Chapter 893: The Origin of Destiny: Feng Mu Route 3_2

What will happen?

I don’t know! Completely unpredictable! Is it total destruction ahead, or... a glimmer of hope for escape?

But what does it matter?

Instead of passively waiting to be silently digested by the "master," I’d rather launch an all-out charge upwards.

Even if I am a moth drawn to a flame, I must see the true face of the fire before I burn.

So, I used all the strength left in my body, gathered all the uncorroded will, and clung tightly to the "thread" that belonged to me overhead.

The thread was more tangible than I imagined, with a slippery yet tough texture.

I began to climb.

This was not climbing in the physical sense, but more like an ascent of will, a soul swimming against the current along the line of destiny.

I was like a pitifully small insect, climbing resolutely and proactively along the silk implanted by a predator towards the gaping mouth awaiting it.

All senses turned inward, and all thoughts concentrated into one:

Upward! Climb up! Climb to the end! See what it truly is!

Upward, upward, continuously upward...

The "threads" around me (those dangling lines) were getting denser, the temperature rising higher.

It was a burning heat for the soul, not fiery and fierce, but like being immersed in hot oil, agonizing my consciousness slowly and persistently.

Time perception was utterly confused, perhaps just a blink of an eye, or maybe it had already been thousands of years.

Sense of space was completely distorted, up and down and left and right lost meaning, only the the constantly approaching, wriggling, enormous core of the bundle of lines remained.

I had only one thought, like the final beacon, guiding this mad journey: climb up!

Who knows how long it lasted, maybe an instant, maybe an eternity.

When I had nearly exhausted all my strength, and my consciousness was faltering, I vaguely felt I had touched something.

It was not a tangible barrier, nor a material boundary, but more like a consciousness interface, a vortex of information, an entrance to... a vast, inconceivable "system".

As if I had pierced through an invisible membrane, reaching the periphery of a certain core area.

And at this very moment, a cold, mechanical voice devoid of any emotional fluctuation, like a pre-recorded program prompt, echoed directly in the depths of my fragmented consciousness.

Echoing repeatedly, with an undeniable tone of final confirmation:

"Character initialization complete, naming successful— Feng Mu!"

The sound made my remaining consciousness buzz, as if the voice itself was redefining my existence.

Feng Mu...

That’s right, I remembered, Feng Mu... is my name.

Yes, I am Feng Mu, but then who is speaking in my mind, is it the master?

What should the master be called?

Forgive me, I don’t know why, but at this moment a blasphemous thought sprang into my head—the master should be called the master, how could the master have any other name?

In this instant, I suddenly had an intensely strong desire to know the master’s name.

The master... perhaps should also have a true name?

The master’s true name?!!

I struggled, using the last wisp of consciousness, lifted my head with all my might, "looking" towards that center of the bundle of lines, even though I no longer had eyes.

In a haze, I seemed to see through the countless intersecting threads, saw... saw...

.........

March 14, 230.

I sat by the window, the cold of the old alloy window frame seeped through the thin fabric into my skin, and my gaze involuntarily traveled past the dusty glass towards the unfamiliar sky overhead.

It was not the firmament I was familiar with, composed of atmosphere and distant stars.

That was the base of the "Upper City".

An oppressive expanse of metal and unknown composite materials covered the entire upper view, blocking out the sun, like clouds eternally suspended overhead.

The base of Upper City was not a lifeless darkness.

Countless bulbs were embedded above, with varying shapes, some round like animal eyes, some slender like a serpent’s gaze, some irregularly shaped polygons.

They cast a cold, consistent light night and day, devoid of warmth, devoid of variance, methodically illuminating every corner of Lower City.

Thus, we affectionately called those eyes—suns.

Yes, multiple suns.

And for this reason, we respectfully referred to the hanging city above as "Upper City of Light," symbolizing the everlasting, undying shore of light.

But every time I looked up at the suns, what I felt was not gratitude or warmth, but a dread and suffocation creeping from my spine.

Like countless featureless white eyes staring fixedly, leaving nowhere to hide.

Perhaps it was my latent fear of density acting up, or perhaps something else, a deeper, more instinctual warning.

I wasn’t sure, and... couldn’t be bothered to delve into it.

In this world, knowing too much, thinking too much, often isn’t a fortunate thing.

Upper City, and all it represents, is too distant from me, distant like a legend from another world.

Instead, the piece of paper lying quietly on my desk, scarlet and glaring like freshly clotted blood, was unbearably close, close enough to smell the scent of despair.

"Root Bone Potential Comprehensive Test Report."

In the name column, printed my current name.

And in the most conspicuous comprehensive score section, a scarlet number scorched my gaze:

points!

An overwhelmingly despairing number.

A number equally despairing to the original owner of this body.

But upon reflection, perhaps the original owner despaired even more.

After all, he solved this despair in his own way completely.

He died.

Quietly, died in a corner of the warehouse behind the school, filled with discarded training equipment.

And I had to "live" again using his body, still warm, continuing his life of despair.

Sometimes, I would think endlessly about who between the original owner and I was braver.

I think it was him.

Because he had the courage to end it all by his own hand, fighting against the destiny imposed on him by this world.

And I do not.

I cling to the opportunity for a second breath, even though it’s so heavy, so suffocating.

But he might think it’s me, because I have the courage to live on for him, and he does not.

After experiencing the brink of life and death, the soul tends to become sensitive and thoughtful, sprouting many insights about existence and meaning.

However, these nascent philosophical thoughts were soon rudely interrupted by a sharp and monotonous ringing of the class bell.

The bell sounded like a switch, and the previously static air in the classroom instantly flowed.

Classmates, like wound-up toys, quickly packed their personal belongings, faces showing expressions of relaxation or exhaustion, left in twos and threes.

Conversations, footsteps, the sound of desks and chairs bumping, combined into a noisy tide that soon flushed the classroom empty.

I deliberately lingered until the last moment, only slowly picking up the test report and placing it into my backpack when the classroom was empty.

At one point, I impulsively wanted to crumple it into a ball and toss it in the trash, my fingertips already exerting force, creasing the paper.

But in the end, I released the pressure, carefully smoothing it out.

Because beside that scarlet number "49," there were spots of blood, now dark brown.

That was the blood of the original owner.

This piece of paper, in a sense, is his... final relic to me.

It’s also the first, and most impactful, "greeting gift" I received upon arriving in this strange, cold world.

Pretty damn commemorative!

I never used to be someone who held on to the past.

In the previous world, where information exploded and everything could be quickly copied and discarded, nostalgia seemed like a luxury and pointless emotion.

But after that world and I were separated by an unbridgeable gulf called "crossing," something quietly changed in my heart.

I became exceptionally sensitive, exceptionally nostalgic, exceptionally wistful for the "past."

Nostalgia became the first change after I arrived in this world.

After putting away the report card, I zipped up my backpack and slung it over my shoulder.