Chapter 694: Is Anyone There?

She slowly turned her head and glanced at Feng Jin.

The pink‑haired girl remained seated, arms crossed, her cyan eyes still bearing that calm yet curious expression.

She sat upright, her white tights‑clad calves together, the tips of her black loafers lightly tapping the floor.

Heimu's gaze subconsciously swept over a certain spot.

Then the name of that entry automatically popped into his mind.

Huh?

Wrong.

Wrong, wrong!

She snapped her gaze back, inhaled deeply, raised her right hand, and jabbed the entry forcefully with her index finger.

A delete‑confirmation popup appeared, and she clicked OK outright.

The entry flashed briefly and vanished from the panel.

Feng Jin blinked; her expression showed no obvious change, and her cyan pupils still calmly reflected Heimu's silhouette.

Heimu looked at the panel again, and a line of notice appeared on the refreshed status bar: Abnormal entry cleared.

Affected individuals will need some time to restore normal Cognition on their own.

Estimated recovery time—undetermined.

Undetermined.

In other words, until recovery, Feng Jin will continue to remain in that philosophical Socrates‑possessed state.

Heimu placed one hand on his forehead.

His finger pressed at his brow, the cold‑white fingertip exerting a slight pressure, as if trying to push something out of his mind.

Gray‑white hair fell down, covering half his face and obscuring the expression that was hard to put into words.

She had come this time to get to know Feng Jin; on their first meeting, she intended to make a good impression.

But pleasure had already opened a branch in the other's mind.

Feng Jin was completely oblivious to all of this.

A few seconds later, she suddenly spoke again, and the topic veered even further, turning to discuss life.

"—Does love necessarily involve the body?"

Her tone was as soft as silk brushing a petal, and her lips curved into a faint arc as she said, "If bodily participation is a necessary condition for love, then can a person who has lost specific bodily perception still possess complete love? If love's essence is the soul's pull, then what role does the body play—bridge or obstacle?"

Heimu lowered his hand from his forehead, looking at the earnest pink‑haired girl before him with a expression that said he could no longer count how many times today he'd been shocked.

Then he raised his right hand, palm outward, and tried to keep his tone as steady as possible.

"Listen to me."

Feng Jin stopped.

"You're not normal. You need time to rest now."

As Heimu spoke, his violet‑black eyes stared directly into the cyan pupils, leaving no room for negotiation in his tone, "I need to find someone else now. Rest properly."

He said that, turned, and left.

Boots crunched on Baishizi Road, and her gray‑white long hair swayed gently behind her.

Her pace was nearly twice as fast as usual.

Feng Jin blinked, neither getting up to chase nor saying anything.

She simply sat on the bench, watching the dark‑dressed figure walk farther along Baishizi Road until it vanished behind Laurel Grove.

Tiny specks of sunlight flickered in her cyan pupils, and her lashes trembled slightly.

Then she lowered her head, her drooping eyelids covering half of those clear eyes.

She looked at her own clothing.

"The protruding corner."

That soft voice rose gently, its tone still steady, yet it seemed to carry an extra layer—something akin to a deeper insight.

Her fingertip slid along the edge, "Compatibility isn't because they are inherently of each other, but because, at the right distance, they choose corresponding directions."

She paused for half a second.

"Related to human desire."

The garden fell quiet again.

A gray‑blue bird fluttered its wings and rose from the lilac‑hued shrubbery; it tilted its head, glanced at the person on the bench, chirped once, then flew away.

Pink twin‑tails hung on both sides of the white collar.

Feng Jin released her finger from that protruding spot, folding it back over her knees; the emotion in her cyan eyes was largely hidden by her lowered lashes, leaving only a faint, perhaps unnoticed, curve at the corner of her mouth.

Perspective shift.

Qingque crouched at the hallway corner, back pressed against the wall base, peeking just a little head out from the edge.

A teal eye cautiously glanced toward the far end of the hallway—nothing there.

She waited another two seconds, confirming that the ghostly long‑necked spider‑leg buds that had chased her through the streets had indeed fled, then retracted her head, exhaled deeply, and slid from crouching to a seated position against the wall.

Those creatures did run, but what on earth was this place?

Qingque scratched the back of her head, gray‑white hair slipping through her fingers.

Searching for information in a dream is indeed like a bald person feeling for hair—grasping at nothing.

She doesn't even know which map she's on now; the streets full of Mutant and the dark‑red sky all look like a nightmare.

But just sitting there isn't a solution.

Let's take it one step at a time.

At least she can be sure of one thing: her body is strong now.

I just ran on the street for so long, climbing walls, leaping off buildings, using pedestrians' heads as stepping stones, without even catching my breath.

Qingque patted her skirt and stood up, stepping carefully, her boots making a faint sound on the hallway floor.

It was dim around, most of the ceiling light strips were out, only a few still sputtering, emitting a squeaking electric hum; the light flickered, casting the glass doors of the offices on both sides of the corridor into an intermittent glow.

The outside sky seeped in through the window at the end of the corridor; the clouds above still pressed down on the moon, shedding a purplish red halo that draped the entire hallway in a somber filter.

She took two steps forward, then suddenly heard a sound coming from ahead.

Qingque's whole body instantly pressed against the wall base, her jade‑green eyes bulging, her heart leapt half a beat upward.

No way, there's more here?

She held her breath, her ears straining to catch the sound; it wasn't footsteps, nor the Happiness howl squeezed from those monsters' throats.

It was a human voice, thin and intermittent, as if shouting for help.

Qingque hesitated for a moment.

From the voice it sounded like a little girl.

Even though this is a dream, encountering a trapped little girl in it can't be ignored.

She softened her steps, followed the voice, and finally stopped before a door.

The nameplate above the door was half‑tilted, its writing unreadable.

The sound came from inside that door, thin and weak, tinged with sobbing, unmistakably a little girl's voice.

Qingque raised her hand and gently knocked twice on the door.

"Is anyone there?"

The voice inside paused, then responded, "Someone, I'm injured, help!"

Qingque's finger lingered on the doorknob for a moment.

It should be fine, the voice really was that of a little girl.