was waiting.
I took a deep breath, started again:
"Right, I was terrified. I feared no one would collect my body if I died, feared my derivatives would remain unfinished, feared..."
"I feared never seeing you all again."
The moment I said this, the workbook suddenly glowed.
Silvery-white light seeped from every word I'd written, like buried embers reigniting.
Image Master's face changed—from Teacher Zhang into a blur of text.
"You..." his voice distorted, "What did you write in the workbook?"
"Stories." I said, "My story, and our story."
I flipped to Set 11's last page—the three problems Shen Xingyao circled wrong. In pencil beside them, I wrote three lines:
[First mission, Shen Xingyao rapped my head with a folder, said I'd die, I said "oh"]
[Zhou Fang fixed my jammer for three sleepless nights, finally said "don't die"]
[Tang Lan taught me to use fists—blades can be copied, but resolve can't]
Silvery-white letters, like blades.
"These stories, I cannot copy." Image Master said, "Because they 'happened,' not 'existed.'"
"So you lose." Shen Xingyao said, "Release him."
Image Master fell silent long, then laughed.
"Fine." He said, "I release."
The golden text on Zhou Fang's chest fully receded. He gasped, stood, face pale as paper.
"But you," Image Master said, "must stay. The workbook stays, you stay. Because stories need an audience."
Mirrors closed in, trapping us around the podium.
"Time left?" I asked Gu Yan.
"One hour three minutes." He said, "Mirror labyrinth collapse limit."
"Enough." Shen Xingyao said, "Lin Jin, tear the workbook."
"What?"
"Tear it." She said, "With rule rewriting, tear it."
I froze, then understood.
I pulled out my pencil, writing on the workbook cover: [This book cannot be retained]
The moment the letters lit, the workbook in my hands shattered into light points—like paper ash, like snow, like chalk dust from age seventeen.
Image Master screamed—not human, the sound of collapsing text.
"No!"
He lunged, but Shen Xingyao blocked before me, spatial sovereignty fully deployed, the entire mirror labyrinth inverting.
"Go!" She shouted.
We ran, shattered the final mirror, burst out the door.
Exchange, money walls, board of directors—all vanished.
We stood in the old district's abandoned market. Dawn broke. Vendors in masks watched us silently, like nothing happened.
The tall vendor walked over, handing me a box: "You passed."
"Passed what?"
"Trust test." He said, "The board is satisfied. Your story is worth this."
Inside the box—a stack of photos.
Photos showed Administration logistics supervisors transporting equipment batches into old district warehouses.
"Image Master's intel." Accountant's voice lingered in the air, "He's not in the classroom. He's inside your Administration."
"Who?"
"Investigate yourselves." The thin man said, "But remember, seven days' trust only gets you to the door. To enter requires a new ticket."
"What ticket?"
He looked at Zhou Fang, then at me: "A corroded teammate and a homework-writing student. Next time, bring something more important."
"Like?"
"Like Shen Xingyao's spatial sovereignty core code." He said, "Or Tang Lan's shield origin. Or Gu Yan's sister's memories."
"Or your captain's past."
He vanished. The market vanished. Only the five of us remained, standing in dawn's old district, cloaked like five homeless ghosts.
Zhou Fang collapsed. The sync monitor jumped from 0% to 15%, then stabilized at 12%.
"Back from the dead." He smiled, "Damn, nearly became a story."
Shen Xingyao didn't speak, just looked at me, her gaze complicated.
"Your workbook..." She said, "Gone."
"Can rewrite." I said, "Set 11, I memorized it."
"Memorized?"
"Yeah." I pulled out a new workbook, began transcribing, "Derivatives are the instant of change, the slope of rules..."
"Enough." She cut in, "Go back and write. One mistake, training doubled."
She turned, cloak drawing black arcs in the wind.
We followed her toward the helicopter.
Before boarding, I looked back at the old district.
Where the abandoned market stood was now empty ground. On the cement, a line appeared in golden text:
[Pleasant transaction, see you next time]
The text quickly weathered like never existing.