Chapter 407: Strict Selection

The 72nd hour after Wei Gong's livestream.

The global Internet underwent the most violent collective shift in history.

Three days ago, the account that was still rallying on forums to storm the quarantine zone and shouting "Give us our evolution rights" has had many avatars switched to the Investigation Bureau's emblem.

No one berated him in the comment section.

Because the people who would have scolded him three days ago were probably even more radical than he was.

That high‑definition footage of the aberrant transformation became the most widely shared video on the Internet.

Not because of curiosity, but because of fear.

The frame‑by‑frame capture of a middle‑aged man's spine piercing his back skin was turned into anti‑Gospel Church educational material.

A university professor posted a lengthy analysis on a social platform about the stress changes in the human body during the aberration, concluding—"The instant you swallow the Seed, you are no longer yourself; thereafter all pain, you don't even have the right to cry out, because your consciousness dies before your vocal cords."

The article was shared ninety million times.

And the name of the twenty‑three‑year‑old teacher‑training graduate Chen Sisi was engraved on a spontaneously built memorial wall. Alongside her were the 2,371 names recited by Wei Gong.

The day the memorial‑wall photo spread across the whole net, the tone of the comment section had become a world apart from three days earlier.

"Damn it, three days ago I was still cursing the Investigation Bureau for monopolizing power, and now after seeing the Casualty List I'm speechless. Nineteen years and three months old, my brother is also nineteen this year."

"Does anyone still remember Jiang Yuan? The one in front of the Blockade Line who was surrounded by thousands, berated, and stopped people from entering the Weird Domain? He was drenched in blood then; when the footage replayed I saw a charred strap tied around his wrist. Someone traced it to be a relic of his comrade."

Below that comment, fifty thousand replies.

The speed of public opinion's reversal exceeded everyone's expectations, including the Investigation Bureau's own.

On the analysis center's big screen, the search volume for positive Gospel Church‑related entries plummeted from its peak to a trough within forty‑eight hours. In its place, the curves for the keywords "Weird Investigation Bureau," "Deceiver," and "Qualification Verification" surged vertically, their slope so steep that the line chart almost became a single vertical line.

And among all trending search terms, the top rank was neither the Investigation Bureau nor Wei Gong.

It was "Deceiver."

To be precise, it was "Deceiver—humanity's last super‑hero."

Various indistinguishable battlefield videos were ripped from the corners of encrypted servers; in the fuzzy thermal‑imaging frames, some people commanded a Shadow army to shred the Weird outlines, others sprinted through a time‑slowdown domain, and some swung blades to carve a white slash that spanned half a street.

The picture quality was as terrible as surveillance footage from fifteen years ago, yet the worse it was, the more flavor it had.

Set to BGM edited by various netizens, the barrage was filled with "Kneeling," "Light of humanity," "I'm amazed—can humans really do this?"

The grassroots deification movement officially began.

Although the Investigation Bureau has never disclosed any real identity information about the Deceiver, the Internet's power is more terrifying than any intelligence agency—someone inferred Jiang Yuan's height and weight from his vague silhouette, another used AI to reconstruct a half‑profile of Su Ming captured during combat, and some even began writing Deceiver fanfiction.

The topic "I also want to become a Deceiver" amassed over eight billion reads in seventy‑two hours.

Three days later, reality gave its response.

At the Investigation Bureau branches outside the Federation's thirty‑six core cities, long queues formed.

Not the kind of rush‑hour subway entrance line, but the kind where, standing at the tail and looking forward, you can't see the head at all.

At the Jiang Hai branch entrance, the line stretched from the main gate, looped around two blocks, turned into the neighboring commercial street, then back from the street's end, forming a massive U‑shape. Someone tallied that at its longest it spanned nearly ten kilometers.

The queue contained every kind of person.

A programmer in a plaid shirt carried a laptop, tweaking code while queuing, saying "If I don't get selected, I still have to submit the weekly report." A veteran held his discharge certificate and third‑class merit medal, his expression solemn as if heading to battle. A Reinforced Steel Bar worker who'd just come from the site wore a reflective vest splattered with cement spots, yellow‑rubber shoes, clutched an ID card, and hadn't even washed the dust out of his nail crevices.

A middle‑aged woman with graying hair carried a thermos, queuing from 3 a. m. to 10 a. m., and was stopped by a reporter who asked why she was there.

She said, "My daughter opened a convenience store three months ago on the edge of B‑03 Weird Domain; the day the quarantine zone was breached, she didn't get out."

The reporter dared not continue.

She added, "I'm not here for revenge. I'm fifty‑three; I can't beat those monsters even if I tried. I just want to see what the Qualification Verification really is, I want to know what the people who protected my daughter went through."

The interview made the headline on every news channel that day.

But the overwhelming majority of queuers didn't have such heavy stories.

They came for two words—

Turnaround.

A bankrupt small‑business owner, feeling cornered, heard that passing the Qualification Verification could grant power and a rank, and brought his whole family. A university graduate who had been unemployed for three years, after his résumé vanished without a trace, pinned his last hope on this application form. There were also pure‑blood hot‑blooded youths, whose spirits surged after watching battlefield videos, believing their innate talent destined them.

A twenty‑something guy raised his phone to the camera, livestreaming his queuing process, his voice booming: "Family! Your Iron Pillar has arrived! From now on, Iron Pillar is the Deceiver! Remember to follow and like!"

The veteran behind him stared expressionlessly for three seconds, then silently stepped back half a step.

And amid this nationwide frenzy.

Jiang Yuan returned.

There was no welcome ceremony. No red carpet. No flowers. He simply jumped down from the back of a drab military transport vehicle, a Containment Box in his left hand, and the charred, blackened tactical Hand Ring wrapped around his right wrist.

His combat suit bore three gashes, the largest on his left rib where two layers of hemostatic bandage were visible, the oozing blood already dried to a deep brown. His hair was a mess, and a fresh abrasion on his face had not yet formed a scab.

Yet his gait was steady.

Not the kind of vigorous steadiness, but a steadiness accustomed to bearing weight—knees slightly bent, stride even, as if he'd trekked a long way with dozens of kilograms of gear.

The transport vehicle stopped at the branch's logistics entrance. In theory only insiders could enter, yet now a fourteen‑kilometer queue stretched from the branch entrance, its tail already spilling near the back door.

When Jiang Yuan stepped off, a dozen or so queuers turned their heads and saw him.

At first, no one recognized him.

Then a youngster widened his eyes and elbowed the person beside him: "Whoa, look at that box on his hand—that's a Containment Box."

"Is he from the Investigation Bureau?"

"No, look at the blood on his clothes, and that waist‑hang—that's a Card Bag! A Card Bag! Damn, is this the Jiang Yuan from the online video?!"

The line stirred.

From near to far, like ripples, the low murmurs grew into a clear commotion. Several people pulled out phones to photograph Jiang Yuan, the flash glaring in the afternoon sun.

Someone shouted, "Brother! Over here!"

Jiang Yuan's footsteps did not stop.

He didn't look back, nor speed up, just kept a steady pace toward the logistics entrance's access control. He scanned his face, pushed the door, and went in.

The door closed behind him.

The Qualification Verification site is set on the second underground level of each branch.

Calling it a "verification" is just putting people in front of Weird and seeing who can endure.

The concrete procedure is divided into three rounds.

The first round is a psychological stress test. The examinee is locked alone in a pitch‑black compartment, whose walls are embedded with trace factors extracted by the Investigation Bureau from a D‑grade Weird Domain.

It's not genuine Weird, only residual radiation.

But for ordinary people, its effect is equivalent to being thrown into a coffin while someone whispers in your ear with the voice of a deceased relative.

Duration: ninety seconds.

On the first day, the Jiang Hai branch received fourteen hundred applicants.

Those who passed the first round: two hundred thirty‑one people.

Of the remaining one thousand one hundred sixty‑nine, over four hundred spent less than thirty seconds in the compartment before pounding on the door and screaming. More than two hundred held out to sixty seconds but their pupils dilated, heart rates went out of control, and the Medical Team forced a stop. Seventy‑odd people fainted.

There were also eleven people—seven‑orifice bleeding.

It's not a metaphor.

It was truly blood seeping out from the eye sockets, nasal cavity, and ear canal.

The emotional radiation of the fear factor physiologically backfires on those with weak will, lowering san, and can cause capillary rupture in the nerve endings of people with special constitutions. Those eleven were rushed to a rear temporary medical station, and three of them did not wake up that day.

After the news spread, the queue at the door shrank by one‑third.

Yet the remaining two‑thirds queued even more tightly.

The second round is a Weird perception test.

In front of the examinee is placed a shard of broken mirror stripped from a C‑grade Weird "Mirror Guest".

The Mirror Guest's Murder Rule is to make those with too low san lose reason, be controlled, and walk into the mirror.

Once entered the mirror, one is trapped there forever.

Of course, the Investigation Bureau set up safety measures, with personnel on standby beside to stop examinees from entering the mirror.

The examinee's goal is to endure five minutes before the Mirror Guest.

The first batch of the two hundred thirty‑one who passed the psychological test took their seats.

Among them six lost mental control on the spot.

A thirty‑four‑year‑old veteran sat before the broken mirror for twelve seconds, then suddenly lunged, hurling his chair at the shards, and was restrained by five security staff. Afterwards he repeatedly wrote the same sentence on the psychologist's questionnaire: "It is laughing. It is laughing with my mother's face."

The third round is the true direct Weird test.

Only ninety people in the entire Jiang Hai branch made it this far on the first day.

Those ninety were taken into a reinforced sealed laboratory, where a lowest‑grade urban legend was released.

"You only need to hold out for five minutes," the proctor's voice came through the speaker, "and you'll pass."

Finally.

Of the ninety, fewer than one‑third cleared the test.

Across the whole day, fourteen hundred applicants, the final pass rate—

0.714.

Evening of the third day.

Federal Weird Investigation Bureau headquarters, Conference Room Three.

Wei Gong had seven Qualification Verification summary reports from the various branches spread before him, the top report's cover already frayed from his thumb. The Thermal Cup sat on the table corner, having been unscrewed once today, not drunk from, and screwed back on.

Nine people sat in the seats, all frontline heads of their respective departments.

The atmosphere was bad.

No one tried to put on a good front.

The Logistics Department Director was the first to speak, his throat hoarse like sandpaper on metal: "Three days, the entire Federation's thirty‑six branches, a cumulative intake of two hundred forty‑seven thousand applicants, and those who finally passed all three rounds—less than one percent."

After reciting those numbers, he fell silent for two seconds.

"Regarding medical resource consumption: over three thousand four hundred people required hospitalization due to physiological injuries from the test, including one hundred nine in intensive care, and seventeen with irreversible neural damage. Each branch mobilized at least three emergency teams on 24‑hour standby, and some branches have exhausted their emergency supplies."

He closed the report and rubbed his face.

"Wei Gong, if we keep going like this, we'll select only a few people and the medical side will collapse first."

No one replied.

The Data Services Department head pushed his glasses back and added a more cutting remark: "Public opinion also has issues. The pass rate is too low; there's a ten‑kilometer queue at the door, and among the over one thousand, few are usable. Those eliminated emerge emotionally unstable, and some have already posted online accusing the testing procedure of being inhumane."

"A eliminated university professor wrote a three‑thousand‑word essay titled 'The Investigation Bureau's Qualification Verification Is a New‑Era Bloodline Theory', and it amassed eight million reads within two hours."

Wei Gong remained silent, tapped the tabletop twice with his fingers. Everyone fell quiet instantly.

The silence lasted about five or six seconds.

Intelligence Analysis Department Deputy Director Qian Hongguo stood up; he had been urgently recalled from the front line today, and the mud spots on his combat boots hadn't dried completely.

"I spent three days on the ground," he said, his speech unhurried but each word stabbing at the core, "to be honest, the Qualification Verification path has the right direction, but its logic is flawed."

Wei Gong lifted his eyelid slightly.

Qian Hongguo continued, "Our current screening model is a three‑round funnel; each round eliminates, leaving one out of a hundred. Fine. That one is indeed gold. The problem is—the remaining ninety‑nine aren't gold; they're bombs."

He walked to the projection screen and brought up a bar chart.

"Psychological follow‑up of the eliminated: thirty‑four percent developed varying degrees of hostility toward the Investigation Bureau. Twelve percent posted negative remarks on social platforms. And six percent—note that figure—of the eliminated made contact with suspected Gospel Church peripheral members within seventy‑two hours after leaving the branch."

Someone in the conference room inhaled sharply.

"The Gospel's Seed doesn't discriminate. We pick the leftovers, and they take them away."

Qian Hongguo shut off the projection, turned around and faced Lord Wei.

Bureau Chief, the Federation can't keep doing this kind of flood‑style mass recruitment. 240,000 people surged in; we pour our manpower, medical resources, and funds into it, yet we end up with very few reservists—this loss is massive, it's gone to grandma's house. But if we tighten entry and raise the threshold, outsiders will only curse us more fiercely, and the Gospel Church will only scoop up more.

He paused for a beat.

What we need is not a finer net but a systematic pre‑screening and cultivation mechanism. Before the public even signs up, we conduct an initial screening, pulling those with basic potential in early for long‑term cultivation, while keeping the obviously unqualified out but giving them a dignified exit—rather than slapping them and kicking them out.

He stared directly into Lord Wei's eyes.

Otherwise, if we keep spending at this pace, the Investigation Bureau's finances will be completely drained within a month. In another two months, there's a high chance a second Xiao Zhang will emerge from those eliminated.

As those final words fell, the air‑condition vent in Conference Room 3 happened to pause for one cycle.

Without the mechanical hum as a backdrop, it was so quiet that everyone could hear their own heartbeat.