Chapter 415: As If Nothing Ever Happened

The van accelerated in the dusk.

The co‑driver's scar‑covered hand turned off the intercom, fished a pre‑loaded anesthetic syringe from the glove compartment, and flicked the needle cap off with his thumb.

The back seat was packed with four people. Three of them were lanky, with faint dark patterns spreading across their necks and backs of the hands—marks left by the Anomalous Power of wild Cunning Practitioners corroding their flesh. The one nearest the door had his eyes closed, calmly breathing, his fingertips idly twirling something, causing a faint hum in the air.

Junior Cunning Practitioner. Unofficial, never recruited by the Investigation Bureau, the sort who survive on dirty jobs in the Black Market.

Six people surrounded a fourteen‑year‑old girl.

More than enough.

The van glided silently past two broken streetlights, compressing the distance to the thin figure ahead, carrying a canvas backpack, to under eighty meters.

The co‑driver swung the door open.

Then he stopped.

Not because of hesitation.

But because the asphalt beneath his feet—had cracked.

Not the kind of fissure caused by vehicle pressure. It was a dome‑shaped crack rising from deep underground, bearing an indescribable sense of order. The fissures spread in perfect right angles, as if someone had drawn a checkerboard on the road with a ruler.

"What…?"

The bald man didn't finish his sentence.

His peripheral vision caught an impossible sight: the old residential blocks on either side of the road, waiting for demolition, were changing.

The wall plaster peeled away layer by layer, exposing underneath gray, mold‑stained stone bricks. The windows' glass sank inward, becoming narrow ventilations fitted with iron grilles. The sky above didn't turn black but faded to a lifeless lead‑gray, like curtains in an old classroom that hadn't been washed for decades.

The entire old street was replaced within seven seconds.

The asphalt vanished, replaced by a cold gray stone‑slab floor, each slab identical in size, with black water stains seeping into the joints. The air was filled with a sharp, icy scent of chalk dust mixed with disinfectant, drilling straight into the lungs.

The van's engine died.

Not a malfunction. Something had "turned it off" conceptually. The steering wheel, dashboard, even the metallic feel of the car key were subtly changing—plastic housings became worn wooden surfaces, the LCD numbers on the dash were covered by rows of hand‑written chalk.

The co‑driver twisted the key forcefully three times.

There was no response.

"Get out! All of you, get the hell out!"

Scar‑Face was the first to kick the door open and jump out, discarding the anesthetic syringe for a silenced pistol. The four in the back followed in a line, and three Cunning Practitioners had already begun to mobilize the Anomalous Power within their bodies.

One of them spread his five fingers, attempting to unleash his telekinetic field that can warp metal.

Nothing happened.

He tried again.

The dark pattern on his palm flashed for an instant, then, as if erased with a rubber, the light was wiped away segment by segment from the base toward the fingertips.

"My... power—"

Another Cunning Practitioner snapped his tongue, trying to trigger his Weird Symbiosis with pain. Blood dripped from his mouth corner. Yet the dormant thing inside him seemed to have been muted.

As quiet as death.

"Gun! Use the gun!" Scar‑Face raised the silenced pistol and pulled the trigger three times toward the street's end.

The trigger felt normal. The hammer's impact on the primer transmitted mechanically without issue.

Yet no bullet left the barrel.

To be precise, the moment the bullet left the barrel all kinetic energy was siphoned from the projectile; the copper shell fell silently from the muzzle, clinking on the stone slabs, rolling twice before stopping.

Scar‑Face lowered his head to stare at the intact bullets on the ground, the hair on his back standing on end.

"We've entered the Weird Domain."

The oldest Cunning Practitioner's voice trembled. He'd run through the Black Market, taken dirty jobs, seen plenty of Weirdness—but never this.

All offensive means were simultaneously "silenced". Firearms, supernatural abilities, everything reset to zero.

This isn't a Weird Domain.

This is a Rules domain!

Footsteps sounded from the end of the street.

Very light.

The sound of bare feet on the stone slabs carried an unhurried, almost ritualistic rhythm.

The six of them turned their heads simultaneously.

At the end of the bleak stone‑slab road, a figure emerged from the corner.

Barefoot. His features were delicate yet so pallid they were distorted, like an old sheet of paper that had been bleached.

The first thing that struck the eye was the mouth.

A thick black silk thread was brutally sewn through the upper and lower lips, sealing the entire oral cavity; the thread's end formed an ugly knot, the flesh gouged into deep furrows. It resembled not medical suturing but some punishment, some curse.

In his right hand he bore a Red Wood Ruler.

The ruler's surface was coated with a thick black liquid, not blood but stickier, darker, and unworldly. The liquid dripped slowly down the ruler, each drop leaving a charred circle on the stone, as if burned through.

Xu An.

Silent One.

His eyes were empty. Not unfocused, not indifferent, but a void that fundamentally lacked any human emotion. Like opening a door to nothing.

Six mercenaries plus three wild Cunning Practitioners—nine adult men—were frozen the instant those two eyes swept over them.

Not suppressed by Rules.

It was instinct.

A fear response to absolute predators, etched into human genes over hundreds of thousands of years of evolution.

Xu An did not quicken his pace. He kept the slow, barefoot‑walking rhythm, stepping forward inch by inch.

Thirty meters.

Twenty meters.

Ten meters.

"Open the damn gun!" Ba Lian roared and pulled the trigger again.

The bullet still fell silently.

He tossed the gun, drew a tactical knife from his waist, and charged at Xu An.

Xu An didn't even spare him a glance.

The Red Wood Ruler was lifted sideways and waved lightly.

The motion was small. The speed was not fast. But when Ba Lian rushed to within a meter of Xu An, a bizarre vibration surged through his right wrist—the tactical knife flew out of his hand, not knocked away but stripped of its hold by some force.

Immediately after, the tip of the ruler pressed against Ba Lian's Adam's apple.

The force was extremely light.

Ba Lian's knee shattered.

It wasn't smashed from the outside. It began inside, the bone breaking at a precise angle as if an invisible hand cracked the joint. He fell to his knees on the stone slab, trying to scream, his mouth opening to the fullest—

No sound.

His vocal cords were muted.

In the air only the wet crack of the knee bone shattering remained.

Xu An lifted his left hand, spread his five fingers, and made a vague "grasp" motion toward the kneeling Ba Lian.

Something inside Ba Lian's body was pulled out.

It was a vague, dark‑red‑glowing fragment of image. The fragments unfolded in the air like a projector screen—showing Ba Lian's past deeds.

Kidnapping. Extortion. Murder and silencing. Using anesthetic to render victims unconscious, then dragging them into the wilderness for dismemberment.

The scenes played silently, each frame crystal clear with no room left.

Xu An lowered his head, his hollow eyes staring at those image fragments.

Then the ruler fell.

The first strike pulled Ba Lian's tongue out of his mouth. It wasn't cut; it was ripped out with the deep throat muscle fibers, the whole thing hanging from his chin.

The second strike made his spine protrude from his back, each vertebra precisely displaced, his body arcing into an impossible angle.

No blood.

To be exact, the moment blood emerged it was absorbed by the stone slab.

The remaining mercenaries and Correction Place operatives finally broke. They turned and fled, scrambling in the opposite direction of the street.

But this street had no end.

They ran for thirty seconds, a minute, two minutes; the stone slabs beneath their feet were identical, the dilapidated gray buildings on both sides identical, the lead‑gray canopy overhead identical.

They could go nowhere.

The Correction Place has no Exit.

Xu An lifted the ruler, still at that unhurried pace, barefoot on the stone slabs, stepping forward step by step.

He didn't need to chase.

The prey cannot escape the classroom.

The three operatives were corrected one by one. Their crimes were materialized, displayed, judged. The hand that killed was severed, the liar had a canine tooth pulled, the ten fingers that stole were broken one by one and forced into his own mouth.

The whole process was silent.

Inside the Correction Place there were no screams, no pleas, no extra sounds. Only the heavy thud of the Red Wood Ruler striking flesh, like a cane hitting a desk.

The last was Zhao Guoqiang.

His gray jacket vanished the instant the Weird Domain arrived—those refined beings run faster than anyone. But Zhao Guoqiang couldn't run. His legs went weak, his crotch already soaked, he collapsed onto the stone slab, watching Xu An approach step by step.

Behind him he held Zhao Lingfei, curled up in tears.

"I have money... I'll give you everything... please—"

Xu An stopped two steps away from him.

His hollow eyes drooped, scanning Zhao Guoqiang, then scanning Zhao Lingfei behind him.

The Red Wood Ruler lifted.

Zhao Guoqiang's sins were pulled from his body—cutting corners, bribery, signing off on inspections while knowing the building materials were substandard, causing structural hazards in three civilian residences.

The scenes played frame by frame to the end.

The ruler fell.

The sound of bones cracking lingered for a long time.

Zhao Lingfei screamed and crawled backward, her nails scraping blood marks on the stone slab. Xu An turned to her, the tip of the ruler giving a gentle poke into the air before her.

The image fragments pulled from Zhao Lingfei's body were few—bullying classmates, abusing power over others.

The ruler hovered above her head, pausing for three seconds.

Xu An did not judge her; he directly smashed her skull.

He turned, barefoot over the charred marks and broken bones covering the ground, retracing his steps back the way he came.

After walking twenty steps, the entire Correction Place domain began to peel away from the edges toward the center; the gray‑worn stone slabs cracked piece by piece, revealing the asphalt road beneath, and the lead‑gray sky curtain split, letting twilight surge in through the gaps.

The street returned to its original state.

The streetlights lit up.

Chen Yao stood at the other end of the street.

She took off her earphones, the canvas backpack still sat properly on her shoulders, and her school uniform bore not a drop of blood; she lowered her head to look at the Old Hairpin she had stuck in her hand, then glanced at the remnants of the "wild Weird out‑of‑control" on the ground ahead— the pattern of scattered body fragments perfectly matched the traits of indiscriminate Weird rampage.

Chen Yao clipped the hairpin back onto her hair, turned around, and continued walking back.

Her steps were neither fast nor slow.

Exactly the same as when she arrived.

As if she had seen nothing, as if nothing had ever happened.