Chapter 406: Open Anomaly Zone

The moment the global live broadcast signal connected, forty‑seven communication satellites simultaneously switched frequencies.

Every illuminated screen on Earth—phones, TVs, mall LEDs, subway billboards, even the old‑style monitor in a hospital Corridor that hadn't been replaced in fifteen years—had its display completely overlaid.

No countdown. No opening. No preview.

Wei Gong's face filled the entire screen.

His hair was speckled gray, the buttons of his Zhongshan suit fastened up to the topmost one, the collar buttoned tightly. The background was the deep‑blue emblem of the Federal Investigation Bureau, and nothing else. No flamboyant set, no flag matrix—just an old man, a table, a camera.

He sat upright.

The Thermal Cup rested on the table corner, its lid screwed on tight; he didn't plan to drink it today.

Global viewership surpassed four hundred million in the first three seconds, eight hundred million by the tenth second, and at thirty seconds the data‑processing system froze outright.

Directors at television stations worldwide were stunned. Someone tried to cut the feed, but control permissions had been seized by the Federal Technical Department three seconds earlier, and even the North American Broadcasting Company's master control room displayed the same line:

Global Emergency Broadcast·Highest Priority Order·No Interruption.

Wei Gong opened his mouth.

His voice was soft, his speech even a bit slow. Yet each syllable enunciated with crystal clarity, and a translation AI simultaneously rendered it into one hundred thirty‑seven languages, covering ninety percent of the planet's population.

My name is Wei Gong. Director of Federal Weird Investigation Bureau.

Today, I will tell you some things. These things we have concealed for a long time.

There is no preamble.

The opening is a confession.

Everyone expected a grand official statement, but the very first sentence ripped the veil away.

Millions of messages flooded global social platforms in an instant, yet most people's fingers hovered above the screens, typing half a sentence before deleting it.

Because Wei Gong's next sentence came even faster.

Some of you, three days ago, saw a video. The North American President told you—the government is lying to you.

He paused briefly.

He is right.

———

The world erupted in a roar.

The comment sections blew up. The bullet‑screen chat blew up. The Black X server crashed for the third time.

We have indeed been deceiving you. Since the first Weird Domain appeared, we have blocked information, controlled public opinion, fabricated lies, and with the five words 'maintaining social stability' we have locked all truth in a safe.

Wei Gong's expression did not change.

Neither guilty nor agitated, nor sensational.

It was a statement. Like an old surgeon briefing a family before surgery—no superfluous rhetoric, only facts.

But today I am not here to apologize. Apologies are useless.

He reached out and pressed a button on the desk.

The blue background behind him vanished.

In its place appeared a sequence of footage.

The original recording from the Investigation Bureau's encrypted database. Uncensored. Unedited. Unpixelated.

In the footage, a twelve‑person special‑operations squad advanced. Their tactical formation was standard, equipment top‑grade, and behind each mask was a youthful face.

They walked through a door.

Then the screen turned red.

Literally red.

A something hanging upside‑down from the ceiling plummeted at an untrackable speed, tearing the leading member from shoulder to hip. Viscera smashed onto the lens. The last frame captured by the law‑enforcement recorder showed the second member gaping to scream, but before any sound emerged, his head vanished.

Billions of viewers worldwide saw the scene simultaneously.

No warning. No subtitle stating 'The following footage may cause discomfort.'

It cut to a black screen outright.

Some vomited. Some dropped their phones. Some covered their children's eyes—yet they themselves did not look away.

Wei Gong's voice came from above the footage, devoid of any emotion.

This is the A-level Weird Domain Internal Recording code‑named 'Abyssal Throat'. The special‑operations squad that took part entered twelve members, zero survived.

The footage switched.

The second segment.

A typical residential community. Sunlight bright, someone walking a dog.

The camera zoomed in. A middle‑aged man stood on the ground floor, clutching a thumb‑sized crimson crystal. Around him gathered seven or eight people, eyes fanatical, shouting 'Evolution', 'Rebirth', 'Gospel'.

The middle‑aged man shoved the crystal into his mouth.

The first three seconds nothing happened.

In the fourth second, he smiled.

In the fifth second, his spine erupted from his back.

The next footage shows the so‑called 'Evolution Seed' that some of you have been idolizing on social media—the real effect of the 'Crimson Seed' spread by the Gospel Church.

The footage did not stop.

The middle‑aged man's body swelled, twisted, and reassembled before the camera. Bones pierced the skin outward, muscle turned into rotting violet‑red tumors. His facial features vanished within ten seconds, replaced by a gaping maw lined with fangs.

He lunged at the nearest onlooker.

The onlooker was a girl in her early twenties, still holding a phone to record.

The camera was manually paused here by Wei Gong.

The frame froze on the girl's face. Her expression was shifting from excitement to terror, her mouth just opened.

"This girl is named Chen Sisi, twenty‑three years old, and she graduated from the Normal University just last year."

Wei Gong's voice remains steady.

"She didn't run away."

The screen darkens.

The world falls silent.

The kind of silence where billions of people shut up at once.

Wei Gong gives no time for anyone to digest.

He pulls a stack of paper from under the desk.

It's absurdly thick.

He doesn't open it; he simply stands the stack upright so the camera can capture its side thickness—at least four or five centimeters, and the paper edges are frayed from handling.

"This is the Casualty List."

He lays the papers flat on the table.

"Since the Federal Weird Investigation Bureau was founded, the names of all fallen Special Forces members, analysts, logistics staff, technical support, and field agents are all here."

He turns to the first page.

The camera pushes in.

A dense list of names, each followed by two dates—date of entry and date of death.

Some have more than a year between the dates; some only eleven days apart.

Wei Gong's finger slides over the first name.

"Zhou Sheng. Twenty‑six. Formerly assigned to Unit Two, killed while carrying out a clearance mission."

He flips to the second page.

"Mo Shu. Twenty‑five."

There is no further introduction for this name.

"The list contains 2,371 names. The oldest among them is fifty‑four, the youngest—nineteen years and three months."

He closes the list.

"Many of their families still don't know how they died, because we tell them it was an 'accidental death while performing official duties' and we don't even dare mention the name of a Weird Domain."

"We owe them an explanation."

Wei Gong lifts his head and looks at the camera.

There is no glint of tears in those cloudy old eyes. Some people grieve not outwardly but let the sorrow seep into their bones.

"But I'm here today not just to give an explanation."

"I am here to proclaim: many soldiers lie buried abroad, yet the authorities have never stopped."

His tone changes here.

From heavy to sharp.

"In the past two years we made a mistake—we drew a line between ordinary people and Weird Domains, forbidding anyone to cross it."

Everyone watching the live stream—whether rioters crouched on the street holding shattered‑screen phones or housewives on their living‑room sofas cradling children—was stunned.

"But starting today, the Federal Weird Investigation Bureau opens the 'Qualification Verification' channel to citizens worldwide, sharing Weird power."

As the words finish, a scrolling subtitle pops up in the lower‑right corner of the screen:

"Citizens who pass the official Certification Qualification Verification may receive system training and obtain abilities and equipment to combat the Weird."

"But..."

Wei Gong raises a finger.

"Weird Domains aren't playgrounds. They won't spare you just because you're bold or fearless. The footage you just saw—twelve elite troops, professionally trained, were completely wiped out; veterans with hundreds of missions were torn to pieces. Were they not brave enough? Not strong enough?"

"They were brave. They were strong. But they died."

There is no conjunction between those three sentences.

Dry. Blunt. Painful.

"Qualification Verification isn't a formality. It will filter out more than ninety percent of applicants. This isn't discrimination, nor a government monopoly on power—it's saving your lives."

Wei Gong's right hand rests on the desk, his torso leaning forward a few degrees.

"In the past, the authorities blocked Weird information to protect the public. Starting today, they will no longer monopolize Weird resources."

He pauses for two seconds.

"Humanity's enemy is not only the Weird; it is also ignorance of the Weird."

"From today onward, we will no longer let anyone live in ignorance."

"But please—don't mistake ignorance for courage."

The camera freezes on his face.

Three seconds. Five seconds. Eight seconds.

Then the Federal Weird Investigation Bureau's emblem lights up in the upper‑left corner, the screen slowly fades to black, leaving a single line of white text:

"Federal Weird Investigation Bureau·Global Qualification Verification Channel·Open today."

The live stream ends.

———

Times Square, New York.

The crowd that three minutes ago was smashing police cars now stands together on shards of broken glass, looking up at the 62‑meter‑tall LED screen.

The screen goes black.

No one moves.

The wind blew a crumpled flyer across the open street. It bore the Gospel Church slogan—"Embrace Evolution, Transcend Humanity".

The flyer rolled two meters and was stepped on by a sneaker.

The one stepping on the flyer was a seventeen‑ or eighteen‑year‑old boy. Three minutes earlier he had been at the front of the crowd, holding a homemade sign that read "Give Me My Evolution Rights".

Now he lowered his head to look at the flyer beneath his feet.

The grotesque, mutated scene still burned on his retina: the image of a middle‑aged man's spine jutting out from his back, and the face of a twenty‑three‑year‑old girl frozen in terror.

He bent down and picked up the flyer.

He crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the overturned Trash Can by the roadside.

London. Moscow. Sydney. São Paulo.

The rioting crowds in Core cities fell silent in unison.

It wasn't the quiet of obedience to orders.

It was the quiet that follows a punch from the truth, needing a moment to settle.

The Gospel Church infiltrators packed in the crowd were still trying to incite. After shouting a few times they found no one responded. Someone was even grabbed by the collar by a nearby citizen, who pointed at a phone screen and asked, "Did you see the person who turned into a monster? Are you still making us eat that damn Seed?"

The infiltrator broke free and turned to run.

Jiang Hai City.

Chu Che stood before the floor‑to‑ceiling window, holding a second hand‑poured coffee in his hand.

The editor panel hovered in midair, and real‑time feeds from around the world were going dark one by one—not due to signal loss, but because the riots were calming.

He nudged the gold‑rimmed glasses perched on his nose bridge.

"Not bad."

He took a sip of coffee. The temperature was just right.

"Fear‑based education is always more effective than moral preaching. Letting people see death with their own eyes works better than telling them 'danger' ten thousand times."

He set the cup down, and his fingertip lightly tapped the editor panel.

The Global Qualification Verification Channel's application data were skyrocketing, surpassing two million submissions in the first hour.

Chu Che stared at the string of numbers, remaining silent for a long while.

"The gate has opened."

The mirrored pane reflected the city's myriad lights; the corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly, a barely perceptible curve, revealing no emotion.

"The actors who need to take the stage are almost all present."