Chapter Twenty: No Need to Worry

A throbbing headache. An excruciating pain that wrenched him from sleep. Gradually, Chen Zi’ang became aware that the Shadow Cloak was not all-powerful. While it could suppress his external spiritual vision, shielding him from the assaults of the uncanny, the sudden spike in true spiritual perception still sent violent tremors through his mind and body.

This is bad—there’s work tomorrow. If I show up at the office in this state…

Chen Zi’ang’s consciousness struggled to surface from the depths of a heavy stupor, while Rin Natsuki Tsukimiya sat at his bedside, turned slightly to the side, her gaze gentle as water as she watched over him.

…

He had no idea how much time had passed before he suddenly tore himself free from the haze. Like a man jolted by a sudden shock, Chen Zi’ang shot upright in bed, gasping for breath before his senses gradually returned. The light filtering through the window was warm and pleasant—it must have been around seven or eight in the morning. He reached for his phone: 7:15. Fifteen minutes before his usual alarm.

He pressed hard on his brow, already feeling the fog in his mind dissipate. After changing clothes and washing up in the bathroom, Chen Zi’ang opened his bedroom door and was immediately greeted by an enticing aroma.

The scent of fried hamburger steak.

Here, hamburger steak referred to minced meat pressed and molded again through industrial means—a dish the Islanders called “hamburger steak,” while the Landers called it “luncheon meat” or “ham sausage.” Frying it in a pan until slightly crisp brought out a savory aroma in no time.

What he smelled was unmistakably that of frying luncheon meat.

He quickly descended the stairs to find, standing at the kitchen stove, a pretty figure clad in an apron.

Rin Natsuki Tsukimiya? Why is she making breakfast in my house… Wait, how did she get my keys?

He crept up behind her, only to see the girl wielding chopsticks in her right hand, her left hand balancing a phone as she gingerly scrolled through a recipe.

“It’s time to flip it,” Chen Zi’ang reminded her.

“Oh, right!” Rin fumbled, trying to pick up the luncheon meat with her chopsticks, but before she could flip it, the meat broke apart under her clumsy grip.

“A spatula would be easier,” he advised again.

“Okay, okay.” She hastily set down the chopsticks and reached for a spatula.

“A metal spatula will ruin the non-stick coating. Use the wooden one,” Chen prompted a third time.

Rin picked up the wooden spatula, attempting to slide it beneath the luncheon meat. Her movements were so awkward it was as if she were trying to carve flowers into tofu.

“Let me do it,” Chen offered, taking the spatula and deftly flipping the meat with a practiced hand.

“Senior, you’re amazing!” Rin exclaimed in a crisp, admiring voice.

“It just takes practice,” Chen replied absently, before abruptly asking, “How did you get in?”

“You keep a spare key under the flowerpot,” Rin answered matter-of-factly.

“Isn’t that spot a little too obvious?” Chen pondered, then suddenly realized, “Rin, what are you doing here so early in the morning?”

“I was worried about you, Senior.” Rin produced her phone, already prepared, and pulled up their chat to show him.

[Tentacle, tentacle, if you’re not tentacle I’ll tentacle, tomorrow tentacle.]

“Did I send this last night?” Chen’s face drained of color as he read the string of five ‘tentacles’ in a single sentence. He hurriedly fished out his own phone.

Sure enough, the message he’d sent to Rin in the early hours was identical to the one she’d received.

But in his memory, he’d sent her a perfectly normal message.

Could it be mental contamination? Was it because he’d communicated with the entity of the Abyssal Touch, leaving a lurking hazard within his sanity?

Restless and uneasy, Chen Zi’ang moved through the morning in a daze, even pausing with the spoon in hand for long moments after feeding Xiao Zhu.

“If you’re really that worried, why not get a sanity check at the office?” Rin asked, puzzled. “When I got your message, I rushed right over. Once I saw you were all right, I finally relaxed. Why are you getting so worked up now?”

“You don’t understand…” Chen muttered, unable to explain.

First, seeming fine on the surface didn’t mean his mind was unscathed; the most insidious forms of madness often lay silent and unnoticed in their incubation. Second, there was no way to avoid a sanity and psychological check at the Intelligence Division—that was mandatory.

But if something were wrong, how was he supposed to explain it to Riku Suiho?

Field agents, constantly exposed to the arcane, were always picking up survival tools and trump cards. The department generally turned a blind eye, refraining from prying too deeply. But if one had come into contact with a deity and suffered psychic contamination, Riku Suiho would never let it pass. She would dig relentlessly until she uncovered the truth.

So what was he supposed to say?

“It’s all right, don’t look so troubled.” Seeing his worried face, Rin offered a sweet, comforting smile. “I might not understand what’s bothering you, but I’ll do everything I can to help.”

“Really, Senior, there’s no need to worry.”

———

Northernmost City Public Security Bureau, Underground Intelligence Archive.

Chen Zi’ang completed all the examinations with great unease, then, like a criminal awaiting judgment, turned a grave face toward Riku Suiho.

But Riku seemed entirely unaware of the supposed gravity of the matter. She clicked her mouse a few times, then said casually,

“Spiritual vision at thirteen, all other indicators normal. Your sanity is stable, though it seems you’re a bit sleep-deprived.”

“Wait,” Chen Zi’ang blurted out in surprise. “My sanity’s stable?”

“Yes,” Riku replied coolly. “Just as stable as in your last two hundred reports. Or did you get your hands on some new divine relic, risk your life and survive, and now can’t believe you made it, so you came running to me first thing in the morning to check?”

“Uh…” Though he’d already prepared an excuse, Chen hadn’t expected Riku to be so perceptive. He could only force himself to continue, “I had a nightmare last night. Woke up with a headache and thought maybe my spiritual perception had spiked…”

“What kind of nightmare?” Riku interrupted.

He noticed she had opened a blank notepad file on her computer.

“Um.” Chen chose his words carefully. “I dreamed of countless tentacles.”

“Tentacles.” Riku typed the word, softly repeating incomprehensible terms under her breath. “Boneless muscle structures, existing in weightless space, symbols of all-pervasive infiltration, control, and erosion, impossible to break free… What else?”

“And… fanaticism.” Chen hesitated. “They kept repeating the word ‘tentacle’…”

“Wait,” Riku interrupted again. “Was it the Lander word for ‘tentacle,’ or some unknown language that, mysteriously, you could still understand?”

“I didn’t notice,” Chen replied truthfully.

“Then most likely the latter.” Riku narrowed her eyes, fingers flying over the keyboard. “Intense memetic contamination… Anything else? Say it all at once; don’t make me prompt you.”

“That’s all.” Chen shook his head.

“Hmm.” Riku ignored him, studying her computer screen in deep thought.

Chen didn’t dare disturb her, and sat quietly, waiting for her to finish her analysis.

After about half an hour, Riku suddenly turned, regarding him with surprise.

“Why are you still here?”

“Ahem, just about to leave,” Chen said, rising to his feet. As he was about to go, his phone began to vibrate violently.

He checked it, and his expression changed at once. The message was from Lu Yunfeng:

“Chen, bad news! That idiot Machiba wants us to surrender all our sealed artifacts!”