Chapter 322: Temporal‑Spacial Management Bureau Layout·Deepening Cooperation

Zhao Jianguo sat at the wooden desk in the old Siheyuan house, holding half a sugar cake in his hand, while the TV kept replaying the afternoon fire drill. The picture stuttered, the scene of the twisting flame being replayed in slow motion, and the bullet comments filled the screen with "special effects", "AI composite", "please explain the principle". He didn't smile, didn't turn off the TV, just took a small bite of the sugar cake, chewing with a crunch.

Half an hour earlier, he had just seen the trending search term #FlameMagicYouthAppears# on his phone. The comments beneath spanned over a thousand pages; someone extracted the number on Zhao Xing's school uniform, traced it to the official school website photos, and even unearthed the incident where he kicked a ball and shattered a glass pane during last week's PE class. Public opinion rolled like a snowball, growing larger and pressing down until people could barely breathe.

He knew this could no longer be hidden.

His fingers tapped the desk twice lightly, like Morse code. The next second, the room's light flickered faintly, the air rippled with water‑wave patterns, and at the center a silhouette gradually materialized—a figure in a dark‑gray Zhongshan suit, hair meticulously combed, lean features, steady eyes. It was Chen Jianguo.

"You called me first?" Chen Jianguo's voice was low, a bit hoarse, sounding like an old radio just turned on.

Zhao Jianguo brushed off the sugar cake crumbs, then poured a cup of tea and pushed it over. Of course the cup in front of the projection held no real water, but he still made the gesture. "Aren't you also waiting for me to call you? The outside is a mess, the Special Service Bureau must give an explanation."

Chen Jianguo didn't reply, raised his hand, and a dynamic image of the Earth unfurled behind him, hovering in the air. Dozens of red dots dotted the continents, flashing rhythmically. North America, East Asia, South America, Western Europe… each region bore labeled text, small but legible.

"The North American node handles temporal flow calibration, the East Asian sector controls memory anchoring, the South American branch oversees traversal fluctuations," he said calmly, as if reciting a work report. "This is the Temporal‑Spacial Management Bureau's global layout. We're not a makeshift stage for a play; the system has been operating for a long time."

Zhao Jianguo stared at the map for several seconds, then laughed, "Sounds impressive, like a sci‑fi movie. But I don't know what 'memory anchoring' is, nor do I care which point governs which area. I just want to know—given the current situation, how do you plan to contain it?"

"Contain?" Chen Jianguo shook his head. "It's not containment, it's incorporation into management. Zhao Xing's exposure this time was too thorough; the video went viral across the network, triggering a Level‑3 alert. The Special Service Bureau submitted a formal proposal: we need to create a sign‑in participant database and implement real‑time behavior tracking."

The room fell silent.

Outside, the wind rustled the leaves; inside, only the TV host's clear, resonant voice analyzed "the social impact of suspected supernatural phenomena."

Zhao Jianguo lowered his head, blew on his tea noodles, took a light sip, then set the cup down; a trace of the earlier smile lingered at the corner of his mouth, but his gaze turned cold.

"Then monitor yourselves first."

He said it slowly and lightly, like casual chatter, yet the moment the words left his mouth, the very air seemed to solidify.

Chen Jianguo stood still, his face showing little change, though the corner of his eye twitched imperceptibly. He offered no rebuttal, no anger, and instead nodded, "We can pilot a co‑governance model. You retain some autonomy, and we'll provide resource support."

"Resources?" Zhao Jianguo tilted his head. "For example? Money? Equipment? Or should I go claim a roster?"

"For instance, information sharing, technical collaboration, crisis‑warning linkage," Chen Jianguo's tone softened. "You can't hold out alone for long. Zhao Xing is only the beginning; more will surface later. We need cooperation to prevent things from spiraling out of control."

Zhao Jianguo leaned back in his chair, hands resting on his knees, watching the projection for a full ten‑plus seconds.

"Cooperation is fine," he finally said. "I'll set the rules."

Chen Jianguo paused briefly, then lightly nodded, "Alright. Let's start discussing the co‑governance mechanism. A liaison will come tomorrow to handle the details."

"Don't send those uniformed, scripted types," Zhao Jianguo waved his hand. "I won't buy that. If they come, they should be able to speak like a human."

"Understood." Chen Jianguo finished, his figure beginning to fade, the Earth map in the background dissolving like smoke blown away.

Just before vanishing, he paused, then whispered, "You're clearer‑sighted than I thought."

The person gone, the room returned to normal, only the TV still broadcasting news about "Youth Psychological Intervention and Online Rumor Management."

Zhao Jianguo stopped watching the screen, rose and walked to the window, pushing open a crack. The night wind poured in, a bit chilly. He looked at the row of houses across the courtyard; the lights went out one by one, leaving only a few homes still lit, like brass nails hammered into a black cloth.

He turned back to the desk, sat down again, lifted the now‑cold tea cup, and drank it to the bottom.

On the corner of the desk lay a slip of paper he had written, listing several points:

1. No indiscriminate surveillance

2. All actions require mutual awareness

3. Any intervention must be reported in advance

4. Prohibit using sign‑in participants as test subjects

The handwriting was scrawny, like a hastily jotted memo, yet each line was underlined for emphasis.

He stared at it for a while, then took a pen and added a final line:

"Whoever wants to be the referee must first step onto the court."

After writing, he folded the slip into a small square and slipped it into a drawer compartment.

From the Alley outside came the sound of a bicycle bell, ding‑ding, drawing nearer then fading away. He guessed which family's child was returning late, the parents lingering at the doorway.

Zhao Jianguo rubbed his temples, feeling a bit weary, yet his mind was unusually clear.

He knew that from tonight on, things were no longer as simple as "I have a system, quietly tinkering with inventions." Someone had set their sights on this land—and on him.

But he was not a pawn to be moved at anyone's whim.

Cooperation is possible; obedience is not.

He stood up, turned off the TV, and the room dimmed considerably. Only a desk lamp remained, lighting half his face, his shadow stretching long across the wall.

He walked over, pulled open the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, and retrieved an old metal box. Inside were nothing but a key, a data cable, and a yellowed photograph—two children standing at the Siheyuan gate, one holding an ice pop, both grinning broadly.

He stared at it for two seconds, closed the box, and slipped it back in.

As he locked the drawer, he heard a car stopping outside.

He looked out the window; a dark‑blue sedan sat silently at the Alley's mouth, its lights off, no one exiting the driver's seat, no one knocking.

He knew who had arrived.

But he didn't move.

After a while, the car drove away, the tires rolling over the road with a faint sound, like a cat's footsteps.

Zhao Jianguo sat back at the desk, picked up the teacup, and found the kettle empty.

He smiled, muttering to himself, "Not even a sip of tea, and you still have the nerve to talk cooperation?"

After speaking, he rose and went to the Kitchen to boil water.

The kettle just settled on the stove, and the flame burst "puff", blue‑flamed, steady beneath the pot's base.

He stood there, watching the flame, saying nothing further.

The water hadn't boiled yet.