Chapter 255: Extra Problems for Night Self-Study

Someone once said that night is the time for reflection and solitude, and Yin Feng strongly agreed with this view.

Nightfall naturally shields external disturbances, stripping away chaotic thoughts and allowing the mind to approach a clean, primal state, conducive to focused attention on the present.

Though it sounds strange, temporarily leaving Kraft's side felt good—not because he had any fault, but because he had consistently shown concern, even accommodation.

As a doctor, a professor, and a participant in certain undisclosed affairs, requiring simultaneous presence in three or more locations while juggling multiple identities and corresponding responsibilities, it's hard to imagine anyone maintaining genuine concern for others' thoughts or empathetic perspective-taking.

This was undoubtedly good, very good, yet also heavy. Depending on one's perspective and sensitivity, it could be interpreted as closeness, distance, respect, expectation, or pressure.

But this didn't seem purely psychological—Yin Feng genuinely felt pressure, especially pronounced when Kraft was in a state of focus, like stepping into an irregular pool centered on him, where something thicker than wind exerted uniform pressure without touching the skin.

From others' reactions, this sensation appeared to be an anomaly, not entirely real, akin to viewing an extremely realistic painting or reading a passage of exquisitely precise description, receiving a highly authentic secondhand impression.

Accompanying it was a murmuring, low voice, repeating near the ear fragments that might carry meaning.

Sometimes she thought she understood something, but when she tried to focus, it vanished like morning dreams evaporated by sunlight.

On this relatively quiet night, the voices behind her ears also wisely fell silent for a while, allowing her to calmly open her book and study at her own pace.

It would've been better if she weren't so sleepy.

Quiet doesn't always bring efficiency—it can also bring fatigue.

Indeed, this trend was undeniable: Yin Feng began feeling easily exhausted, slipping involuntarily into drowsiness, widening the gap between herself and Kuop, and the gap bred more anxiety and pressure.

Self-doubt took root and grew in this fertile soil; bodily changes had yet to open a breakthrough, while suspicious side effects had already begun to surface.

Being excluded once again accelerated the growth of negative perceptions, even though she knew this gentle discouragement was meant kindly.

The wax oil, like hope from a month ago, had melted and deformed into a limp heap. When the last inch of the wick began to carbonize, Yin Feng suddenly realized she'd read less than half her usual progress for the night; the drunkard across the tavern was already humming a bubbly tune, preparing to leave.

【I don't understand】

She carried the bronze candlestick to the bedside, blew out the last flicker of light, and felt sorry for the candle that had burned its life away in vain.

Weary and empty-handed, she crawled under the covers, ready to welcome tomorrow.

Yet her consciousness had no intention of resting fully; part of her remained active, twitching like a cramped muscle, as if not entirely belonging to this body.

But it was still part of the whole, inescapable and ceaseless. Perhaps the fatigue came from this endless internal drain.

Her mind was exhausted, but sleep was still far off.

The low, fragmented murmurs returned to her earlobes, sprouting short legs like insects in a straw mattress, crawling with an itchy motion.

Short, unfamiliar syllables tapped against her ear canal and throat, narrating dark, cold, bizarre content; her consciousness, barefoot, walked on the colorless surface of a dream, peering through glass at a memory with no blind spots.

She ran along paths and trails woven from fine threads and dust, the roads stretching and braiding, extending toward the distance at her will.

Like swimming through water—no, freer than that: freed from rigid constraints, wandering in some essential form, able to merge into and become any shape through omnipresent mediums.

It was the most free consciousness in her kingdom; even if some forms entered her kingdom, it didn't matter—they quickly became part of it.

Unsurprisingly, no consciousness would be dissatisfied with such a life.

Until the kingdom cracked open a fissure, revealing something unseen, and thus unimaginable—a vividly colorful, bountiful world.

So when the fissure issued its invitation, she accepted without hesitation.

Leaping into it, she felt solid form—heavy, concrete—her vision plunged into darkness, limbs wrapped in bedding, everything unchanged from before sleep, yet everything subtly altered.

But the clear-eyed exhaustion remained unchanged.

Yin Feng woke up drowsily; the low whispers beside her ear had vanished, replaced by strange sounds from outside.

It sounded like someone returning home late, but without dragging footsteps or the subsequent sounds of washing or settling in.

A low whistle leaked through the unsealed window crack, piercing the night, conveying meaning unknown to outsiders.

Rapid footsteps climbing the stairs and shouts sent events spiraling beyond control—sounds she'd never heard in the clinic. Yin Feng lit a single candle on the stand, cupped the light with her hand, and waited.

She was still in chaos; fragmented dream remnants and fatigue alternately battered the last bastions of her awareness.

Soon, the noises grew louder: the screeching of ancient door hinges, running and collisions. When a heavy object crashed down, shattering wood, she could no longer endure it.

Moving like a puppet on strings, Yin Feng slipped on her boots, rose from bed, and picked up the candlestick to open the door.

In the corridor, two indistinct figures were fighting. Perhaps "fighting" wasn't the right word—one side held absolute dominance.

The sudden light briefly froze their movements; the tall, slender silhouette twisted halfway around, its neck and body unnaturally supple, allowing the covering to fall away and expose its face to the glow.

Compared to the person on the ground clutching the intruder's leg and shouting, Yin Feng's angle gave her a clearer view of that face.

Pale, slick skin stretched over asymmetrical, deformed bones, contorting into a cruel, satisfied expression—perhaps an approximation of a smile—waiting for the observer's collapse, drawing from it something a twisted soul delighted in witnessing.

He received no expected reaction—only a pair of weary, indifferent eyes, and an incomprehensible motion.

Perhaps out of reflex, the girl hurled the light source at him.

The flame had already been extinguished before it left her hand; the dark bronze metal flashed for less than a blink, revealing the object's identity.

A heavy, expensive, solid-copper, multi-branch candlestick, typically used as a fixed decorative piece.

It vanished into the returning darkness, lost from sight; the howling wind signaled something approaching at speed, while thought and motion remained stuck at the stage of "could casually swat it away."

A moment stretched infinitely in her consciousness. First, her outstretched hand touched something—but grasped nothing; it passed through her fingers as if no object were there.

Her ribcage softened like a flail; her breath was forcibly halted and could not restart.

The body part blocking the path lost all sensory feedback—its function and sense of existence vanished; intense pain immediately filled the void, an irresistible force briefly lifted her feet from the ground and slammed them back down.