Chapter 139: Identity Crisis·Historical Correction Force

Zhao Jianguo's hand still lay on the terminal; the hot flow had just receded, and his chest felt as if someone had rolled a rolling pin over it. He drew a breath, about to curse a couple of times to relieve fatigue, when the air above him sank with a hum.

It wasn't wind or thunder; the whole sky seemed as if someone had hit fast-forward, clouds swirling inward and pressing lower and lower. The ground began to tremble, not the up-and-down jolt of an earthquake, but like water boiled dry in a pot, shrinking layer by layer downward.

"Damn, here we go again?" He instinctively stepped back half a pace, his heel hitting something soft—the twins were sitting on the ground, one pinching half a sweet pancake in hand, looking up at him, eyes shining unbelievably.

The terminal suddenly flashed red text: 【Historical Correction Force critical, system load 98%, recommend immediately activating the Spacetime Stabilizer】.

"Recommend? With our eyebrows on fire, you're still recommending?" Zhao Jianguo gritted his teeth, pulled the terminal into his chest with one hand, and with the other hastily pulled the two children behind him, "You two stay put, don't touch those light circles on the ground."

As his words fell, the central plaza's tiles cracked with a pop, a grayish-white airflow jetted out, spiraling upward. In a few seconds, the airflow had coiled into a column, growing taller and taller, sucking in the surrounding air, even pulling the streetlamps askew.

Zhao Jianguo narrowed his eyes at the thickening wind column, his heart pounding. This wasn't an ordinary storm; mixed within were shadows—at one moment the crowd queuing at the exam hall entrance, the next Old Chen standing before the notice board copying a notice, then in a flash, his father in a blue cloth shirt walking into the Education Bureau's door.

"So this is dragging out the fates of three generations of my family for a walk?" he muttered, palms sweating.

Just then, a whisper so faint it was barely audible drifted into his ear: "Beware of 1978……"

He jerked his head around—no one there.

But the sound came again, fragmented, like distant radio static: "Beware……1978……"

"Old Chen?" Zhao Jianguo's heart tightened as he looked around. The empty plaza held only him and the two children, yet he distinctly felt a familiar presence drifting about, like a mosquito flying in a summer room—invisible, but its buzz circled his ears.

The terminal screen flickered, and a line of small text appeared: 【Detected unregistered spacetime fluctuation residue, signal source matches Chen Jianguo's terminal residue at 97.3%】.

"You really haven't fully dispersed yet?" Zhao Jianguo's throat felt tight, wanting to laugh but couldn't: "At this point you're still reminding me—are you tougher than I am?"

The wind column spun faster, its center twisting like a distorted TV signal. Flickering blurred images appeared within—newspapers of the restored college entrance exam, a bronze device in a secret room, the Special Forces Captain's blue mark behind the ear… all jumbled together, impossible to tell which fragment was past and which future.

Zhao Jianguo glanced at the terminal; the interface was stuck on the confirmation page "Activate Spacetime Stabilizer?", the progress bar crawling like an old lady crossing the street. He knew that if he waited for it to finish loading, this place would already be blown to shreds.

"Fine, if you won't let me slack, I'll do it myself." He took a deep breath, pressed the terminal back to his chest, and swiped a few fingers in the air to pull up the sub‑protocol menu: "Civilization Witness System, Level 3 Permission Holder Zhao Jianguo, I now command you—bypass verification, force‑awaken the Spacetime Stabilizer core module!"

The screen paused, then popped up a warning: 【High‑risk operation—may cause system crash or anchor drift】.

"Screw your grandpa!" He slapped his palm onto it, "If we don't activate it now, we'll all end up as trash for the Historical Correction Force to clean up!"

The terminal jolted violently, its casing heating to the point of almost slipping from his grasp. A golden line spread from the interface, climbing up his arm, extending to his shoulder and neck, finally stopping near his temple, like a needle lightly pricking beneath the skin.

At the same moment, the wind column exploded with a boom, sending out a ring of shockwave; the entire plaza floor cracked with a snap into a spider‑web pattern. The twins jerked in fright but didn't cry—instead they reached out to grab the floating specks of light in the air, as if scooping fish.

Zhao Jianguo didn't have time to look at them, his eyes locked on the wind's eye. There, data turbulence had begun to appear, strings of code falling like a waterfall, trying to overwrite his system interface. He knew this was the Correction Force reversing its intrusion, attempting to format him as an "abnormal variable."

"Want to delete me?" he snorted, his gums aching, "You also have to ask whether my ancestors agree."

He closed his eyes, replaying the scene he'd just seen—his father's back as he entered the Education Bureau, Old Chen's hand copying a notice at the notice board, and the moment his own pen stalled while signing that responsibility statement.

"I'm not here to be corrected." He opened his eyes, his voice low but steady as a stake driven into the ground, "I'm here to set the rules."

Raising the terminal with both hands, he declared word by word: "I am a Historical Observer, a Level 3 Permission Holder, and in the name of the Civilization Witness, I command you—halt execution!"

As his words fell, the terminal burst forth a golden beam shooting straight to the sky. The light wasn't blinding, yet it forcibly split the spinning wind column in two. The data stream in the wind's eye halted abruptly, the display freezing on the "Y/N" confirmation screen, the cursor blinking on "N".

Zhao Jianguo panted, his arms still trembling, but the corners of his mouth lifted: "How about it—do you still recognize this 'Y'?"

The wind column neither dissipated nor expanded; it simply hung in mid‑air like a stuck videotape. Debris and dust on the plaza floated in place, not a single leaf falling.

One twin reached out to touch the light pattern before him; the other giggled twice and actually scrambled up to rub against the wind column.

"Hey! Come back!" Zhao Jianguo tried to stop them, but his leg gave way and he nearly knelt. He propped his knee, only then realizing his calf had been cramping, likely drained by that energy surge.

Just as he was about to move over to pull them, the low whisper sounded again in his ear: "Beware of 1978……"

This time it was much clearer—he could even make out Old Chen's voice.

He snapped his head back; at the edge of the wind column a blurry figure flickered past—short‑cropped hair, an old military‑green coat, missing a button on the left cuff.

"Old Chen!" he shouted.

The figure didn't respond, merely raised a hand, pointed at the confirmation interface inside the wind's eye, then faded away slowly, like ink droplets diffusing in water.

The terminal automatically popped up a log: 【Spacetime fluctuation residue signal terminated, data trajectory recorded】.

Zhao Jianguo stared for a few seconds, then laughed: "You're quite the suave one—finish your line and leave, leaving me here to hold the lightning."

He turned to look at the pair still playing with the light specks, sighed, and limped over, pulling the two back behind him.

The wind column remained motionless, the confirmation interface still hanging in mid‑air, the cursor on "N".

Zhao Jianguo stared at it, slowly lifting the terminal.

His fingers drifted toward the "Y".