Chapter 894: Not an Illusion!

The sound erupted from a spot just behind her, crisp and urgent, the natural, soft sweetness characteristic of a girl.

Ying's fingers froze midair the moment she heard the sound.

In her usually calm, indifferent gray‑purple eyes, a rare, momentary surge of intense turbulence rose.

That voice… she recognized!

She had heard that voice repeatedly in countless nightmares and sleepless nights, so familiar that even if the world collapsed she could still pull it out of the noise heap.

Ling!

Her sister!

But!

Ling couldn't possibly be here!

The thought crushed the emotional ripple from that instant in just a fraction of a second.

Ying's body reacted faster than her mind; her right hand withdrew from the door handle at a blur, while her left hand already gripped the hilt of the Foot-long dagger at her waist, her thumb prying open the sheath's Lock, and the blade let out a clear, ringing metallic note as it was drawn.

The movement was clean and swift, her right foot the axis, her left foot tracing a half‑circle on the tiled floor, her skirt fluttering; the Foot-long dagger, propelled by the turn, rose diagonally, its tip carving a cold silver arc in the air, pointing straight toward the source of the sound.

And then… she halted abruptly.

The dagger's tip hovered in midair, about a hand's breadth from the opponent's throat.

But Ying neither thrust forward nor retracted the blade.

She simply held the thrusting pose, her gray‑purple eyes slightly widened.

The space before her was empty.

But the carriage was no longer the one she had been in.

The darkness outside the window had vanished completely, replaced by bright daylight; the sky was pale blue, vast white clouds drifted slowly past the window, sunlight slanted in through the glass, casting warm golden squares on the floor tiles.

The view outside rushed backward, showing distant mountains, nearby utility poles, and occasional flashes of rooftops.

It was a train running normally on an intercity line she didn't recognize.

And the carriage was no longer empty.

A few passengers were scattered across the seats, some looking out the window, some nodding off, and a middle‑aged man flipping through a newspaper.

They looked completely ordinary, like any passerby you might meet on any train.

The usual subway carriage sounds flooded her ears: newspaper pages turning, a phone playing a short video, and a gentle female voice on the train announcement announcing the next station.

Ying's pupils constricted sharply.

Her blade was still raised.

The reddish‑black blade hung in midair, a pink petal split in two clinging to the edge, slowly sliding down the blade.

But against the backdrop of ordinary passengers, the dagger's presence was as jarring as someone brandishing a torch in a library.

She swiftly sheathed the blade.

Pressing and rotating her wrist, the blade slid along the side of her forearm into her torso, tip down, minimizing visual aggression.

Then she quickly swept the surrounding passengers with her peripheral vision.

No one looked at her.

As if the earlier draw had never happened.

Ying's Fox Ears stood stiff, trembling slightly.

Although her outward demeanor remained the composed, restrained coolness, the tips of her ears had reddened a bit, caught between the embarrassment of drawing a blade in public and the bewilderment of this surreal scene, her expression‑management system was operating at maximum load.

Ying inhaled deeply, then turned her head to look at the carriage door behind her.

The window glass was no longer black.

Through the clean glass, Ying saw directly into the interior of another carriage.

The same warm yellow lighting, deep brown cushioned seats.

That carriage also held a few passengers, fewer than here, scattered; some napped against the window, others stared at their phones.

In the middle of the carriage, on the row of double seats by the left window, sat two people.

Two girls.

The one by the window had thick, cherry‑pink ultra‑long straight hair, smoothly falling to her waist, the strands shimmering with a soft, warm rose hue in the sunlight.

Her clear teal eyes held a faint gentle smile, the corners of her mouth curved lightly, her demeanor calm and serene.

She wore a loose, light‑beige knitted cardigan over a white crew‑neck lining; the soft knit rose and fell gently with her breathing, outlining a smooth, balanced upper body.

From hairstyle to attire she exuded a clean, gentle homely vibe.

And the one sitting beside her made Ying's breath catch.

The other was a girl who looked about middle‑school age, slender and delicate, her skin the sort of naturally almost‑transparent pallor.

She had short, light cherry‑pink hair just to her jaw, interspersed with fine reddish highlights, looking like a sprinkle of strawberry sugar in the sun.

Her clear light‑blue round eyes sparkled with a hint of innate innocence, now curved into two crescents, probably laughing at something.

She wore a loose, milk‑white hooded sweatshirt, sleeves long enough to cover her wrists, exposing only half her fingertips.

Her lower half was a dark‑gray pleated mini‑skirt printed with a few light‑pink kitten‑paw marks, white over‑knee socks with lace trim at the cuff.

Ying recognized them.

Of course she could.

The older girl's appearance was exactly the same as the one in her memory.

No, no, that one isn't her!

That one isn't her!

Because she was standing right here, holding the blade.

The woman smiling gently in the carriage was someone else!

But the other party had her face.

And the one sitting beside her was Ling!

The girl was talking to the older sister beside her, her mouth opening and closing quickly, her brows and eyes full of lively spirit; when she got excited she reached out to tug the sister's sleeve and shook it.

The sister's body tilted slightly from the shaking.

Ying stood dazed at the car door, watching the scene through the glass.

Her right fingertips still clutched the hilt, but the grip had loosened by more than half.

In her gray‑purple pupils reflected the two figures in the bright carriage compartment; the younger sister looked at the older sister's hair whorl, reached out to play with the sister's pink long hair, giggled and said something, the sister lifted her head, gave the younger sister a helpless glance, and her lips moved as if saying "stop it."

This reality made Ying's back of the head go numb.

It's not a hallucination!

Every detail of that girl was so clear it made one's hair stand on end.

Ying clenched her hand.

Through the half‑finger glove, her nail dug into the flesh of her palm, and the slight sting forced her to pull her thoughts back.

Stay calm!