Chapter 102

After the projection vanished, the entire British Isles wept with joy—they were saved!

Survivors in underground bunkers also wept, clutching their heads; within less than half a day, they had endured life to death, despair to rebirth, their emotions swinging from one extreme to another, nearly unbearable.

In London, Baker Street, inside an underground bunker over fifty meters deep.

After the altar vanished, those sheltering there received a message from the military: stay calm, wait patiently, the surface is filled with radiation; do not venture out to avoid infection, rescue teams are en route.

Amidst cries of relief and weeping, someone angrily shouted: “Now you remember to rescue us? You could’ve avoided launching nuclear bombs altogether!”

“Yes! That superhuman had already entered the other world and destroyed the altar—if we hadn’t launched nukes, far fewer people in the capital would’ve died!”

“The Wembley Giant Hole has been obliterated by nuclear bombs—how will that Ms. Yang return?” someone asked.

Silence filled the bunker.

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People captured the final two frames before the projection vanished; after urgent analysis, they saw this:

Amidst a desolate expanse of yellow sand, that slender figure—so frail it seemed a breeze could sweep her away—collapsed helplessly, using up every last ounce of strength, her black hair spreading over her face, hiding her expression; no one knew what she was thinking then.

In the final frame, the projection was extremely unstable, the image twisted and shattered; after analysis and reconstruction by scientific instruments, only a pile of rubble remained, with a corner of a white shirt visible through the cracks.

The rubble piled up like a grave mound.

Was she dead?

Countless people thought so—that young girl, barely out of her teens, just rated S-class, who had resolved three S-class threats and nearly ten A-class disasters in barely over a month—was she really dying alone in another world?

In China, Sichuan Province, Wucheng.

Countless people spontaneously took to the streets, heading toward a central square where a newly erected sculpture stood, built to commemorate Wucheng’s survival of the terrifying A-class disaster.

The sculpture, made of stone and rebar, stood in the center of a fountain; twisted rebar formed the shape of a monster, while white marble carved the figure of a young woman. The stone statue was suspended midair by steel pipes beneath the water, as if flying, her hands pressing down as the monster struggled beneath them.

Fountain spray splashed, crystal-clear droplets falling upon the stone statue; when wet, the white marble became as smooth and luminous as jade.

A large crowd surrounded the fountain; countless people held lit white candles, standing silently, praying.

Others placed flowers on stone pedestals beside the fountain; soon, the pedestals were piled high with colorful blooms.

Silence, sorrow, grief, and a heavy, quiet hope—though the crowd was vast, not a single voice broke the stillness.

Suddenly, a girl with glasses leapt onto the fountain’s stone pedestal and shouted to the crowd: “What are you doing? Why bring white candles? Those are for mourning the dead! Yang Yi isn’t dead! No one can prove she’s dead! She… she’ll come back!”

“That’s right! Official news never said she… passed away. She’s still alive—maybe she’s even thriving right now on that desert planet, figuring out how to return!” a young man in casual clothes echoed.

Someone murmured softly: “But how can she return? The Wembley Giant Hole’s been nuked into nothing…”

“And the footage showed her buried under rubble—how could someone with her abilities be trapped by stones? It must be…”

“She’s just unconscious!” someone shouted in rebuttal.

People argued, debated, but more remained silent; gradually, sorrow spread across the entire square.

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Ark Country, Luocheng.

Chris was rushing urgently toward a private airstrip.

All flights bound for Britain had been grounded; private aircraft were banned from flying. He paid an enormous sum to bribe officials, planning to first fly to Dublin, the capital of Ireland near Britain, then proceed to London.

He no longer cared about the risks; his anxiety crushed his breath—so long as he could learn her fate, even radiation poisoning was worth it.

His assistant John desperately tried to stop him: “London is now a wasteland, filled with radiation—what are you going there for? You could die!”

“Leave me alone!” Chris, his baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, shoved John aside and strode forward. “Get out of my way—if you try to stop me, I’ll punch you!”

“Why? Why? What’s there worth dying for?” John was nearly frantic. Chris was always rational, rarely acted without a plan—he’d never seen him so irrational.

John snatched his phone, raised his right hand as if to smash it: “Give me a reasonable reason! Otherwise, I won’t give you back your phone—you can’t do anything without it! And I’ll call your mother and tell her her son is heading to the nuclear blast zone to die!”

“Give it back!” Chris, enraged, punched him hard.

John wiped blood from his lip but clung to the phone tightly: “Chris, you’re my friend—I can’t watch you walk to senseless death!”

Chris’s raised fist trembled, then lowered. He finally looked up at John—only then did John notice his eyes beneath the cap were wet.

“She’s there! Because she’s there!”

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A supersonic aircraft headed toward China had not yet landed when it turned around and flew back toward Britain.

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In the past, whenever faced with pain, Yang Yi would think of death—death could solve all suffering, and she found comfort in it. Death was no longer a last resort; it became a painkiller.

Knowing that if she could no longer endure, a foolproof escape awaited her, her heart grew lighter.

Humans fear most helplessness, being cornered—yet if a safety net always waited, no matter how failed or helpless one felt, the soul would find peace.

Even if that net was death.

Thinking of this, even as the altar’s rubble crushed her—her spine, lower back, legs, arms, head, organs—all threatening to burst—she still managed to smile.

A free, unburdened laugh.

“Fucking world, finally gonna die…” she screamed with all her strength, believing she’d finally vented her rage at living—only to realize it was a whisper, faint as a mosquito’s buzz.

Her vision darkened, her mind grew foggy; between the piled rubble, she vaguely saw endless, desolate desert.

This is fine, she drifted off, thinking—only I remain on this entire planet, with the whole world as my grave—how luxurious… perfect—no one will ever disturb me again…

She finally attained the solitude and peace she had longed for—eternal solitude and peace.

In fading consciousness, she seemed to see Chris walking toward her; he knelt beside her, gazing at her with concern, his blue eyes so beautiful—once she’d thought them like the ocean, now she thought the ocean resembled his eyes—how fortunate the sea was…

She swam into his gaze, into the sea—cool, gentle water, sweet, tasting of oranges—of course, I always knew the sea tasted sweet and orange, she realized she had become a small fish, a black, ordinary fish, and she rejoiced, spinning in place, ecstatic, swimming deeper into the ocean.

From afar, a woman in black robe and black hair approached; her hair reached her ankles, her robe billowing, both drifting in the water; her face bore a gentle, maternal smile.

Mother—she nearly cried out.

Suddenly, she remembered she had no mother—and dimly understood who this woman was—Death, the mother she had always longed for, come to take her.

So she leapt joyfully, swimming happily toward her…