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The rain wasn’t much different from ordinary showers, save for the peculiar sound it made against the car windows. It wasn’t the usual crisp “pitter-patter” but rather a viscous, muffled plop, like droplets of oil hitting the glass. Old Liu switched on the windshield wipers, which scraped away layers of grayish-black, translucent sludge. The headlights cast beams onto the distant road, stretching endlessly into the void.
Li Xingyuan had recovered slightly. The shadows of his past weighed more heavily on his mind than on his body, so he sat up straight and continued staring ahead.
Old Liu asked, “Won’t you rest a little longer?”
“No, I’m fine,” Li Xingyuan replied, shaking off the haze clouding his thoughts. Ever since that incident, whenever he recalled the light, he often experienced these episodes. The light had opened up fissures in his mind, nesting deep within his consciousness. Each time it surfaced, he felt as though another part of his brain underwent irreversible change—like fingers gripping the edge of a cliff, forced to loosen one by one.
“Are you sure? Mr. Li,” Lin Song chimed in, concern evident in his voice.
Li Xingyuan noticed Lin Song’s expression had grown far more serious, likely after learning about Jiangcheng’s situation.
“Don’t worry too much, Lin Song,” Li Xingyuan reassured him. “Most people have evacuated.”
“Yeah, I’ve prepared myself,” Lin Song said with a bitter smile. “Even without all this happening, who can guarantee their loved ones won’t get radiation sickness?”
Li Xingyuan had no words to counter that—it was an undeniable truth.
How many lives had radiation sickness claimed? Though there were no official figures, the toll likely reached into the hundreds of millions, if not billions.
And it wasn’t just the disease. Strange phenomena kept surfacing, along with power outages and internet blackouts.
The atmosphere grew heavy with silence. This was the first time Lin Song had been so quiet since getting in the car, and Li Xingyuan realized Lin Song must have already braced himself for whatever might have happened to his family. When Lin Song spoke of such things, unease surely lingered beneath the surface.
But who could be blamed for any of this? Only the cruel hand of fate.
Li Xingyuan sighed and turned his gaze toward the window.
What time was it now? He’d lost track once again. Was it morning or night? The road seemed to stretch infinitely before them. To their west lay the Tibetan plateau, though they weren’t heading there—they were skirting around it. This region had always been sparsely populated and underdeveloped, and now, with everything falling apart, no one had the heart to travel here anymore. On a sunny day, looking eastward from this highway, one might glimpse the snow-capped peaks of Tibet in the distance. But now, only barren wasteland met the eye—and beyond that…
Li Xingyuan squinted. What was that?
Something tugged at his vision, an instinctive pull that locked his gaze onto the far reaches of the wasteland. Something was there—his mind insisted on it.
Then, he spotted it: something unusual.
“Lin Song, look outside. Do you see anything strange in the wilderness?”
“Hmm?” Lin Song followed Li Xingyuan’s direction, gazing intently at the desolate expanse. He narrowed his eyes but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
“Look at the rain,” Li Xingyuan prompted. “Doesn’t it seem to… split around something?”
He struggled to articulate it, but the rain appeared to part and vanish around a certain point, revealing the faint outline of something standing amidst the storm.
Was it a hallucination?
The figure was far away, its size difficult to gauge. If it were human, it would appear as nothing more than a tiny speck at that distance. Yet, it loomed large in the rain-soaked wasteland, its silhouette unmistakable despite its formlessness. Though vaguely humanoid in shape, it clearly wasn’t human. Li Xingyuan couldn’t discern the outline of a head, but its arms were impossibly long, stretched beyond any natural proportions.
It was invisible, yet the torrential rain outlined its presence. It stood motionless in the downpour, like a statue carved from stillness itself.
Though its existence eluded direct sight, Li Xingyuan felt certain it was watching him—not the car, but him specifically—or perhaps whatever resided within him.
But in the blink of an eye, it vanished. The rain resumed its steady fall, or perhaps the speeding vehicle had left it behind.
Li Xingyuan pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache brewing.
“It’s nothing. Just a hallucination.”
Whether it was real or not, whether it was friend or foe, as long as it didn’t display hostility, they could afford to ignore it for now.
Such occurrences weren’t uncommon these days. In this new era, investigating every strange event was simply impossible.
The car drove on for hours—or perhaps mere minutes, or even days. The eclipse showed no sign of ending, plunging the world into complete darkness. Night had fallen, or maybe it hadn’t. Li Xingyuan tried counting seconds on his fingers to estimate the time, but his restless thoughts made the task impossible.
For some reason, that intangible figure unsettled him more than previous hallucinations.
The darkness thickened, obscuring the view outside entirely. The car moved forward, accompanied only by the relentless rain, as though driving through eternity.
Then, Old Liu slowly applied the brakes, pulling the vehicle to a gentle stop at the side of the road.
“What is it, Old Liu?”
“The road’s blocked,” Old Liu replied, turning off the engine. “There’s been an accident here. Pan Shuai, there should be military ponchos under your seat…”
“Pan Shuai?”
Hearing Lin Song repeat the name in bewilderment, Old Liu froze momentarily, his face betraying a rare flicker of loss. But the moment passed quickly, replaced by his usual steely resolve.
“I meant Lin Song,” he corrected.
Li Xingyuan said nothing, patting Old Liu’s shoulder in silent understanding.
Lin Song didn’t seem bothered by the mistake. He retrieved three ponchos from beneath the seat, handing one to Old Liu. As Li Xingyuan reached for his, Old Liu stopped him.
“You two stay here. I’ll go check it out.” Pulling on the poncho, Old Liu turned to Lin Song with a tone that brooked no argument. “If anything happens to me, you’re responsible for getting Mr. Li back to Jiangcheng.”
Lin Song nodded silently, tightening his grip on his rifle.
Li Xingyuan remained quiet. He knew Old Liu well enough to understand that arguing would be futile.
“Be careful.”
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