Chapter 343: Temporal‑Spatial Fluctuation Reappears: Warning of a Parallel World

Zhao Jianguo's hand was still resting on his knee, unmoving.

The tingling in his palm returned, denser than before, like a tiny brush sweeping back and forth, tickling—no pain, but making one want to pull back. He didn't; instead he curled his fingers inward, the knuckles pressing against the trouser seam, the stiff fabric digging into his skin.

The applause from the front rows still rang, warm against the back of his neck. The host's voice boomed: "... Let us once again give a hearty round of applause to Mr. Zhao Jianguo!"

No one looked at him. No one noticed his fingertips trembling.

He glanced sideways, spotting the door at the center of the stage—a metal frame, semi‑transparent panel, its border inlaid with fine gold lines. It stood silently, as clean as before, like freshly wiped glass. Yet Zhao Jianguo stared at it until his eyes grew sore and his right eyelid twitched.

A blue glow rose again along the lower edge of the frame.

It wasn't a flash; it clung to the edge, a thin halo circling like rippling water, gently wavering. He blinked, looked again, and the light remained, unmoving.

His left hand stayed still while his right hand slowly slipped out of his pocket, hovering in midair—not descending nor rising—stopping about two inches away from the outside of his thigh. He didn't look at his hand, merely scanning the Triplets with his peripheral vision.

The three children stood upright, shoulders touching, heads slightly tilted back, eyes fixed on the door.

Zhao Jianguo's throat moved, but no sound came out.

He leaned forward half an inch, lowering his voice: "Don't blink."

The Triplets gave no reply, but their eyelashes twitched in unison.

Zhao Jianguo said again: "Close your eyes, count to three, then open them."

The eldest nodded, the second pursed his lips, the third quietly hooked his finger around the second's wrist.

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

The three opened their eyes together.

Zhao Jianguo didn't wait for them to speak, asking directly: "What did you see?"

The eldest blurted out, "A white coat! I'm standing behind a table, holding tweezers, pinching a Crystal."

The second jumped in, "No, that's me! I'm writing on the blackboard, full of formulas, with students seated below."

The third grew urgent, "You're both lying! I saw the Siheyuan collapse! Half the wall fell, the tiles were ripped off, a purple‑black fissure split the sky, wind poured in, shaking the drying‑clothes line wildly!"

Zhao Jianguo didn't interrupt; he simply moved his left hand off his knee and pressed it lightly against the third's back.

The three inhaled simultaneously.

Zhao Jianguo said, "Look again, only at the center of the door."

This time no one spoke up. The three held their breath, eyes locked on the exact middle of the door.

Three seconds later, the eldest's voice tightened: "There are two layers… stacked together."

The second nodded: "The left side is a Laboratory, the right side is… ruins."

The third's lips turned slightly pale: "They're moving, like two sheets of paper blown by wind—sometimes this one on top, sometimes that one on top."

Zhao Jianguo said nothing, merely raising his right hand and slowly reaching toward the sensing area beneath the frame—a palm‑sized matte Blackboard that usually glowed green, now dark.

He didn't touch it, his hand hovering about half a finger's height above the surface.

The Triplets mirrored his motion, raising their hands; the three small hands stacked beneath his right hand, each pressing the one below, the topmost still a little sweaty.

Zhao Jianguo lowered his head for a glance.

The eldest's nails were trimmed short, the second had a shallow scar on his thenar, the third's wrist was slender, with faintly raised blue veins.

He didn't hesitate, pressing his palm downward.

All four hands landed on the sensing area together.

The Blackboard didn't light up, nor make a sound.

Yet the door's surface changed.

It wasn't a full‑screen flash; a vertical line split the middle, like a zipper being pulled, and the two sides slowly unfolded—on the left, a white wall, equipment, the back of someone in a white coat; on the right, a broken wall, charred wood, a cracked sky. The two scenes neither overlapped nor merged, just placed side by side, distinct, each giving way to none.

Zhao Jianguo stared for three seconds, then released his hand.

He didn't turn around, merely gathering the three small hands to his side, palms up, fingers spread, slipping each of their fingers inside his own.

His voice was low but each word landed solidly: "It's not our turn to accept fate."

As the words fell, his fist clenched.

It wasn't a feigned grip, but a solid one—knuckles whitened, veins on the back of his hand standing out, even the muscles on his forearm tensing into a line.

The Triplets didn't move or pull away, simply letting him hold them.

Zhao Jianguo breathed once, then again, then once more.

He didn't look at the Screen, didn't look at the guests, didn't look at the seats beside him. His eyes stayed fixed on the door.

The two images began to fade.

It wasn't an instant disappearance; it was like ink dropping into water, the edges slowly diffusing, the color lightening, the outlines softening, until only a thin, mist‑like gray shadow of the door remained.

The mist dissipated slowly.

Zhao Jianguo didn't loosen his fist.

His elbow rested on his knee, his fist perched on his thigh, shoulders unmoved, his spine upright.

The Triplets moved even closer, the second leaning left, the third leaning right, the eldest stepping half a step forward, their heads nearly touching the back of Zhao Jianguo's neck.

Zhao Jianguo heard the third's nose emit a soft hum, like a kitten purring, or like holding back tears.

He made no sound, only tightening his grip a little more.

The final gray shadow on the door also vanished.

The door returned to its original state, the matte Blackboard still dark, the metal frame spotless, not even a fingerprint left.

Zhao Jianguo still didn't release his fist.

His right wrist hung down, his fist pressed against his thigh, knuckles pushing the fabric, forming a small dent in his gray trousers.

His peripheral glance caught the third's eyelashes damp, a single tear hanging at the tip, not falling.

Zhao Jianguo didn't pull out a handkerchief, nor did he raise his hand to wipe.

He simply gathered the three little hands back into his chest, shielding them against his right abdomen side, like protecting three freshly warmed eggs.

At that moment, the host's voice sounded again: "... Next, please Mr. Zhao Jianguo come up on stage to receive the award!"

The applause was louder and longer than before, like tide surging forward—one wave never settled before the next rose.

Zhao Jianguo didn't move.

He heard someone on his left stand up, the Chair leg scraping the floor with a squeak; on his right someone coughed, pressing down on their throat, a muffled sound.

He didn't turn his head, nor lift it.

He stared at the lower edge of the doorframe.

There was nothing there.

But his palm tingled again.

This time it was heavier than before, like a needle piercing in and out, bringing a bit of heat.

He didn't shake his hand, didn't rub, didn't knead.

He simply tightened his fist a little more.

The Triplets said nothing, and didn't move.

The eldest gently rested his chin on Zhao Jianguo's right shoulder; the second quietly hooked his finger around the eldest's little finger; the third tiptoed, his shoe sole brushing Zhao Jianguo's trouser leg.

Zhao Jianguo stayed silent, shifting his left foot forward half an inch, the toe touching the ground, steadying his stance.

His gaze never left the door.

The door was still.

But he knew it wasn't sleeping.

His right hand still clenched, the fist unmoving.

The three little hands were still in his palm, warm and sweaty, clenched tightly.

Zhao Jianguo didn't look at his watch, nor count the time.

He only knew that he was still sitting there, not standing, not leaving his seat, not moving.

His left hand rested on the armrest, his index finger tapped lightly.

One tap.

Another tap.

On the third tap, he stopped.

He didn't tap again.

He simply curled his index finger back, and together with the other four fingers, wrapped around the three little hands.

At the lower edge of the doorframe, a faint blue light flashed.

It vanished.

Another flash.

It vanished.

Zhao Jianguo didn't blink.

He stared at that place until the sockets of his eyes grew dry.

The Triplets' breathing—light then heavy, fast then slow—fell entirely against the back of his ears.

He didn't turn around.

He simply gathered the three little hands back into his chest again.

Zhao Jianguo's fist was still clenched.