Chapter 127 Formatting Failure
The moment I shouted it, that “Senior An” lifted his head and looked straight at me. The smile at the corner of his mouth finally split open.
“So you were testing me.”
That smile wasn’t something a human face should make. It cracked open like a doll whose seams had burst, skin stiff, eyes hollow.
“How annoying.”
His voice shifted as he spoke—hoarse, metallic, like something scraped along iron.
The other Senior An’s expression tightened. His wrist flicked, and a palm-strike sliced out sharp enough to split wind.
They collided within a single breath.
Sparks went flying. The shockwave nearly launched me off the floor.
I crouched, hands over my head, stumbling backward. “Knew it! Both of them are unforgivable—one’s logically deranged, the other loads like a lagging screen. And I’m the idiot getting dragged into this?!”
The system’s tone was bland.
[Congratulations. You have successfully identified the Bug.]
“Then fix it!”
[Repair failed. Bug has self-evolved into a high-risk entity.]
“Then what the hell do I do?”
[Survive.]
I: …
I bolted. I managed all of two steps before the ground split open beneath me.
A narrow seam, glowing faint silver.
“System, what now?!”
[Primary plot-matter reboot detected.]
“Say that in human words!”
[In short: the Bug is reverting reality to a version he can control.]
My scalp prickled. “Which means I’m about to get wiped?!”
[Depends on your speed.]
Before I could even curse, the fake Senior An slammed a palm down.
Boom.
The entire room split apart in a burst of distorted light and shadow. My ears rang, vision spun—then the ground vanished, and I fell straight into a blinding silver void.
The system’s voice flickered at the edge of hearing.
[Formatting process initiated—]
“Don’t you dare—!”
I roared, but the light swallowed me whole.
——
Wind screamed past my ears; the falling sensation sharpened.
Just when I thought I was headed back into a coffin, a cold hand shot out of the void and seized my wrist.
Lian’s hand.
I met Lian in the emptiness.
Silver light washed in every direction—no up, no down, no horizon. Like being tossed into an endless mirror. At first we were still falling, wind tearing past, but after who knew how long, the sensation cut out. Our bodies simply… stopped in midair.
I opened my mouth, suddenly unsure what I was even supposed to say to him.
Lian didn’t speak either. His brows moved slightly, as if he wanted to say something.
Before either of us could speak, the void rippled. Light swelled beneath our feet, spreading like water.
Then scenes began flashing around us—like someone flipping through a book at frantic speed.
First: the tomb. Our fight under the influence of that stone statue. Lian colder than winter, me furious enough to throw hands.
Then Luoyan City—chaos at the Western Altar. Lian giving orders; me bickering with Hua, doing everything in my power to dodge labor.
Then the case in Chongping City—Wu exonerated, and me almost smashing a cup out of rage at the injustice.
The scene snapped again—Qushan Village, during the Feet-God contest. My glorious moment of slipping three full yards across the ground. I wanted to cover the projection with a curtain.
And then, finally… that cliff.
Lian’s despair, the wind whipping his clothes. And me—launched off the edge by my own world-shaking stupidity.
The image froze right as I fell, the wind howling like laughter.
My face burned. I muttered inwardly at the system:
“System! What is this, a personal highlight reel of my worst moments?!”
For once, the system didn’t answer. Maybe even it was embarrassed.
Lian didn’t laugh. Didn’t comment. His eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable as he studied the scenes.
I got nervous and let out a shaky chuckle. “Well… that time I fell wasn’t exactly intentional. I was just—”
He glanced at me. His voice was quiet. “I know.”
And that was all he said.
The silence became unbearable.
I was about to say something—anything—when the images abruptly flickered and vanished. A burst of white light hit me, forcing my eyes open.
When my vision cleared, we were no longer in the void.
We were back on the high platform.
The giant eye was gone. In its place hung an ordinary moon, though its light felt unnaturally cold.
Lian lay beside me, pale, unconscious.
Hua was still hanging from that damned wooden frame, also out cold.
As for Senior An… both versions were gone.
Only the silver box remained, rolling gently across the ground until it came to rest. Its surface no longer glowed—just a dull, matte gray.
I tried to push myself upright; my knees buckled.
Below the platform, the mass of people—the ones previously controlled and kneeling—were frozen. Completely motionless.
Like someone had hit pause on an entire crowd.
My throat was dry. “System… what’s going on now?”
[Formatting process… terminated.]
“Terminated? Isn’t that good news? Good job.”
[Not me.] The system’s tone dipped lower. [For unknown reasons, the process stopped on its own.]
“On its own? Who has the power to do that?”
[…Possibly the silver box.]
“Can you not drop half an explanation every time?” I rapped my knuckles on my own forehead. “Seriously, who built you? A suspense novelist?”
[Please remain calm.] The system stayed painfully serious.
[Current detection indicates: the Bug and the narrative cache have both departed the main story-space.]
“In human words.”
[They are—temporarily or permanently—gone.]
I blinked. “Why do you sound disappointed? That’s great news.”
[I am running diagnostics. Please wait.]
I rolled my eyes. Diagnostics, my ass. It always looked busy and achieved nothing.
I turned to Lian.
He was still unconscious. His face was unusually calm—not his usual cold indifference, but something quieter, almost eerie.
I leaned in to check his breathing, heart hammering. Still there—weak, but steady.
I exhaled. “If you die on me, I swear I’ll burn a hundred silver boxes at your memorial.”
Before I could finish, the silver box clicked.
A sharp jolt shot down my spine.
What now?!
The box didn’t open, but the sound was crisp enough to make the hairs on my neck stand.
“System, wasn’t this thing dead?”
[In theory, yes.]
“In theory?”
[In theory… it should not possess autonomous behavior.]
I inhaled slowly. “I should give you a ‘Theorist of the Year’ medal.”
[Consider releasing it as a limited-edition collectible.]
I stared at nothing for a long moment. “…Forget I said anything.”
While I was muttering, Lian stirred.
First a frown, then his eyelids lifted. His gaze was still unfocused when I lunged closer.
“Hey. You awake? Don’t tell me you’re stuck in another illusion.”
He looked at me, voice rough. “We… got out?”
“Seems like it.” I pointed at the silver box. “Though while you were out, I witnessed an epic-level formatting failure live on stage.”
“What failure?” His eyes followed my gesture. He stared at the box for a few seconds, then murmured, “It’s still here.”
“Who?” I blinked.
“Senior An.” His voice was barely audible. “I can feel… part of him is still inside that thing.”
My stomach dropped. I turned toward the box again.
It vibrated.
Not a click this time—
but a faint, rhythmic hum.
Almost like…
a heartbeat.