SES Chapter 233

Chapter 233

Mu Dai felt dazed, her consciousness fragmented, yet she was still aware of and responsive to what was happening around her. When Luo Ren reached her, he saw that her face had changed color. He immediately grabbed onto the rock wall, released the support of the rope, and with a sharp burst of strength pulled himself up.

The force that had been coiling around her shoulders and neck suddenly disappeared. Mu Dai felt lighter than she ever had in her life. Luo Ren lifted her into his arms, pressing and massaging the sides of her neck with his thumb and forefinger. Then he took her hand, straightened her arm, and gently moved it up and down to restore circulation.

Frowning, Mu Dai forced a small smile. “I’m fine. I’ll be okay in a bit.”

Luo Ren’s gaze swept across the platform and lingered for a second or two on that strange door before he asked, “Where’s Wan San?”

As he spoke, another crashing rumble sounded in the distance. This time, the floating bridge didn’t just snap—it collapsed completely along with its supports. With each crumble and collapse, the distance between the platform and the tunnel grew farther and farther.

Yan Hongsand and Cao Yanhua spoke at once, stumbling over their words—one trying to explain the platform and the door, the other describing what had happened in the tunnel. To an outsider, it would have sounded like nonsense, but Luo Ren didn’t interrupt or stop them; somehow, he managed to piece together the meaning.

Yan Hongsand’s experience had been similar to Mu Dai’s—she had entered Wan San’s dream.

Some dreams floated gently upward like soap bubbles, fading as one naturally woke; others were like sudden hurricanes that tore everything apart, forcing an abrupt awakening. But unlike Mu Dai, Yan Hongsand had once been swept by that hurricane from one dream into another.

And Wan San’s dreams were…

In her words: “a complete mess.”

“There was no order at all—like… there were many different Wan Sans.”

She struggled to describe it. The Wan San she saw kept changing—sometimes a mechanic, sometimes a secondhand dealer, sometimes dressed in a sharp suit, sometimes in ragged clothes. Most confusing of all, she even saw him building families with different women.

“I tried talking to him, but he couldn’t hear me. I thought he’d recognize me the moment he saw my face, but he didn’t. In his dream, I was just a blurry figure. Even when I stood in front of a mirror, I couldn’t see my own face.”

Mu Dai nodded. “Because any clear image or event connected to us would act as a hint to Wan San. I think there’s a force in the tunnel desperately trying to block those hints.”

Yan Hongsand looked deeply frustrated. “You’re right. I even tried writing.”

Her idea had been simple—write out the words, stroke by stroke: I am Yan Hongsand.

But in reality, she could only write the first two characters—I am. No matter how many times she tried, she couldn’t write the rest. She even tried writing Mu Dai’s name, Cao Yanhua’s, Luo Ren’s, and even Cao Jiefang’s—nothing worked.

Cao Yanhua asked anxiously, “And then what happened?”

The back of Mu Dai’s neck still throbbed faintly. She reached up to rub it and naturally tilted her head back to stretch. The moment her eyes touched the sky, she suddenly let out a short gasp.

Everyone followed her gaze.

The sky was descending—visibly, at a speed detectable by the naked eye. Its edges were slowly eroding. In Chinese mythology, Pangu separated heaven and earth by holding up the sky and standing on the ground, growing taller to keep them apart.

But what they saw now was the opposite: heaven and earth seemed to be collapsing toward each other.

Above them, seven great stars glowed faintly, arranged like the Big Dipper. As the sky lowered further, strange shifting black shadows could be seen beside each star. Sometimes they joined into a single distorted humanoid shape. A low, eerie laugh echoed, as if from deep within the vast heavens.

The high platform trembled, the lonely door swaying from side to side.

When there was no path, you took the only one you could see. That door was their last exit.

Cao Yanhua asked nervously, “Brother Luo, what should we do?”

Luo Ren didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the tunnel entrance for a long time before saying, “Let me ask you—if Wan San showed up there right now, how could he get across to us?”

The question left everyone speechless.

The floating bridge was gone. With the rock walls crumbling, the gap between them had grown far beyond the original distance—unless… Wan San could fly.

As they stood in silence, another large section of the platform’s edge collapsed. Everyone instinctively stepped back, trying to keep away from the danger.

At the same time, they moved closer to the door.

Finally, Cao Yanhua spoke hesitantly. “Master… I absolutely don’t want to abandon Wan San. But if—just if—we have to prepare for the worst… if he really can’t make it out, and this place is going to collapse completely… should we…”

Should they make a final decision?

A faint spasm ran through Luo Ren’s forearm. He remembered his old training lessons about sacrifice and gain.

The instructor had said, “Retreat isn’t shameful. Preserving the greater whole is a smart strategy. We don’t want to abandon anyone—but when you reach a dead end, saving even one life matters. Don’t let everyone die for the sake of one person. If necessary, sacrificing a few as stepping stones may be unavoidable.”

Cruel—but real. Some situations couldn’t be ruled by emotion; numbers and outcomes had to come first.

Now it was one against four.

Luo Ren said nothing. Words were unnecessary—everyone already understood.

Suddenly, Yan Hongsand pointed at the tunnel entrance and shouted, “That—Is that… Wan San?”

It was—because at nearly the same moment, Cao Yanhua cried out in joy, “Wan San! Wan San!”

Hard as it might be to believe, Wan San had been the only one among the five who never tried to change or fix any regrets from the water-shadow visions of the past.

From beginning to end, he had remained a spectator.

He saw his father fall into the water, and his mother’s ship sink. He saw his younger self carrying a large barrel of diesel, pouring it over moon-drying clams before setting them on fire.

Flames spread across half the beach, a blood-red glow burning into his eyes.

He reminded himself that all these strange visions happened only after the ominous scroll attached itself to him—everything before him was chaotic, absurd, and untrustworthy.

The past could never be changed. Why deceive yourself? Time travel was like a piece of candy—brief comfort and pleasure—but once it melted, reality remained.

So he chose to watch.

Coldly, he watched himself driven out of the village, wandering the streets, beaten and cursed, disheveled and starving. The events began to drift further and further from real life. The water-shadows showed experiences he had never lived, people he had never met.

Still, he only watched. He didn’t bother wondering if these were the ten thousand possible versions of his life. He simply felt that once a life diverged from its true path, that “Wan San” in the water-shadows was no longer him.

It was just another man—someone named Jiang Zhao—wearing his face.

Eventually, the tunnel ended, and he found himself lucid yet lost within endless overlapping water reflections.

He kept walking, weaving through layer upon layer of rippling visions—seeing versions of himself living prosperous or miserable lives, working countless jobs, surrounded by ever-changing friends. But the ones he was searching for never appeared.

The reflections formed a massive maze. Each time he stepped into one, it felt like pushing open a door. He always believed that behind the next door would be the bar Gather and Part, or a moment when all his friends were together.

When it wasn’t, he just kept moving, stubbornly thinking: with so many choices and so many paths, surely one would be right.

Eventually, he grew tired. He sat down, buried his head in his knees, and dozed off.

He dreamed.

In the dream, he finally returned to Gather and Part. The bar had never been so busy—lines stretched farther than the eye could see. Uncle Zhang went out to check and came back excited, saying the queue had reached the entrance to the old city, and new customers were still arriving.

The workload was unprecedented—enough to work him to death.

He rushed to serve every customer. Want a cocktail? Fine—shake the mixer. Coffee? Sure—what design do you want? The latte art needle flew through the foam. He didn’t even have time to catch his breath.

A girl suddenly cut in line, drawing loud complaints from the customers. Wan San didn’t mind and asked, “What would you like?”

He couldn’t see her face clearly—it was like looking through a layer of fog.

She spoke to him, her mouth moving, but no sound came out. She grabbed paper and a pen from the counter and began writing—repeatedly writing the words I am, I am.

The customers complained louder. Wan San grew irritated and pushed her aside. “Please don’t interfere with our business.”

She stumbled back but stubbornly refused to leave. She stood there for a moment, then raised her arm as if wiping away tears.

So foolish, he thought.

After a while, he heard the roar of the coffee machine. Somehow, she had slipped behind the counter and started making coffee.

Where was Uncle Zhang? Why wasn’t he throwing her out? Wan San felt annoyed, but there were too many customers—he had to keep smiling and couldn’t afford to be distracted.

Eventually, the machine fell silent. She pushed several cups of coffee toward him.

Wan San glanced at them and nearly burst out laughing. That’s her skill level? The milk foam was uneven, patches of coffee showing through like bomb-scarred earth.

But she didn’t get angry. She took a bag of chocolate syrup, snipped a tiny opening, and squeezed words onto the surface of the coffee.

Her hands trembled. The writing was crooked and shaky, like worms crawling across the foam. Wan San scoffed and looked sideways. The first word she wrote was “from.”

She pushed over a second cup and continued writing. This time, the strokes were more complex, the character a tangled mess. He stared for a while before recognizing it: “before.”

From before?

Like “Once upon a time, there was a mountain, and on that mountain there was a temple?”

The customers started protesting again. Wan San ignored her and returned to his work.

But this time he couldn’t concentrate.

From before…

It felt strangely familiar.

He couldn’t help turning to look again. On the third cup, next to the words “from before,” she had drawn a large comma.

A comma meant a pause. It meant a story wasn’t finished yet. It meant… there was more to come.