Chapter 126: Language Camouflage: Shanghai Accent Protocol

Zhao Jianguo's hand was still on the door handle, his fingertips tingling. The church lights came back on, the pallid glow striking the hovering metal disc, the blue light pulsing bright and dim like breathing. He quickly pulled Chen Jianguo half a step to his side‑rear, back against the wall, his eye flicking to the Terminal screen—battery 17%, signal strength full, and a line of text popped up in the center: "Advanced language module detected, can be unlocked. Activate?"

"Yes," he whispered to himself.

A buzzing surged in his mind, as if someone had poured a jar of old Shanghai speech into his ear. Every accent, speech rate, and lexical habit flooded in, from the rough slang of Huangpu River dock workers to the pretentious diction of Bund foreign‑trade clerks, even the elongated "Nong hao ya~" of 1930s film stars, all crystal clear.

He had no time to process when the Chief Engineer stepped forward, circuit patterns flowing steadily across his face, his gaze cold as iron tongs in an ice cellar.

"You cannot escape the historical correction protocol," the voice was flat, without a ripple.

Chen Jianguo was panting heavily, his shoulders jerking, a taste of blood in his mouth: "Don't… don't provoke him, he's waiting for us to make a mistake."

Zhao Jianguo gave no answer; instead he stepped a small half‑step forward, changed his tone, and said slowly, "Mr. Lin, in 1953 you said you'd take me to see the Bund lantern festival, yet that day you burned three files in the factory."

The moment the words left his mouth, even he was startled— the voice didn't sound learned, but like the old‑fashioned Shanghai dialect of someone raised in a lane, called "Xiao Cila" by the neighbor's old lady, soft and sticky with a hint of sting, instantly believable.

The Chief Engineer's steps truly halted.

Those pure white eyes blinked, as if the signal lagged. He stared at Zhao Jianguo, his voice dropping a few tones: "What did you say?"

"I said, the Bund lantern festival never happened, but I did see you slip out of the archive room at midnight, lugging a black leather case whose corners were worn to the bone," Zhao Jianguo continued, his tone familiar as if meeting an old colleague, "Do you still remember what was inside the case? Jia Wu's EEG report, right?"

The Chief Engineer didn't move, but his hand lifted slightly, as if to touch his own face. That gesture eased Zhao Jianguo's mind—there was a flaw.

"Are you a system registration entity?" the Chief Engineer finally spoke, his tone now tinged with hesitation.

"A post‑deployment compliance observer," Zhao Jianguo replied offhand, "ID SH‑0973, attached to the East China Temporal Surveillance Unit. Your execution process here has issues; I've already reported them."

A faint rustle came from the corner, several shadows that had been hidden behind a broken bench shifting positions. One of them, dressed in a priest's robe, whispered in Shanghai dialect, "Surveillance unit? Which batch?"

Zhao Jianguo didn't even blink: "Winter training class of '73, the instructor was the one standing beneath you now."

The person froze, saying nothing further.

The situation shifted a bit.

Zhao Jianguo was about to add, "You've already been contaminated by foreign consciousness," when the Chief Engineer suddenly switched accent, speaking at breakneck speed, babbling incoherently.

Zhao Jianguo recognized it—Cantonese.

"He's a fake! A real observer wouldn't speak with a 1960s accent!"

As the words fell, three or four guns rose simultaneously, their dark barrels all aimed at him.

It's over.

He had anticipated this turn, but not its speed. As the trigger was about to be pulled, his mind flared, and he opened his mouth with a Russian shout: "Who dares to fire? Moscow hasn't issued the clearance order yet!"

The whole scene fell silent.

Then he lowered his voice and swiftly switched to English: "CIA surveillance is active; you're all on the list."

Next in Japanese: "Tokyo headquarters just cut off your Permission."

In French: "The Paris intelligence network has already defected."

In German: "The Berlin informant is recording."

He flung out five languages in succession, like popcorn popping, one after another without pause. He even admired himself—this wasn't a mere time‑traveler, it was as if he'd been trained by the foreign ministry's translation corps.

The opposite side descended into chaos.

The one in the priest's robe spun sharply, shouting to the right: "He says the CIA is monitoring? Did you leak the external interface?"

The man on the right snapped: "Bullshit! We never connected to any external network!"

A bespectacled man on the left suddenly raised his gun at his comrade: "Why didn't you argue just now? Were you already turned?"

"Bang!"

The gun fired.

One person fell, clutching his thigh and rolling on the ground. Another reacted faster, lunging for the nearest cover, but knocked over half a wooden chair, which crashed with a clatter onto the floor.

Amid the chaos, two more gunshots rang, this time firing at each other. A man in black had blood blossoming on his chest, fell back into a pile of broken glass, his hand still gripping the gun tightly.

Seizing the moment, Zhao Jianguo hauled Chen Jianguo behind the altar, the two crouching beside a broken stone pillar, breathing as if pumping a bellows.

"You… you really meant everything you just said?" Chen Jianguo stared at him, blood still seeping from his mouth corner.

"Which sentence? The Moscow one? It's false." Zhao Jianguo looked down at the Terminal, battery down to 14%, "But the reason I've survived until now is that my mouth is faster than my brain."

Chen Jianguo tried to laugh, but choked on a mouthful of blood, coughing so hard his whole body shook.

"They… accessed my memories through the Chief Engineer," he said haltingly, "If you stay any longer, you'll be flagged as… a traitor."

Zhao Jianguo gave no reply, his gaze sweeping ahead.

The Chief Engineer remained where he stood, his figure trembling slightly, the circuit patterns on his face flickering like an unstable signal. He raised his hand, muttered something to the air in a soft yet stern tone. Immediately, the remaining agents swiftly readjusted their positions, sealing every exit; even the side door was welded shut from the outside by a metal plate.

"He's still alive," Zhao Jianguo whispered.

"Not alive," Chen Jianguo shook his head, "He's just connected. As long as that Signal Source persists, he can keep projecting in."

Zhao Jianguo stared at the Terminal and suddenly noticed a new icon in the lower‑right corner of the screen—a waveform graphic labeled "Language Camouflage: Continuous Effect".

His heart stirred.

"You said… he can read your memories; can he hear what you're thinking right now?"

"No," Chen Jianguo panted, "but he can retrieve stored content. For example… everything I've seen you do, everything you've said, he can pull up."

"That's good then," Zhao Jianguo grinned, "As long as he can't see the 'now', we still have a chance."

He closed his eyes, his mind rapidly scanning the newly unlocked voice library, finally landing on a voice—authentic Ningbo dialect with a hint of fishing‑village accent, a rare regional sample he had extracted from the system.

Then, in that accent, he muttered softly, "The boss once said, Shanghai affairs are none of a Guangzhou guy's business."

The voice was low, just loud enough for nearby agents to hear.

Sure enough, a man in a Zhongshan suit nearby twitched his ear, turned and asked the Chief Engineer, "What did he say?"

The Chief Engineer gave no answer, but his body visibly stiffened for a moment.

Zhao Jianguo switched back to a smooth tone, adding slowly, "I heard folks from Guangdong are unreliable; the last time they repaired the Bell Tower it blew up."

This time more than one person turned their heads.

The Chief Engineer finally spoke, still in Cantonese, but slower than before: "Ignore him, it's interference."

"But what he said... seems true," someone hesitated, "the 1975 Bell Tower accident was indeed a mishap caused by the South China team's operational error."

"Shut up!" the chief engineer barked.

That shout silenced everyone.

But Zhao Jianguo could see that trust had begun to crack. These people, once a solid execution machine, were now made to suspect each other by his few fabricated dialects.

He quietly slipped the Terminal into Chen Jianguo's hand: "In a moment I'll charge out; you find a chance to shut off that metal disc."

"Are you crazy? Then what will you do?"

"I'm not going far," Zhao Jianguo patted his shoulder, "I'll just stroll around this room, and practice my accent on the side."

Finishing, he sprang to his feet and, in Tianjin dialect, said, "Everyone, sorry to disturb, excuse me, excuse me!"

Everyone was stunned.

Seizing the chance, he darted in a single stride toward the left passage, shouting in Fujian dialect while running, "There's a breach to the southeast, seal it quickly!"

The pursuers indeed split, half heading southeast.

The remaining two raised their guns to aim, but the chief engineer suddenly shouted, "Don't fire! He's trying to pit us against each other!"

Too late.

The man on the right, hearing "turn on each other," instinctively turned to his companion and placed his finger on the trigger. The one on the left reacted faster and fired first.

Two more gunshots rang out.

Zhao Jianguo didn't look back, veered into a narrow corridor, and leaned against the wall to catch his breath. The Terminal vibrated briefly, popping up a notice: "Language imitation proficiency increased, new dialects unlocked: Wenzhou, Chaoshan, Lanzhou ramen hue."

He almost laughed out loud.

At that moment, a muffled thud resonated overhead, as if a heavy object had fallen onto the roof. Tiles rattled down, and dust spread across the floor.

He looked up at the dome; a sliver of hazy daylight seeped through a crack.

Outside, it seemed newcomers had arrived.