Chapter 242: The Night Before the Collapse

Britain, Timms Village.

In Thomas’s two-story house, the fireplace crackled.

On the television screen, the live broadcast of the United Nations Interstellar Base Planning Meeting was abruptly interrupted by a seven-second video.

When Yang Yi’s pained yet enraptured face appeared on the screen, Thomas’s paintbrush dropped with a soft *plop*, splashing a small patch of dark red pigment across the aged floor.

The screen dissolved into static snow.

He stared blankly at the static, as if he could pierce through the screen and see the figure being flayed by millions of eyes.

Outside the window, beneath a leaden sky, a crow suddenly shot down from a bare branch and slammed without warning into the thick glass window.

*Thud—* A muffled crash; feathers flew, dark blood bloomed across the glass like a grotesque flower, and the crow’s corpse slid down the windowsill.

Thomas clutched his chest sharply, a piercing pain surging through him, as if something vital had snapped all at once.

##

In the first moments after the seven-second video appeared, top global image authentication labs, military intelligence agencies, underground hacker collectives, and tech geniuses all launched frame-by-frame analyses simultaneously.

Supercomputers’ cooling fans emitted high-pitched whines; analysts’ eyes were bloodshot.

“Light source angle and extraterrestrial environmental physical parameters match at 99.8%…”

The life-source dispersion trajectory matches that of the British 'Sky Altar' incident…

“Facial micro-expressions and muscle movements show no logical discontinuities; physiological signals have a 95% authenticity rate…”

“No digital synthesis, substitution, or rendering traces detected…”

Reports from disparate institutions all reached identical conclusions.

Like cold verdicts, these reports were quietly delivered to the desks of world leaders or tremulously posted by tech enthusiasts on anonymous forums.

“After independent cross-verification by multiple agencies… the video content… has not been synthesized.”

This brief, objective technical conclusion was the final straw that crushed all those defending Yang Yi.

Fear, once an emotional outburst, became a fact stamped and certified by science.

The last vestige of hope was drained away, leaving only ironclad “truth” and the silence that followed.

##

Berlin, Xincheng, Tokyo, Mengmai…

At dusk, giant screens on city landmarks, public displays on street corners, even the side panels of buses passing through squares, replayed the seven seconds over and over.

The dark red alien sky, twisted extraterrestrial creatures, Yang Yi suspended in midair, her face twisted with pain and ecstasy, and the myriad threads of life-source mist flowing backward into her.

Everyone, as if gripped by an invisible hand around the neck, tilted their heads upward—initial shock giving way to a more primal emotion: the fear of the predator.

Posters and slogans once reading “Savior” and “God of Mankind” were brutally trampled underfoot.

Countless twisted graffiti sprayed across walls: “IMPOSTER!”

“DEMON!”

“DEITY OF EVIL! GET OUT OF EARTH!”

Whispered murmurs coalesced into an uneasy roar.

##

Global social media trending lists were wiped clean: the top ten were dominated by #SheIsTheDemonGod#, #VideoNotSynthesized#, #YangYiVideoTruth#, #StopCivilizationSurvivalPlan#, #GlobalEmergencyState#…

Clicking into one topic revealed AI-generated images: Yang Yi’s face fused with twisted demon totems from ancient texts; behind her burned cities and weeping humans; some even “reconstructed” synthetic footage of her “absorbing” ordinary people.

These images spread, replicated, and mutated at viral speed, flooding the entire internet.

Rational analysis posts vanished like snowflakes thrown into boiling water.

Some cried in despair: “The end has come!” “We’re all her sheep!”

Others demanded immediate “execution” or “exile!”

Waves of pessimism, rage, and fear surged from the internet, gradually seeping into the real world.

##

Akar’s capital, Lenton, Barli, Sko…

In technologically shielded rooms, each nation’s highest decision-makers held emergency meetings.

Presidents sat in silence, pressing their foreheads; generals argued fiercely, pointing at the screen’s blood-red text “SHE IS THE DEMON”; intelligence chiefs presented classified reports on Yang Yi’s anomalous power growth.

Smoke curled, coffee cooled; under the cold glow of screens, every face bore heavy exhaustion and deep-seated dread.

##

In a luxury apartment, a study.

Ackerman Tang, head of network security, had just secured the network for the United Nations’ Seventh Interstellar Base Planning Meeting.

His face was gaunt; he stared intently at a newly popped message on his encrypted phone.

An anonymous account had again transferred five million euros into his secret account. The memo field was blank—but he knew who it was from.

His finger hovered above the “Confirm Receipt” button, trembling violently.

He opened his phone’s surveillance feed: his daughter, weak from chemotherapy, lay asleep on her hospital bed.

This money could buy the best targeted drugs on Earth. And the sender had promised him a “ticket” away from the chaos.

On his computer screen, the news feed was paused—Yang Yi’s face on the hearing podium looked lonely and distant.

“...I’m not wrong... she was always...” He closed his eyes and let his finger drop.

A faint electronic beep echoed in the silence like thunder.

##

Late night. United Nations Headquarters.

At the Anli Society’s emergency press briefing, the spokesperson faced a sea of microphones and read out a cold statement: “...In light of the serious allegations and crisis of confidence surrounding Yang Yi, the Director-General of the Civilization Survival Plan, and to safeguard humanity’s collective interests and procedural justice, the Anli Society has passed Resolution 1475 by overwhelming majority: effective immediately, all projects, resource allocations, and international cooperation under the Civilization Survival Plan are indefinitely suspended until all doubts are thoroughly clarified.”

The Civilization Survival Plan was officially frozen.

##

In an unknown dimensional rift, within a spatial fold of Earth.

Wei De sat before a desk seemingly woven from shadows, dozens of holographic screens of varying sizes floating before him, broadcasting real-time reactions from Earth: street-level terror, internet frenzy, secret-room calculations, UN resolutions, personal betrayals…

On the screens, Yang Yi sat on the main stage, her expression a forced calm. His fingertip brushed lightly across her face.

Where his finger passed, data streams rippled like water.

On Wei De’s face, there was no triumph of conspiracy—only deep pity. Beneath that pity lay an uncontrollable obsession with the impending completion of his masterpiece.

“Look,” he whispered to himself, his voice echoing in the emptiness, unheard yet as if spoken to the whole world, “this is ‘civilization’… such an exquisite, fragile vessel of glass. Apply a little pressure, scratch a single crack—and it begins to shatter from within, emitting such… beautiful lamentations.”

His gaze pierced through the screens, as if seeing the solitary figure at the center of the hall being pushed by human hands toward the cliff’s edge.

“And you, my dear experiment, my great master…” His pitying smile deepened, his eyes alight with fervent anticipation, “you are about to shed the final, ill-fitting cocoon called ‘humanity.’ Let us see what glorious thing emerges.”

He raised his hand and tapped an invisible key in the air, like striking the final note.

“The overture ends.”

He declared:

“The finale begins.”