Chapter 388: Investigation

The corridor's fluorescent lights shone painfully bright.

Jiang Yuan's right hand was in his trouser pocket, his fingertip clutching the True Sight Filter, his stride neither hurried nor sluggish. The Cognitive Shielding Device attached to the outside of his earbone fit perfectly, leaving no trace except the tingling numbness of the first two seconds after putting it on.

When he rode the elevator up from the thirty‑eight underground levels, he deliberately stopped at the equipment depot on B2, changed into a clean combat uniform, and then went to the restroom to splash his face with cold water three times.

The face in the mirror still looked fairly normal. A little tired, but not exaggerated—after all, anyone returning from a Weird Domain carries some dark circles.

He pushed open the restroom door and entered the main corridor of the Investigation Bureau's ground floor.

Sunlight poured in through floor‑to‑ceiling windows on both sides, making the gray‑white floor tiles gleam. Someone hurried past holding a file folder, their shoe soles producing a crisp pat‑pat; another leaned by the water dispenser chatting, their voice neither loud nor soft, mingling with the gurgle of the dispenser's heating.

Very normal.

Jiang Yuan used his left hand to pull the True Sight Filter from his pocket, pinching it between his index and middle fingers, angling it low against the outer side of his thigh.

He discovered that this bead had an advantage—it need not be placed on the eye; as long as he held it and focused his attention, a filter layer automatically overlaid his vision.

Filter activated.

The corridor remained unchanged. The lights were the same lights, the windows the same windows, the green vines in the corner still drooping, wilted from lack of watering.

Three technicians carrying equipment boxes were ahead to the left; under the True Sight Filter they were still three technicians with equipment boxes, their skeletons, skin, features—all normal, even the recession of their hairlines was so realistic it tugged at the heart.

Jiang Yuan's gaze swept over them, his steps never pausing.

—It's fine. These three are real.

He counted his steps as he moved forward, each footfall landing in the gap between heartbeats. He had set the Shadow Ghost's power to its lowest operating mode, just enough to suppress his pulse so the device hanging on his earbone wouldn't misbehave.

Fifteen meters ahead.

Sister Li from the Logistics Department emerged from the corner, carrying a plastic bag that bulged; its outline suggested fruit or snacks or something similar.

Jiang Yuan knew her. Not a mere nod‑and‑greeting acquaintance, but a genuine familiarity.

Sister Li was considered a veteran of the Investigation Bureau, in charge of material allocation and daily support for frontline agents. Every time Jiang Yuan returned from a mission, she would shove a bag of food onto his desk—sometimes oranges, sometimes bread, and last time she even slipped in a pack of braised chicken feet, saying they were sent from her hometown and there was so much she couldn't finish them.

"Xiao Jiang!" Sister Li waved from afar, her voice loud enough for the whole corridor to hear, "Back already? You've gotten thin, have you eaten?"

Jiang Yuan twitched the corner of his mouth.

"I ate, Sister Li, on the way."

His voice remained steady, his steps even quickened by half a beat, giving off a casual sense of hurrying. As they brushed past each other, Sister Li slipped an orange into his hand, "Hold it, hold it, there's still more inside!"

Jiang Yuan took the orange, said thank you, and kept walking forward.

He walked seven steps.

He activated the True Sight Filter, his peripheral glance sweeping toward Sister Li's receding silhouette behind him.

Filter engaged.

Sister Li's body showed no issues. Her uniform, figure, and walking posture were all correct.

But her head—

It wasn't a head.

It was a mass.

Like the frantic snow‑screen of a TV losing signal, yet not exactly.

The mass continuously morphed, spasmed, and reassembled, countless tiny color patches and lines tangled and rolled together; occasionally a half‑mouth shape or the curve of an eye could be discerned amid the garbled outline, but before it could be seen clearly, the next wave of distortion devoured it.

No sound. No smell. Without the True Sight Filter, no one could see it.

Who could tell? She reports for duty at half past six each day, preparing breakfast supplies for the frontline youths, remembering each person's preferences, knowing who avoids cilantro and who is allergic to peanuts, laughing with a booming voice, always warm‑hearted.

Jiang Yuan's thumbnail sank into the flesh of his palm.

The orange was still clenched in his other hand, round and plump, its skin bearing a bit of leftover adhesive from a supermarket label.

He didn't look back.

He kept walking.

The Shadow Ghost adjusted his heartbeat once from within, smoothing out the sudden acceleration. The device on his earbone gave no abnormal feedback.

Safe.

But his palms were slick with sweat.

The external Intelligence Department was on the east side of the third floor. As Jiang Yuan ascended the stairs, he crossed paths with two analysts in civilian clothes. The True Sight Filter scanned—clean.

He pushed open the Intelligence Department's glass door; inside were seven people, four computers with lit screens, some making calls, others annotating maps.

Among the seven, six were normal.

A tall man seated at the innermost table, his employee badge reading "Qi Hao," held a red marker, circling the Strange Domain Diffusion Path on the whiteboard—

He had no face.

Precisely, under the True Sight Filter the "face" was drawn on. Like a child's crayon sketch on white paper, the features were roughly in the right places but entirely flat, lacking depth. Beneath the color patches lay a smooth, wax‑white curved surface, texture akin to a boiled egg after its shell was peeled.

He was discussing a frontline deployment plan.

"The Blockade Line in G17 Zone was pushed eastward by two hundred meters, but the southern wing's supply hub lacks personnel; recommend drawing from the Second Brigade—"

His tone was professional and orderly; even when a colleague voiced dissent, he furrowed his "brows"—the two black crayon lines on the sketch squeezed toward the center.

Jiang Yuan passed the doorway, didn't enter, scanned with the True Sight Filter and left.

He encountered three Fake Persons again in the corridor.

One was at the equipment room door borrowing a lighter from a colleague, another emerged from the restroom clutching a stack of printed sheets, and the third sat on a stair step in the Stairwell gnawing a sandwich, muttering complaints that the cafeteria food was getting worse.

—The True Sight Filter told Jiang Yuan that the head and internal cavity structures of these three differed from normal humans to such an extent that there was no room for discussion.

Yet they were complaining about the cafeteria meals.

One, a parasite within human civilization lacking even basic carbon‑based structure, was righteously ranting that the braised pork was too salty.

Jiang Yuan's fingers gripping the True Sight Filter turned white, yet his heart‑rate curve remained unchanged.

The Shadow Ghost suppressed everything for him. Fear, anger, absurdity, the ant‑like chill crawling up his spine—all were pressed down, underwater.

Above the water's surface, Jiang Yuan's walking posture was relaxed, his breathing even; when he met familiar faces he could nod and reply.

Jiang Yuan, underwater, is about to blow up.

He turned the corner on the Fourth Floor, and directly opposite was the office area for senior agents.

Nie Yang walked over from the other end of the Corridor.

Half‑worn black windcoat, Goji Berry Thermos, and a face bearing that trademark, flawless, kindly smile.

"Yo, Jiang Team," Nie Yang said with a smiling lift of his Thermal Cup, "Thanks for the hard work, how's the situation over at the swamp?"

Jiang Yuan's back muscles tensed into steel plates within those few fractions of a second.

He completed a sweep in an extremely short time.

True Sight Eye overlaid with a filter—Nie Yang's face didn't change.

It was still that softly contoured square‑shaped face, a few silver strands at the temples, eyes appearing warm and gentle. The bone structure, skin, and vascular patterns all matched the normal traits of a carbon‑based organism.

Clean.

This smiling tiger is clean.

Jiang Yuan's back muscles relaxed—a minuscule amount, invisible from the outside, but he knew that the breath stuck in his throat finally moved down half an inch.

"All right, Uncle Nie," Jiang Yuan's voice was flat, "I brought back some stuff, will submit the report tomorrow."

"Alright, alright, no rush." Nie Yang patted his shoulder, the Goji Berry water in the Thermal Cup sloshed, "Go rest first; a youngster can't just push himself, health is the capital of the revolution, after all."

He finished speaking, smiled, and walked away.

Jiang Yuan stood in the middle of the Corridor, watching the half‑worn windcoat's silhouette turn into the elevator hall.

Core personnel are still present.

At least so far, the senior agents and key post holders he has dealt with have shown no anomalies.

That realization loosened the taut string in his mind just a little.

Not many, but enough.

Enough for him to keep moving forward.

When he returned to the private rest room, Jiang Yuan locked the door from the inside and shut the louvers tight.

The back of his combat uniform was completely wet; cold sweat seeped from the collar down to the belt, clinging to his skin, sticky enough to make one feel nauseous.

He didn't change clothes.

He sat at the desk, opened the Encrypted Terminal, and retrieved the internal personnel database.

Then he began entering names.

One, two, five, eleven.

Logistics Li Da Jie. Intelligence Department Qi Hao. The one in the Equipment Room Corridor who borrowed a lighter. The one in the Stairwell chewing a sandwich. The one at the east side of the Third Floor restroom doorway clutching printed paper.

For each name he typed, he marked beside it the floor, time, the activity at that moment, and any abnormal traits observed under the True Sight Eye.

His fingers danced rapidly across the keyboard.

No hesitation, no pause.

He now was a data‑entry machine. The clacking of keys filled the cramped rest room, mingling with the whir of air‑conditioning leaking through the wall cracks, monotonous and continuous.

The list stretched longer.

Twenty‑seven.

Forty‑three.

Fifty‑eight.

Behind each name lay an employee ID, years of service, and an emergency contact. Some he knew, some he didn't, some he had only met in the Cafeteria, not even a nodding acquaintance.

But the numbers themselves were already enough to make one's scalp tingle.

Today he went from the basement to the Fourth Floor; the areas he traversed accounted for less than one‑fifth of the Investigation Bureau headquarters. In that under‑one‑fifth area, he screened fifty‑eight.

If this ratio were extrapolated to the whole bureau—

He didn't continue the calculation.

He didn't dare to calculate.

The list on the terminal screen kept growing: sixty‑two, sixty‑seven, seventy‑one.

Seventy‑four.

Jiang Yuan stopped, massaging his temples. A sour, throbbing sensation raced from his brow to the back of his head, as if someone were scraping a blunt instrument inside.

He saved the list, set Triple Encryption, and shut down the terminal.

As long as the core personnel are unharmed, the situation is still salvageable. The Blockade Line remains, the Command Chain remains, the Strike Force remains. No matter how many Fake Persons there are, if the upper‑level structure is clean, there is still room for cleanup.

He told himself that.

Then he stood, picked up the cup on the desk. The cup was empty, his throat dry and painful.

Time to go to the Cafeteria.

Eat something, have a glass of ice water, calm the nerves. There's still more than half the headquarters to get through, so for now, head here.

The Cafeteria is on the west side of the Second Floor; after the lunch rush, it's not too crowded. Jiang Yuan ordered a plate of fried rice, a bowl of seaweed egg‑drop soup, and a cup of ice water, carried the tray to a corner by the window and sat down.

He had just opened his chopsticks, not yet able to scoop the first mouthful of rice.

A voice came from behind.

Clear, sweet, with a vitality that subconsciously eased one's guard.

"Jiang Yuan! You finally made it back!"