Chapter 114: The Earth Is a Dining Table

In her dream, she was far bolder than in reality—she dropped the hose, flung herself into Chris’s arms, wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled his tall frame down, and kissed his forehead, his blue eyes, then his sensual lips.

“I know, Chris. But I can’t come to see you.”

“Darling, your heart is colder than ice, harder than steel,” he said, looking down at her, his deep eyes shadowed beneath high cheekbones. “If you’d only lower your gaze, you’d see it’s not just them who need saving—it’s me too. Share a little of that compassion you feel for everyone… with me.”

Yang Yi felt overwhelming guilt—he always stirred her emotions. Every time she saw him, her heart raced uncontrollably; her eyes couldn’t tear away from his face. Every second she looked away felt like a loss, a sin she had committed.

He had once been her most beautiful, most longed-for dream…

Yang Yi’s heart tightened, and she was about to speak when Chris transformed into a black serpent lunging at her—his eyes blazing red, his triangular head revealing its venomous malice, his body covered in swirling patterns that made her dizzy.

Yang Yi twisted away from the attack, only to find she too had become a serpent’s head. They shared one body—a familiar two-headed snake.

The blooming garden turned into a swampy forest shrouded in eternal darkness; eerie rustling sounds echoed through the black woods, as if unseen spirits watched from the shadows.

“What are you staring at?” Little Yang Yi shouted angrily. “It’s about to swallow us whole, you idiot! Can’t you think of a way out?!”

Only then did Yang Yi realize that in just a few days, its serpent head had grown much larger than before.

She was the soul of this body, yet her own serpent head protruded from beside its massive neck like a parasite—as if the demon fragment were the true master, and she the intruder.

“Fool! If you hadn’t insisted on being heroic last time, we wouldn’t be in this mess!” Little Yang Yi raged. “Look at what your false kindness has brought us! We’ll be swallowed! We’ll die!”

The triangular head looked down at her, its blood-red eyes cold, bloodthirsty, contemptuous—like a worm unworthy of notice.

It opened its fanged maw and bit off a chunk of flesh from Yang Yi, swallowing it slowly, deliberately.

She was growing weaker.

When Yang Yi first drew life essence, the demon fragment had shared it—because it was the true owner of the life essence. Yang Yi only gained access because she had been partially fused with it, borrowing its light.

When the large head fully swallowed the small one, she would be completely fused with the demon fragment, losing herself.

At that moment, Yang Yi would cease to exist—only a new demon, wearing her body, would remain.

This time, Little Yang Yi didn’t scold her—she stated the consequence plainly: “At least because of your false kindness, Yang Yi, think of a way! If we die, it will wear our body and do worse things than I ever could—it will make all humans its food!”

“The true demon hasn’t awakened yet. The arrival of dark matter is merely the demon’s followers carving out territory for their master—humanity still has a sliver of hope.”

“But this demon fragment has developed self-awareness. It refuses to be reclaimed. To achieve its goal, after consuming us, it will immediately amplify its power, draining all intelligent life on Earth—then abandon this barren planet to seek its next meal…”

Yang Yi jolted awake.

The bedside lamp glowed, casting a pale white light on the white sheets. The British night air was chilly; she hadn’t pulled the blanket over herself before sleep, and goosebumps rose across her skin.

Night blanketed the countryside cottage, as if a vast crisis loomed over the entire Earth.

If… if such a day ever came, the people in this cottage would become mere energy—like a matchstick, burning out and drifting away, weightless.

People in countless houses, people like Thomas and Miranda, would all become matchsticks, fuel for the fire.

The entire Earth would become a banquet table, laden with delicacies, waiting for one gluttonous diner to feast and depart—without leaving even a scrap behind.

Yang Yi’s body turned icy, numb. She had just woken from the dream; her mind still lingered in the blurred space between reality and the black forest, half-convinced it was all an illusion, that Little Yang Yi’s prophecy was merely a phantom dream—not truth.

But she snapped back to clarity. Barefoot, she leapt from the bed. The book *Western Art History* slipped from her grip and hit the floor with a loud *thump*, echoing through the silent night like an earthquake.

Yang Yi didn’t notice. She paced frantically around the bedroom, her heart pounding like a mad drummer slamming a giant drum; her hands trembled uncontrollably, like a Parkinson’s patient’s. Her body alternated between freezing cold and searing heat—now plunged into an ice pit, now thrown into a fire.

The lamp lit only a small patch of space. She paced back and forth at the edge of light and shadow, her steps frantic, half-convinced she wasn’t in reality at all—but trapped in a long, unending dream—one that had begun at birth and never ended.

Why? Why? Why? Why—me?…

Countless “whys” swirled, circled, danced in her mind—she couldn’t think.

Why me?

Why must I bear this?

Yes, it was merely an accident—a vanishingly rare coincidence.

Like a lottery ticket, the demon fragment had randomly descended upon Earth, randomly chosen her at birth, randomly developed self-awareness—and now, these countless coincidences had forged an unstoppable flood, dragging her, her life, and the entire Earth toward an unknown destination…

What do I do? How can I possibly do anything?

How do I defeat it? How do I stop it?

Her thoughts fluttered like leaves in a typhoon, wild and untouchable.

She wanted to ask for advice, but realized she couldn’t turn to anyone. Even if she told the truth, who would believe her? Even if someone believed her, who could truly help?

Hadn’t she used her position in the Jueguan Bureau to run tests? Hadn’t all those scientific instruments detected anything?

If she sought a psychologist’s help, they’d only think she was insane—diagnosing her with schizophrenia, claiming she’d split off not just an “it,” but also a “He.”

No one could help her.

Only herself. Always only herself.

Yang Yi stopped moving. She felt suffocating—like the air around her had vanished. She was a fish thrown onto land, gasping, yet growing more and more choked. The spacious room shrank, the walls pressing in on her…

In that moment, she understood: in this lonely universe, a person would forever face everything alone.