Chapter 893: Pink Petal

Hua gently pushed open the classroom's Backdoor.

The math teacher was still drawing diagrams on the blackboard, and chalk dust swirled within the Light Pillar.

She walked back along the aisle to her seat, her knee hitting the bruise left by the desk leg and throbbing faintly.

She sat down, nudged the chair forward, opened the textbook, and picked up a pen.

She still couldn't hold back.

Her right eye shifted slightly to the right by about ten degrees.

On the drawing board in front of Ge Lei Xiu, the swimsuit portrait of classmate Hua had already been finished and was flipped to the back of the board.

Now facing Hua was another brand‑new sheet of paper.

The paper depicted a girl with green hair, a cool‑toned mint green, slightly curled, with fluffy, soft tips.

The girl wore an extremely fabric‑saving dark‑green bikini, the straps tied into a bow behind her neck, the fabric covering her chest roughly matching the same "extremely frugal" design style as the previous sheet.

Below the waist she drew low‑rise swim shorts in the same hue, the hem following the curve of the hips downward, then tapering at the top of the thigh.

Next to the girl she also sketched half of a background: beach, waves, and a few coconut leaves.

In the lower right corner of the paper a line of small pencil script, round and neat, read: "ksm sister".

Hua withdrew her gaze and refocused on the blackboard.

Her lips moved gently, and she muttered three words in a voice only she could hear.

Perspective shift.

Ying's fingers tightened slightly on the Foot-long dagger's hilt, then relaxed.

The train was still moving, the rhythmic clatter of wheels over the rails resonating through the floor with a click‑clack.

Warm yellow light in the carriage steadily illuminated the deep brown cushioned seats and brass‑colored luggage racks, while the leaves of the pothos in the corner swayed gently in the air‑conditioner draft.

Everything was exactly as it had been when Heimu and the others left—quiet, warm, and empty.

The girl stood in the center of the carriage, her gray‑purple eyes scanning the backs of each row of seats and every tightly closed window.

Outside the window was a uniform black, as if someone had dunked the entire train in ink.

She had stared at this darkness for a while, confirming at least three times that it was not a tunnel or nightfall, but a Barrier that completely blocked sight, even for a rigorously trained assassin like her.

Just as she was about to shift her gaze from the window, her peripheral vision caught something.

A petal.

A thin, small pink petal, seemingly floating in midair.

The petal's edge glowed with a faint pink phosphorescence, flickering under the warm yellow light; when it landed on the floor before her it darkened, becoming an ordinary cherry blossom petal, resting quietly on the dark‑gray non‑slip tiles.

Ying lowered her head to look at the petal.

What?

And the scent of a flower.

The fragrance of cherry blossoms.

It was faint, so faint it blended with a distant spring in her Memory, indistinguishable, yet it truly lingered in the air, wafting in thin strands from some direction.

Ying's gray‑purple eyes narrowed slightly.

Then she lifted her head, looking toward the carriage's rear door that led to the next car.

The petal… came from there!

Another petal squeezed out from the door crack, followed by a third, a fourth, as if someone on the other side of the door were shaking an invisible cherry tree.

Moreover, after emerging from the crack, the petals lingered in the air, lazily twirling a few times before drifting slowly to seats, luggage racks, and one landed precisely on Ying's shoulder.

Something's off…

Ying frowned slightly.

Before they boarded, this train was empty, and after Black Curtain Lady and the others entered the Painted World, there could be no one else.

The door led to the next carriage, which Ying had already checked through the glass when they first boarded; it was pitch black, nothing there.

But now petals were drifting out from inside.

Ying turned around and walked to the seat she had just occupied.

The sketchbook still lay quietly on the seat, its cover's Flame illustration shimmering with a faint pencil sheen in the warm light.

She bent down, lifted the sketchbook, opened it to verify; the page Heimu had entered remained blank, yet a faint violet‑black thread of light lingered on the paper, indicating the passage was still active.

Ying closed the sketchbook, slipped it into the storage pouch at her waist, zipped it up, and patted it to ensure it wouldn't fall out.

Then she turned back toward that door, needing to investigate; Ying judged internally and then stepped forward.

The hem of her uniform short skirt swayed lightly with each step, her legs sheathed in ultra‑thin gray sheer stockings glimmering with subtle matte under the warm yellow light, while black lace‑up high‑heeled short leather boots clicked crisply on the floor tiles.

Three steps before the door she halted, because the scene before her sharpened: the petals were drifting out of the crack at a visibly observable rate, one after another, scattering in midair, spiraling upward or descending.

Pink specks of light floated within half a meter in front of her; a few nearly brushed the side of her Foot-long dagger, but before touching metal they were repelled by her surrounding aura, veering off to land on the floor.

The window of the door reflected a thick darkness, revealing nothing, only her own shadow cast onto the glass by the carriage's warm yellow light.

Ying stared at the reflection in the glass, a version unlike any she remembered: pinkish short hair, a pair of elongated pink Fox Ears atop her head, gray‑purple eyes, and an oval face bearing a youthful visage she still wasn't accustomed to.

The reflection in the glass looked back, its expression as calm and restrained as hers, the Fox Ears twitching slightly atop its head.

She hadn't examined her current appearance closely in a long time.

After waking in the corridor, this was how she looked; Heimu said her appearance changed when she underwent Corrosion, and she accepted that explanation.

Yet each time she saw herself, a fleeting sense of unfamiliarity lingered, as if looking at a distant relative sharing her blood but never met.

She raised her hand to touch the tips of her hair by her ears, and the reflection in the glass mirrored the same motion.

The hair felt real, smooth as it brushed her cheek and slid down.

She lowered her hand.

Forget it.

After all, it's Past World Paradise, so whatever form I turn into isn't worth making a big fuss about.

Ying pulls her attention back from the reflection and begins to examine the car door itself carefully.

Petals keep drifting out of the crack in the door, pink and glowing, as if something on the other side of the door is struggling to breathe.

Above the car door is a metal handle, its surface a matte silver, looking just like an ordinary carriage‑connecting door handle.

Ying moves her right hand off the hilt and slowly reaches toward the handle.

When her fingertip is still about two inches from the metal surface—

"Sister! Don't open it!"