Chapter 471: The Undead Returning to Kill the God

Black.

An endless black.

Lu Yu's consciousness was falling.

No pain, no touch, even time was stripped away. All around was thick void, swallowing him, wrapping him, dragging him deeper.

Then, there was light.

Not some grand, metaphorical salvation light.

It was the Cafeteria's fluorescent tube.

Buzz‑buzz, the 60 Hz AC trembling frequency, pale light poured from the ceiling, making the stainless steel trays sparkle.

The air reeked of braised pork ribs and the agency Cafeteria's eternally unchanged seaweed egg‑drop soup.

Lu Yu was stunned.

He recognized this place.

Federal Weird Investigation Bureau, internal Cafeteria.

Those people were also there.

At the innermost end of the long table, Liang Wen perched his foot on the opposite chair, his black windcoat open, Fingerless Gloves hovering over the tray as he made a chuunibyou‑level, infuriating gesture: "I have already penetrated the profound meaning of this soup. Its saltiness is precisely the perfect threshold that makes human taste buds repeatedly leap on the brink of despair."

"Can you speak normally?" Su Ming sat opposite him, his chopsticks precisely scooping all the fatty meat from his own bowl into Liang Wen's plate, "Just say it's salty, that's all."

"Mortal cannot understand."

Jiang Yuan carried a tray, walked from the serving window, and before sitting said neatly, "I'll sit here." He's in his thirties, yet still keeps that politeness.

No one responded to him. He didn't mind, lowered his head and scooped rice.

Lu Yu stood three steps behind them, holding a tray.

This is a memory. A memory from a previous life.

The Core Captains gathered for the last time to eat. No one wore combat uniforms, no one carried weapons, and the Cafeteria's TV was still broadcasting news.

Everything was terrifyingly normal.

He walked over and sat at the table's end. No one looked up at him, because in this memory he was supposed to sit there.

Liang Wen was pushing back the bowl of soup that Su Ming had added ingredients to. Su Ming, expressionless, pushed it back again. The two engaged in a silent tug‑of‑war across a bowl of seaweed egg‑drop soup.

"Alright." Jiang Yuan set down his chopsticks and spoke, cutting them off.

His expression changed. It became very solemn.

"Let's talk business."

The Cafeteria's noise was cut down by more than half. The surrounding tables' chatter and clatter of dishes faded into vague white noise.

Su Ming also set down his chopsticks. Liang Wen withdrew his foot from the chair.

"I've tested the reverse flow of the Time Marrow Worm," Su Ming's tone had little inflection, like reading a product manual, "The limit of consciousness rewind is twelve years and four months. The body cannot accompany it. In other words—"

"The person sent back will inhabit their past self's body in soul form." Jiang Yuan took over.

"Right. Memories remain, abilities remain, but the body returns to the state at the corresponding time point."

"That means the youngest would be in their teens." Liang Wen hummed, unusually without a chuunibyou remark, "A teenage body bearing the current soul, fighting S Ji level monsters, how is the load resolved?"

"Can't solve it." Su Ming spread his hands, "Thus each time a returnee uses power beyond the body's limit, it's an overdraft. The ceiling depends on the individual's Weirdness and bodily compatibility."

Silence spread for a few seconds.

"Then stop the nonsense." Liang Wen leaned back, arms crossed, the teasing in his peach‑blossom eyes completely gone, "If we face that 'God' and lose, who will go back?"

The question landed on the table, heavier than that salty soup.

Jiang Yuan was the first to rule himself out: "The Shadow Legion's growth is too slow."

"I also can't." Liang Wen, unusually honest, "The cost of Rewind ability is burning lifespan; how many years can it actually burn?"

All eyes turned to Su Ming.

"Don't look at me." Su Ming lifted his cup and took a sip, "I only handle sending people back; my own combat power isn't that high."

He paused, his wording restrained.

"It's not the same tier as an active frontline Core Captain." Liang Wen finished for him.

Su Ming shot a glance like a dagger, but didn't rebut.

"There's only one option."

Everyone looked at the table's end.

Lu Yu bit the tip of his chopsticks, the rice before him barely moved.

"Me?"

"Your 'Taotie.'" Su Ming's gaze landed precisely on Lu Yu's chest, "It devours everything, is indiscriminate, has no limit. As long as there are enough prey, your growth never stops. This ability is most compatible with the flesh, because fundamentally it constantly remodels the host's body."

"Translate into human language." Liang Wen turned his chair to face Lu Yu, "The more fights you have after you go back, the tougher your body becomes. Unlike us, the more we fight, the more we weaken."

"There's another reason."

Jiang Yuan's tone was even.

"You have no bottom line."

Normally that would be an insult, but no one thought it improper.

"To kill the God, you can use anyone, deceive anyone, step on everyone's lives to climb up." Jiang Yuan looked into Lu Yu's eyes, "We can't do that. Su Ming can't, Liang Wen can't, I can't."

The fluorescent tube buzzed again.

Lu Yu removed his chopsticks from his mouth, glanced at Su Ming, then at Liang Wen and Jiang Yuan. The three wore different expressions.

Su Ming was calm, having calculated pros and cons to the optimal solution, like solving a math problem.

Liang Wen unusually restrained all jokes, his peach‑blossom eyes reflecting the harsh white of the fluorescent light.

Jiang Yuan was the most straightforward, also the cruelest—what he said was all fact.

"Do you all agree?"

The three of them nodded.

Lu Yu lowered his head and glanced at the cold, stewed pork ribs on the plate.

"Alright."

He picked up his chopsticks, grabbed a rib, shoved it into his mouth, chewed twice, and frowned.

"The ribs are salty, too."

"I told you," Su Ming's mouth twitched, "the Cafeteria's chef is sick today."

It was the last meal in his memory. Three days later, the Blood Moon devoured the sky. Jiang Hai City turned to scorched earth.

"Beep—beep—beep—"

The ECG monitor tore a slit through the darkness.

White. Too white. The ceiling is white, the walls are white, the sheets are white, and the air forced into the nostrils smells of a bleach-and-iodophor mixture, excessively clean.

S Ji Special Care Ward. Deep within the military hospital directly under the Federal Weird Investigation Bureau, three biometric doors plus the director's order are required for entry.

Two people sit in the ward.

Su Ming leans against the left-side companion chair, his left leg in a cast extending from the seat, a tablet lying on his knee. His complexion is poor, a bruise at the left eye corner hasn't faded, but those overly sharp eyes stare at the screen, scrolling line by line through some File.

On the right, by the window, Chen Shao sits on an uncomfortable metal folding chair. His hair is slicked back, no wax to hold it, stray strands hanging over his forehead. He wears a dark‑gray turtleneck, and three layers of bandages wrap his right arm from shoulder to wrist. The Demon Eye is closed; he looks out the window with his normal eye.

No one says a word.

But the density of that silence is so high it isn't the atmosphere of two wounded patients quietly convalescing.

It's like two predators locked in the same cage, waiting for a third to awaken.

The boy on the bed remains motionless. An oxygen mask covers half his face, the monitoring curve rises gently, and the IV drips drop one by one.

Su Ming's hand that was flipping through the File stops, and he glances sideways at the face pale enough to be almost translucent.

Three days have passed.

All vital signs are stable, yet the brainwaves display an unusually active pattern never seen by doctors—a high‑intensity conscious computation occurring during deep sleep.

Or rather, looking at something.

"The Weird inside him is self‑repairing," Chen Shao said, his voice hoarse, not turning around, "the speed is three times faster than I expected. At this recovery rate, he'll wake up within today."

Su Ming didn't ask how he judged that. The Demon Eye can read a living being's energy fluctuations; that isn't a secret.

"How long have you been guarding here?"

"Two hours before you arrived."

"So you guessed I'd come too?"

"You had to come," Chen Shao finally turned his head, a complex expression flickering in his normal brown eye, "Su Ming, we were all saved by a fourteen‑year‑old kid. Do you think that's normal?"

Su Ming's mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile.

"Not normal."

"So—"

"So I need answers. You do too."

Their gazes briefly intersect above the bed.

"Beep—"

The monitor's waveform suddenly changes.

It isn't the usual chaotic, faint consciousness surge when a patient awakens.

It's a steady sleeping curve that, within an extremely brief interval, is precisely switched to the standard awake waveform.

Clean and crisp. Someone reached out and pressed a switch.

Su Ming and Chen Shao both tensed at the same time.

The boy on the bed opened his eyes.

No struggle. No confusion. No post‑catastrophe terror, and no bewilderment about where he is.

Those eyes are empty.

Not a weakness‑induced hollowness. It's a bone‑deep indifference born from having seen too much and caring about nothing.

His pupils focused in just half a second.

First the ceiling, then the monitor, then the IV stand, the ward's entrance access system, and the window's position and opening direction.

Finally, his gaze settled on the two people at the sides of the bed.

Su Ming noticed a detail—Lu Yu looked at them in order, first Su Ming, then Chen Shao. Scanning Su Ming took 0.3 seconds; scanning Chen Shao took a full second.

It isn't fear. It's assessment.

The numbers on the ECG monitor remain steady. Heart rate 62, blood pressure 118 over 75, respiratory rate 16 breaths per minute.

A fourteen‑year‑old boy who woke from three days of coma faces two men who could make the entire Federation tremble.

His vital signs are as steady as someone just waking from a nap.

Su Ming's pupils constricted. He had suspected before; now it confirms his conjecture.

Lu Yu raised his right hand.

The movement is slow. Not a weak slowness, but a deliberate, energy‑saving, precise control of every muscle. He pinches the IV line connector on the back of his hand and pulls it out. The tube slips from the skin, a tiny drop of blood oozes, he pinches it for two seconds to stop the bleeding, then casually places it on the bedside table.

He never furrows a brow the whole time.

Su Ming sits up straight. Chen Shao's closed Demon Eye suddenly opens a slit, a dim crimson, the same hue temperature as ember glow in a furnace about to die out.

Lu Yu leans against the headboard, sits up, removes the oxygen mask and places it beside the pillow.

He looks at Su Ming once. Then at Chen Shao.

Then he speaks. His throat is hoarse, the dry hoarseness of three days without water. Yet his tone isn't; it's unnaturally steady.

"Don't test me anymore."

The six words fell into the white ward, light and floating.

Su Ming's fingertip rested on his knee.

Chen Shao's Demon Eye opened fully.

"I confess."

It was silent for three seconds.

Those three seconds were enough for Su Ming to place his hand on the trigger of the Containment Object at his waist, and also enough for Chen Shao's telepathy to cover every corner of the ward.

But neither of them moved.

Because Lu Yu's expression was not what a person driven to a dead end should have.

It was a kind of—strangely—fatigue.

Not physical fatigue. It was the weariness of having carried something too heavy for too long, finally finding a table on which to set it down temporarily, a tiredness mixed with self‑mockery and relief.

"Are you clear about what you're saying?" Su Ming's tone was well controlled, revealing no emotion.

"Clearer than you think."

Lu Yu picked up the cup on the nightstand, unscrewed the lid and took a sip. His Adam's apple rolled, a drop of water slipped from the corner of his mouth, and he brushed it away with the back of his hand.

"What you want to ask are just those few things," he placed the cup back, his throat a bit more lubricated than before, "Why I could defeat Zhang Yuanqing, what the Weird on my body is, and—who I actually am."

"Right?"

He looked at Su Ming while saying the last two words. Su Ming neither nodded nor shook his head.

One by one is too slow; I'll say it all at once, and you digest it yourselves.

The corner of his mouth twitched. The curve was so slight it wasn't a smile, more like a lingering habit stored in his muscle memory from another life.

"Let's get reacquainted."

"My name is Lu Yu."

"From the apocalypse twelve years later, I crawled back as the revenant who slays gods."

The beeping of the cardiac monitor continued.

Sixty‑two. Still sixty‑two.

Speaking such a mind‑shattering statement, his heart didn't skip a beat.

Su Ming's Adam's apple slid once. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

It was Chen Shao who reacted first.

That crimson Demon Eye opened completely, its dim light swirling several times deep within the pupil—

Then it faded.

It wasn't a voluntary shut‑off. It was unreadable.

Chen Shao's Demon Eye can read any living person's spiritual wave, but aimed at Lu Yu, the feedback signal was no different from staring at a wall.

This fourteen‑year‑old boy's spiritual defense density was harder than Zhang Yuanqing's law‑bound bone armor.

Footsteps of a shift‑changing nurse came from outside the ward door, passed by, and faded. The fluorescent tubes buzzed.

Su Ming's hand released the trigger. It wasn't a lowering of guard. He suddenly realized—if the boy before him was telling the truth, then the one lying on the bed was not a fourteen‑year‑old child who needed "defense."

"Twelve years later," Lu Yu began, his throat a bit hoarse, "the apocalypse."