Chapter 349: Parallel World Projection: Prologue to the Multiverse

Zhao Jianguo leaned against the wall, his back pressed to the edge of the clay kang, his whole body feeling as if a carriage had run over him. He blinked; daylight filtered through the paper window, slanting onto the blue‑stone slab, which was no longer hot, grayish, just like the material used for the threshold in the Courtyard years ago. His right hand still clutched the copper coin, his palm sticky, the blood dried, splitting open a few cracks.

The Triplets curled into a ball, hand in hand, their heads nodding off little by little. Zhao Xing's mouth corner still bore a nose‑bleed stain, Zhao Chen's arm rested on Zhao Yang's shoulder, the two huddling for warmth. The room was so quiet one could hear the wall plaster flaking—Clack! —a small piece of mud‑caked debris fell onto the kang edge.

At that moment, the blue‑stone slab shifted slightly.

It wasn't a tremor, nor a glow, just a gentle sway, as if someone had brushed dust off it through a cloth. Yet the motion defied logic; it wasn't touching anyone, and there was no wind.

Zhao Jianguo's eyelids flickered; he tried to prop himself up, but his legs were too weak to work. He shook his head, pushing the drowsiness down, and just as he was about to call the children, he suddenly sensed something off about the wall.

The old wall of the East Room, once whitewashed with lime, had a crack that formed during last year's leak and had never been repaired. Now along the edge of that fissure a faint Light Pattern floated, like ripples on water brushed by wind, flickering—if you didn't look closely you'd think it was a trick of the eyes.

He held his breath.

The Light Pattern slowly expanded outward, crawling up to the beam, looping around the hanging old Oil Lamp, then sliding down, coalescing in the wall's center into a vague human silhouette. The figure wore work trousers and a faded blue cap; the face was indistinct, but the outline resembled Zhao Jianguo's in several ways. The shadow stood for a few seconds, gave a slight nod, and in an instant dissolved like smoke blown away by wind.

"Dad?"

Zhao Yang suddenly opened his eyes, his voice hoarse.

Zhao Jianguo turned his head toward him, "What's wrong?"

"I… I saw myself," Zhao Yang sat up, rubbing his temples, "on a rather high place, below were endless buildings, dense as a forest; I was teaching a few kids to write, and they were still writing our family's old nursery rhyme."

As soon as the words fell, Zhao Xing also woke, scrambling up, "I saw it too! I was on a massive iron‑hull ship, the outside pitch‑black, full of stars, and beside me a woman in a white coat shouted 'Captain' at me!"

Zhao Chen said nothing, but his complexion changed. He stared at his palm, murmuring, "I was in ruins, holding a stick, a cloth band tied around my head; someone waved at me, shouting 'Team Leader'… but I've never been to that place."

The three exchanged glances, all turning to Zhao Jianguo.

Zhao Jianguo remained silent. He knew this wasn't a hallucination. The Check-in system had been pulling all sorts of oddities over the years; whenever it meant business, it always began with a Prelude—first the body exhausted as if falling apart, then the mind hazy, finally inexplicably seeing things that shouldn't be seen.

But this time was different.

Before, he was always the only one who saw it; this time even the children were drawn in.

Just as he thought that, a voice suddenly rang out in the room.

It wasn't from a radio, nor from outside the window; it seemed to drill straight into the ear, flat, without pitch, like a broadcast reading a notice:

"Civilization Fire Seed has been sown, Next Station: Multiverse."

The Triplets were all stunned.

Zhao Jianguo felt a jolt in his chest. He recognized the voice—it was the system. Every time it spoke, options followed, either "Check-in Successful" or "Reward Granted," always crystal clear. This time, after the single sentence, there was no further sound, clean and crisp as if the line had been cut.

The room fell silent again.

But the silence lasted only a few seconds before the floor gave a light tremor, not heavy; the tea jar on the kang wobbled, spilling water. Zhao Jianguo snapped his head up, his gaze fixed on the floor at the very center of the room.

There, the cement floor had split open a fissure.

It was thin—about as wide as a pencil line—but vertical, rising straight from the floor like a doorframe outline. Light seeped from the fissure, not the harshness of a lamp nor sunlight, but more like moonlight reflected on a summer night river—cold, slick, with a faint swirling motion, as if a tiny galaxy spun within.

"What's that?" Zhao Xing whispered, stepping half a pace toward Zhao Jianguo.

No one answered.

Zhao Jianguo slowly stood up, his legs still trembling, but he stepped forward. The Triplets exchanged a glance, rose quickly, and clung tightly behind him. They reached the Rift, looked up—the Light Trace rose higher, reaching roughly chest height, then steadied, neither expanding nor contracting, standing silently like a door that had not yet been pushed open.

Zhao Jianguo reached out; his hand was half a foot from the light when his palm tingled, neither painful nor itchy, as if countless tiny bubbles were gently popping on his skin. He withdrew his hand and looked down at the children.

Zhao Xing stared, mouth slightly open; Zhao Chen pressed his lips together, brow furrowed; Zhao Yang reached out, grabbing his coat edge, silent, his fingers clenched tight.

A distant rooster crowed, one call, then another. Daybreak fully arrived; in the Courtyard a neighbor's urine basin tipped over with a Clang!, the wooden basin hitting the ground. Yet the East Room seemed isolated; the outside sounds that entered were muffled, as if filtered through a thick cloth.

Zhao Jianguo stared at the Rift, suddenly recalling the work‑clothes silhouette on the wall. He hadn't seen the face, but the build, the stance, and the way it nodded… it all resembled a person's name.

Chen Jianguo.

He had heard that name before, a senior mentioned in early‑year unit files, said to have been a researcher who vanished in the 1960s, later untraceable. Yet the Projection he just saw was of him—why him?

He was pondering when the depths of the Rift suddenly shifted.

It wasn't a flash of light nor a sound, but the scene inside changed—originally only a flowing galaxy was visible, now faint outlines of several cities emerged, some towering into clouds, some submerged, and one built atop a giant tree whose branches wound around iron rails. Each was distinct, yet each carried a familiar scent, as if seen in a dream.

Zhao Chen suddenly inhaled, "Then… is that the place I just saw?"

He pointed at one ruined high tower, its spire crooked, the base piled with rusted iron frames. Zhao Jianguo followed his gaze, his heart racing—a perfect match to what his son described, down to the last detail.

Zhao Xing swallowed, "My ship… in that black place outside, also exists!"

Zhao Yang said nothing, but his finger kept pointing at the submerged city, his eyes full of astonishment.

Zhao Jianguo stayed still. He knew that if this door truly opened, stepping through might mean never returning. The question was why it opened now; the system announced a "Next Station," but gave no directions, no destination.

He glanced back into the room.

The wooden board remained, the copper coin stained with dried blood, the blue‑stone slab lay quietly where it had been. Last night's battle seemed to have left nothing behind, yet as if it had altered everything.

The Triplets asked nothing further. They stood in a line beside him, all eyes fixed on the Light Gate. No one dared step forward, nor did anyone wish to retreat.

Morning light grew brighter, bleaching the Courtyard's brick floor. Next door, Wang Shen began sweeping the yard, the rustling bamboo broom sounding in waves. Yet in the East Room, the air seemed frozen, even dust did not drift.

Zhao Jianguo lifted his foot.

The sole of his shoe left the ground, and the three children simultaneously clutched his pant leg.

He halted.

He looked down at them.

Zhao Xing bit his lip, Zhao Chen shook his head, and Zhao Yang simply perched on his knee, refusing to let go.

He sighed, his foot returning to the ground.

The Rift still stood, the Light Pattern drifting slowly, as if waiting for something.

Zhao Jianguo stood, his hand on his sons' shoulders, his gaze never leaving the door.

Outside, a sparrow landed on the windowsill, hopped twice, chirped once, and flew away.