Chapter 345: Energy Balance Crisis: The Triplets' Choice

Zhao Jianguo's palm still had three small hands pressed against it, warm and not dissipated, sweat not dried. The yellow light inside the room still floated on the walls, but the brick floor under his feet suddenly turned cold—not the damp chill of night‑time moisture rising, but like stepping into the mouth of an ice cellar just lifted, a cold rising from the earth's core.

He didn't move his fingers or lift his eyes, just twitched his nostrils slightly—the familiar smell of iron rust in the air was gone, replaced by a faint burnt‑sugar odor, like burning electric‑wire insulation, yet not quite.

The bulb overhead was still on, but its halo had changed. What was a dull yellow blob now had a blue edge that flickered, like the snow‑screen of an old radio with no signal. A twitch crossed his eye corner; his right hand unconsciously tightened a little, and the three small hands immediately returned the grip—light but uniform, as if they'd agreed beforehand.

"Dad." Zhao Xing called softly.

He grunted in acknowledgment, not turning his head.

"We… are we no longer in the East Wing Room?"

He asked calmly, but no one answered in the room. Su Qing was gone, the enamel basin, the kang table, half a watermelon—all vanished. They still stood, positions unchanged, postures unchanged, yet beneath their feet was no longer brick floor but a series of expanding metal rings, gray‑white, surface finely cracked like a dried riverbed. Above them was not a beam but a hovering arc‑shaped doorframe, its top lost in height, its rim pulsing blue light on and off, rhythm chaotic.

Zhao Jianguo finally loosened his grip, but didn't step back far—he retreated half a step and planted himself. He lifted his head to stare at that door, his throat moving.

Just then, the light screen appeared.

It wasn't pulled from anywhere, nor projected; it simply hovered in midair beneath the door, white background with black characters, clean and clear:

"Energy threshold dropped below critical point. Stabilization plan: dimensional reduction of ability release."

The characters didn't shake, weren't bold, and after being read they just hung there—no explanation, no prompting, not even a "please confirm."

Zhao Jianguo said nothing. He turned his head to look at the three children.

Zhao Xing stood on the far right, brows furrowed, lips pressed into a line. She usually spoke little, but her eyes gave her away—now she stared fixedly at the door, as if trying to see where it was broken. Zhao Chen stood in the middle, face expressionless, shoulders slumped, arms hanging naturally, knuckles whitening slightly. Zhao Yang, the youngest and usually the one to grin wide, now bit his lower lip, rubbing it back and forth, as if holding back tears.

Yet nobody moved, nor spoke up.

Zhao Jianguo's hand slowly rose, palm down, hovering three inches above the three heads, neither lowering nor withdrawing. He recalled how, just moments ago in the East Wing Room, he had used his palm's warmth to guide their breathing, each inhale and exhale timed like beats, just as he once taught them to sing "Unity is Strength" line by line. He still wanted to do that now, but he knew this time they had to go on their own.

Zhao Xing spoke first, voice low but each word clear: "Without ability, how can we protect everyone?"

She wasn't asking him, nor the system, more like asking herself. But once the words were out, the other two turned their heads to glance at her.

Zhao Chen didn't answer.

He stepped half a pace forward, lifted his left hand, and pressed it onto Zhao Xing's right shoulder—firm but not harsh, just enough to keep her from pulling back. He said nothing, merely stood shoulder‑to‑shoulder, arm brushing elbow.

Zhao Yang also moved. He raised his right hand and lightly placed it on Zhao Chen's hand back. The three hands stacked, layer upon layer, warmth passing through skin.

The blue light at the door's edge trembled once, its hum faltering half a beat.

Zhao Jianguo stood behind them, watching the door. He recalled that three days ago, when the triplets first checked in successfully and the system popped up a reward, the door had flashed similarly, as if clapping. Back then he had been amused, thinking this contraption still had a touch of humanity.

Now it wasn't clapping—it was about to fall apart.

The characters on the light screen changed:

"Consensus reached. Dimensional reduction activation countdown: 3…2…"

Zhao Xing closed her eyes, then opened them again—her rims a little wet, yet she tugged the corner of her mouth up in a brief smile. Zhao Chen didn't move, his hand still on her shoulder, knuckles tightening further. Zhao Yang turned his face slightly toward his dad, glanced at him, eyes bright as polished glass.

Zhao Jianguo didn't move.

His right hand remained suspended, palm down, three inches above their heads—unmoved by wind, unshaken by rain. His shadow fell on the metal ring, stretched long by the blue light, reaching all the way to the doorframe's base.

The number on the light screen didn't count down.

The "2" stayed there, as if stuck.

Yet the ripples at the door's edge eased, becoming uniform circles, frequency stabilizing. The burnt‑sugar smell faded a little, and the chill underfoot lost its sharp bite.

Zhao Jianguo lowered his gaze to his own hand. The palm was still warm, sweat not dried, just as it had been in the East Wing Room moments before. He didn't wipe it, didn't lower it—just kept it hanging there, like holding an invisible flag.

Zhao Xing drew a gentle breath, her nose a bit stuffed. She didn't reach to wipe it, merely tucked her chin into her collar. Zhao Chen's hand didn't loosen; instead he pressed inward, as if trying to pin her whole self to the ground. Zhao Yang slipped both hands into his pockets, shoulders hunching, as if warming himself.

The light screen still showed "2".

No one spoke.

Zhao Jianguo's gaze swept over the three backs of heads. One wore a red hair tie, one had messy hair sticking up, one's bangs covered his eyes. He suddenly recalled last winter when the three of them built a snowman in the courtyard, gave it a lopsided head, and insisted it was Einstein. Zhao Yang used a carrot for the nose, Zhao Xing placed coal balls for eyes, and Zhao Chen insisted on putting an aluminum basin on the snowman's head, claiming it was the standard gear for future scientists.

Back then they had no ability, nor had they seen any spacetime gate—just a bunch of kids hopping in the snow, laughing louder than firecrackers.

Now they stood here, hands stacked, shoulders leaning, the door about to collapse, the system counting down—yet they didn't run.

Zhao Jianguo slowly drew his right hand back, fingers spread, and pressed it to his left chest. There it beat—not fast, not erratic, just steady, one beat after another.

The "2" on the light screen remained.

The blue light at the door's rim turned in circles, no longer rushed, as if catching its breath.

Zhao Xing lifted her shoulder, pressing it against Zhao Chen's hand. Zhao Chen didn't move, but his palm grew a little warmer. Zhao Yang pulled a hand from his pocket, lightly brushed his sister's cuff, then snapped it back.

Zhao Jianguo stood straight.

He neither stepped forward nor back, staying put with his heels against the seam of the metal ring, his shoe sole pressing a fine crack that oozed a bit of gray, which he pressed firm.

The light screen didn't go out.

The door didn't collapse.

The children's hands remained stacked.

His hand pressed to his chest, palm burning hot.