自創小說的集合地

"Because he said—" Xu Ziqian paused. "That once the door opened, it would open again. If Wugu Village still existed, someone would come back for this door. So he wanted to drive everyone away, cut off all the clues, and make Wugu a place that never existed." Chen Mo looked at the newspaper clipping, then at the other papers on the wall. For sixteen years, the "person who came out of the door" had been tracking down every clue related to Wugu, eliminating them one by one, erasing them. "Who is your brother?" Chen Mo asked. Xu Ziqian didn't speak. Lin Jing's voice came from the corridor, calm but with a hint of tension. "Xu Ziqian, tell him." Xu Ziqian took a deep breath. "My brother changed his name after he was sent out," he said. "He used his mother's surname. He later took a job—a job that gave him access to all the files, records, and evidence." He looked up, meeting Chen Mo's eyes directly. "His name is Zhou Zhengguo." Chen Mo felt the ground disappear beneath his feet. Old Zhou. The seemingly drunk, retired old forensic doctor. He had walked out of that ritual and spent sixteen years burying everything about Wugu Village—including his own past. He stood in the second-floor hall, holding a glass of whiskey, like a detached old man. But he had known everything from the beginning. "...He made everyone come here," Chen Mo said, his voice so hoarse he didn't recognize it himself. "Zhang Zhenyu invited everyone, your father invited everyone—Old Zhou was (To be continued)

The next day, we struggled through the morning's cultural classes and finally started to recover at the academy's cafeteria. After all, the knowledge about beasts and material types was really taxing on the brain. Although it was a required course, having to memorize such knowledge was truly painful. As for the afternoon combat skills class, it began with each of us finding our respective instructors. Naturally, we found Wen Yue next to the female teacher of the adjacent group. After I and Di Bi submitted the draft we painstakingly drew overnight, I felt Wen Yue's dead gaze fixed upon us. But he didn't say anything, just silently accepted the draft and then led the three of us to sit in an open space a few meters away from the adjacent group. "Since you have all chosen your directions, I will now tell you some knowledge about combat skills." "Firstly, through the investigation by our scientific personnel, we have learned that the relationship between body strength, power, speed, etc., is related to a certain substance contained in everything we eat, and even in the water we drink. This substance we call 'spiritual energy.' By ingesting spiritual energy, we can accelerate our physical growth, even improve our cultivation realm, and through breakthroughs in our realm, we can even raise the upper limit of our lifespan. Now, you need to first understand the different tiers of your combat skills. Throughout history, through decades of effort and speculation by our predecessors, various levels of combat skills have been established." According to the predecessors, excluding the period of time stagnation, it has only been a mere few decades since time began to flow.

As I spoke, I ignored Di Bi's slightly shy expression, and the two of us went together to find Wen Yue to submit our self-made weapon prototypes. "Um... Classmate Liu, can you tell me what these dozens of knife-like things are? And Classmate Di, did you peel the skin off a mace, unfold it, and attach a handle?" "Teacher, please don't misunderstand, these are knives!" I tried my best to correct Wen Yue's misconception. It was clearly obvious to me. "Teacher, even if you think this is mace skin, I don't have the ability to peel that thing's skin," Di Bi also intended to correct him. "Forget it. Liu Lang, can you tell me how you can feel the call of so many weapons at the same time?" "Reporting to the teacher, I don't know either, but I just felt it." Can I tell you that these are all kitchen knives from various countries in my past life? "I'm speechless. People like you appear every year, but why did only the two of you show up this year, and both ended up under me. Your carving skills are terrible, forget it. Can you draw? Draw me a sketch tomorrow, and I'll submit it for you to have it custom-made." "Thank you, teacher!!" we both thanked him in unison. Because we had wasted too much time, class ended before any formal teaching began. So, the two of us quickly rushed back to the dorm and started designing the blueprint for our dreamed future.

"That night, the village elders decided to send all the children away—except for him. Because he bore that mark, 'S', since birth. The Watcher said he had to stay, with that door." "And then what?" Xu Ziqian lowered his head, a long silence. "Then the door closed. He didn't come out." The air in the room grew heavy. Chen Mo looked at the photo on the wall, a little boy smiling with a missing front tooth, his eyes crinkled into crescent moons. He looked happy and oblivious, completely unaware of his future. "So," Chen Mo said slowly, "I'm not the 'key.' Your brother is. Then why did you say I could open this door?" "Because that door was opened eighteen years ago." Xu Ziqian looked up, his eyes gleaming strangely in the firelight. "The one who opened it was my brother. He came out once—two years after everyone thought he was dead. When he came out, he wasn't the same person anymore." "What did he do when he came out?" Xu Ziqian walked to the wall and pointed to a clipping pinned in the corner. It was an old news article, the headline reading: "Ruins Discovered in Nantou Mountains, Suspected Ancient Indigenous Ritual Site." The date was sixteen years ago. "He came out, and then he started doing one thing—erasing all evidence from Fog Valley Village." Xu Ziqian said. "The village's buildings, documents, photos, household registration records... all disappeared. Not naturally, but systematically cleared by one person." "Why?" "Because he said—" (To be continued)

On the table lay an open notebook, a dried-up fountain pen, and a framed photograph. The walls were covered in papers. Dozens, hundreds—handwritten diary pages, hand-drawn maps, clippings, envelopes, photographs. Each one was pinned to the wall, densely covering every surface, like a frantic intelligence room. And at the center of all the papers—dead center on the front wall—was the largest photo, pinned with a red thread. It was a family portrait. A young man, a young woman, and a little boy, about five or six years old. The background was the old banyan tree in Foggy Village. The man's face was a young Zhang Zhenyu. The woman's face, Chen Mo recognized—it was Ayue's mother, a resident of Foggy Village. And the little boy's face— Chen Mo walked to the wall, reached out, and his fingertips lightly touched the photo. On the little boy's left wrist, there was a thin scar. He looked down at his own left wrist. Smooth skin. "The child in the photo," Xu Ziqian's voice came from behind him, so quiet it was almost inaudible, "isn't you." Chen Mo turned his head. "What?" "He isn't you." Xu Ziqian stood in the doorway, the firelight illuminating his face from the side, making the 'S' tattoo look like an old scar. "He's my brother. Three years older than me. He was the real 'key' to Foggy Village—but he's dead." "Dead?" "He wasn't sent away. He stayed." Xu Ziqian's voice was very calm, as if stating something unrelated to himself. "That night, in the village (To be continued)

Dry dust, old wood, and something like sandalwood. "Let's go," he said. He sidled into the passage. Xu Ziqian followed behind, Lin Jing last. The candle flame burned steadily in the confined space, illuminating the stone walls on either side. Symbols were carved into the walls every few steps. Chen Mo didn't recognize the script, but he knew it was hand-carved, each stroke deep. The passage was about ten meters long, ending in a wooden door. It was much smaller than the stone door outside, about half a person's height, like an old-fashioned cellar entrance. The door was reinforced with iron bands, now rusted, but the door itself still looked solid. A line was carved into the door with the tip of a knife: "Those who enter, please bring your whole self." Chen Mo stared at the words, silent for a long time. "What is a 'whole self'?" he asked, his voice echoing in the narrow passage. Xu Ziqian said from behind him, "My father said that door can only be opened by someone who remembers exactly who they are. If you forget who you are—when the door opens, you'll see things you shouldn't." "Like what?" "Like truths you're not ready for." Chen Mo reached out and pushed the door. It wasn't locked and opened inward with a low groan. The space inside wasn't large, about the size of a bedroom. The air was drier than in the passage, and a thin layer of dust rose from the floor as Chen Mo stepped in. Then the candlelight illuminated the room. Chen Mo stopped. There was a wooden table and a chair in the room. On the table sat (To be continued)

"If you two don't come back in two hours, I'll bring people down to find you." "Okay." Chen Mo turned and walked towards the hidden door. Xu Ziqian followed behind him, with Lin Jing close on his heels. The three of them descended the stone steps. The steps underfoot were rough granite, carrying a damp chill. The light from the fireplace grew weaker as they descended, until only the candle lit by Lin Jing remained. The air in the wine cellar was cold and still. Oak barrels lined the walls, and Zhang Zhenyu's body, covered with a white sheet, lay quietly in a corner. Chen Mo paused slightly as he passed, but he didn't lift the sheet. He walked to the deepest part of the cellar. The back wall looked no different from the others—the same rough stone, the same dark hue. But when he held up the candle for a closer look, he saw a very fine crack in the stone wall, extending from the floor to about head height. A door. A door built into the wall. "The keyhole is on the right, at knee height," Xu Ziqian said. Chen Mo squatted down and handed the candle to Lin Jing. The candlelight illuminated an inconspicuous indentation in the corner of the wall. The rusty keyhole was hidden in the shadow of the stone, as if deliberately forgotten. He inserted the key. It fit perfectly. As he turned it, he heard a dull click from within the metal, like some mechanism being awakened. Then the crack in the wall widened, and the door slowly slid inward, silently. Behind the door was a narrower passage, barely wide enough for one person to squeeze through. Air rushed out from within, carrying a scent Chen Mo couldn't immediately identify—dry dust, (To be continued)

Otherwise, how would he know Ayu was from Fog Valley? How would he know Chen Mo would be the negotiator?” This sentence was like a stone thrown into the water, ripples spreading out. Everyone was silent for a few seconds. “So that negotiation,” Chen Mo said slowly, “was planned from the beginning. The kidnapper chose me as the negotiator, held Ayu hostage, and made her say the word ‘brother’ in front of me—the only purpose was to make me remember Fog Valley.” “To make you remember, and then collapse,” Lin Jing added. “Because if a person’s memory is forcibly awakened, their judgment will be lost for at least forty-eight hours. During that time, they cannot protect themselves.” “That’s what they wanted,” Chen Mo said. “To break me, and then have me come here—to piece myself back together. Because only after being pieced back together can I open that door.” He looked at the iron key in his hand. It had been waiting here for eighteen years. “It’s decided,” Chen Mo said. “Xu Ziqian and I will go down. Lin Jing, if you insist—you can come down. The rest of you stay here, protect Dr. Shen and each other. No matter what happens, do not leave the hall.” Fang Guodong wanted to say something, but Chen Mo looked at him, his eyes calm, too calm for someone who had just discovered he had forgotten half his life. “Commander Fang,” Chen Mo said, “you are more useful up here than below. You are the only one with tactical training. If anyone comes in from the outside—” Fang Guodong was silent for a few seconds, then nodded. “Two hours. If you two don’t return within two hours (To be continued)

"Mr. Chen Mo: I am one of the hostages held by the criminals you were negotiating with today. You don't know me, but I know you. When we were kids in Fog Valley, we used to play together under the banyan tree. You probably don't remember because they gave you medicine the day they took you away. I want to tell you – you don't need to blame yourself. My dying here today is my own choice. For eighteen years, I've been wondering if we could have all grown up properly if that incident hadn't happened back then. But I can't find the answer. You were the only child among us who was sent away. I'm glad you survived. Please don't come back. Ayue" There was no signature at the end of the letter, but the name "Ayue" seemed deliberately chosen as a childhood nickname. Chen Mo placed the letter in his palm; it was as light as a fallen leaf. His eyes felt hot, but he didn't let tears fall. He took a deep breath, folded the letter, and carefully put it back into the envelope. "...Thank you, Lin Jing," he said, his voice hoarser than he expected. Lin Jing turned her face away, not looking at him. "I just thought you should know." "So," Fang Guodong broke the brief silence, "that 'criminal' wasn't random. He chose Ayue as a hostage deliberately. He knew she was from Fog Valley, and he knew she knew Chen Mo." "Yes," Lin Jing said, "but that criminal is dead, shot by Commander Fang on the spot. We can't question him." "Unless—" Old Zhou suddenly interjected, his voice low. "That 'criminal' wasn't alone. Someone was behind him. Otherwise, how would he have known about Ayue..." (To be continued)

Seong-jin received a package addressed to his own name and address. He opened it to find an old mobile phone. Upon turning it on, the wallpaper displayed a photo of his room, taken from the doorway looking in. He recognized his home's layout, even the pattern on his bedsheets. But in the photo, a person lay on the bed, covered by a blanket, only the back of their head visible. Sensing something was wrong, he opened the photo album. It contained thirty consecutive photos, one taken each day from the same angle. In each photo, the person on the bed was slightly more revealed. In the thirtieth photo, the person's face was fully visible. It was Seong-jin himself, eyes closed, as if asleep. Just as he was about to delete it, the phone suddenly vibrated, and a notification popped up: "Package delivered. Recipient: Seong-jin." He froze. He hadn't sent anything to himself. The next second, he heard the sound of blankets rustling in his room. He slowly turned his head. No one was on the bed. But a corner of the blanket was lifted, and an indentation shaped like a head remained on the pillow, still warm. The phone vibrated again. "Next package, shipping tomorrow. Recipient: Seong-jin. Contents: Seong-jin." He looked down at his phone screen. In the wallpaper photo, the version of himself on the bed had opened its eyes. Smiling at the camera.