Du Duan Shao's feet hit the wet asphalt surface of Mo Zhang Alley with a fast and unstable rhythm. His breath was hurried, each exhalation forming a white mist in the cold air at 23:47. He navigated a narrow path two meters wide between the walls of locked shops, passing piles of discarded cardboard boxes and puddles of dirty water. The night wind whistled through the cracks of old buildings. His right hand clenched tightly inside the pocket of his black jacket, ensuring the small metallic object within remained safe. His pulse throbbed heavily at his temple, synchronized with his hurried steps.
From behind, the sound of three pairs of heavy boots hitting the ground with equal intensity and speed. They were about fifty meters away. Du Duan Shao didn't need to look back to know that the three large men in plain black uniforms were still chasing him. Their faces were obscured by hats and jacket collars pulled high, but from their trained posture and running style, Du Duan Shao could identify them as people accustomed to handling problems with violence. No identification, no badges. Only clear intent emanated from their eyes, occasionally caught by the dim streetlight.
A loud, dry sound shattered the silence. Crack! A bullet shot out, slicing the air right next to his left ear, then leaving a sensation of heat and sharp pain on the outer part of his upper arm. His jacket tore, and the skin underneath opened up for about three centimeters. Blood began to seep, soaking the fabric. Du Duan Shao did not stop. He merely clenched his jaw and turned right, entering the darker, more winding Xi Zang Alley.
At the end of Xi Zang Alley stood an old office building called Fou Sho Building, six stories high with a facade of dull glass and steel. Du Duan Shao headed directly to the east side of the building, where there was an exterior emergency staircase made of iron with peeling paint. He jumped, grabbed the first railing two meters high, then pulled himself up. His feet found footing on the vibrating steps. He climbed at a constant speed, his movements efficient even though the wound on his arm throbbed.
The three pursuers arrived at the bottom of the staircase. One among them, the tallest, raised his arm and fired two shots in succession. Crack! Crack! The first bullet hit the iron handrail one meter above Du Duan Shao's head, bouncing off with a small spark. The second bullet hit the concrete wall to his right, leaving a hole several centimeters deep. Du Duan Shao bent lower, continuing upward. He reached the flat roof of the building and rolled in behind the one-meter-high parapet.
The roof of that building was filled with outdoor AC units, ventilation pipes, and communication antennas. The distance to the roof of the adjacent apartment building, Star Residence, was 2.5 meters with a height difference of about one meter lower. Du Duan Shao took a three-step run-up from the edge, then jumped. His body flew over the chasm of the street ten floors below. He landed with a slight tumble on the roof of Bintang Residence, got up as quickly as possible, and kept running. He jumped over the next gap between roofs, crossing three buildings in a row with movements that became increasingly automatic yet full of tension.
His already torn jacket began to limit the movement of his shoulder. While on the roof of the fourth building, an old warehouse called Warehouse 57, he removed the jacket with a quick motion. While continuing to run toward the other side of the roof, he turned his body and threw the black jacket towards the pursuer who had just appeared on the edge of the previous roof. The jacket flew and hit the face of the foremost pursuer, causing him to lose balance for a moment and hindering the two behind him.
On the south side of Warehouse 57, there was a staircase leading down to a main road. Du Duan Shao descended the rusty iron stairs three steps at a time. His feet landed on the sidewalk of Zhaosi Road, the main artery of Xicheng District. The neon lights from 24-hour shops, car headlights, and electronic billboards assaulted his eyes, which had grown accustomed to the darkness. The crowd was still quite large despite the late hour—night workers, youths just returning from hanging out, couples strolling leisurely. In the distance, about a hundred meters to the west, he saw two blue-and-white City Guard patrol cars with rotating blue lights parked in front of a minimarket.
Du Duan Shao tried to blend into the crowd, walking quickly towards the patrol cars. He had just stepped out from the shadow of the sidewalk into the brighter area under a streetlight when a burning hot sensation like a branding iron pierced his right temple. The sound of the third shot, this time deeper and seemingly from close range, echoed in his ears. The world spun. He felt a warm, thick fluid gushing from his temple, dripping onto his eyebrow and cheek. The strength in his legs vanished instantly. His vision blurred into a dark tunnel before finally disappearing completely. His body fell onto the concrete sidewalk surface, right in front of a clothing store called Roasted Dragon Duck Fashion.
Consciousness returned in the form of vague fragments. First, a strong smell of antiseptic. Then, the rhythmic beeping of an electronic monitor. Du Duan Shao opened his eyes. A white ceiling with flickering fluorescent lights greeted him. His head felt heavy, wrapped tightly in a bandage covering the entire upper part of his head and crossing over his eyebrows. He tried to turn his head, but a sharp pain in his right temple made him stop the movement.
His vision was blurry. The shapes around him—a bedside table, a plastic chair, a partition curtain—were shadowy and unstable. He blinked slowly several times, focusing his eyes on a point on the ceiling. Gradually, the double vision merged. Colors became clear again. He saw an IV drip hanging to his right, a transparent tube connected to a needle inserted into the back of his left hand.
Moving slowly due to stiffness, his right hand felt the pocket of the jeans he was still wearing. The small metallic object was still there. He took it out: a cylindrical stainless steel capsule, exactly 6 cm long, 1.5 cm in diameter, its surface smooth without any screws, hinges, or gaps. There was only a faint circular line in the middle. The capsule felt cold to the touch.
The door to room 407 at Xicheng General Hospital opened. A man in his thirties wearing the dark blue uniform of the City Guard entered. His body was sturdy, about 178 cm tall, with neatly cropped hair. On his left chest was a badge numbered 4572. His eyes, dark brown, immediately focused on Du Duan Shao and the object in his hand.
"Full consciousness has returned," the man said in a flat baritone voice, without greeting. "I am from the City Guard, Public Incident Division. You were found unconscious on the sidewalk of Jalan Raya Merdeka, in front of number 245, at 00:15 early this morning." He approached, stopping beside the bed. "That object in your hand was found in your pants pocket. Our technical team has tried to open it using various standard methods but failed. No opening point was detected. What is the content of that object, and what is its connection to the pursuit that occurred?"
Du Duan Shao looked at the capsule for a moment. Without hesitation, he placed the tips of his index finger and thumb precisely on the faint circular line in the middle of the capsule, then pressed with a specific pressure—exactly three kilograms. There was an almost inaudible click. The capsule split in the middle, opening like a jewelry box. Inside, lay an ordinary pen. A ballpoint pen, black, Jetstream brand series 101, a model commonly sold on the market.
The City Guard member took the pen. He examined it carefully: twisting the pen body, pulling the tip so the pen point appeared, pressing it back. He shook the pen near his ear; there was no strange sound. He then tried writing on the back of his synthetic leather notebook. Blue ink came out smoothly, leaving a clear line. He checked the pen's length, weight, even measured its temperature with a small scanner he took from his belt. No unusual metal elements, no electronic components, no hidden cavities. Just an ordinary plastic and metal pen.
The member returned the pen to the bedside table, right next to the open capsule. His expression changed slightly, doubt still lingering in his eyes, but procedure required the next step. "Alright. I am Huang Yi. Badge number 4572, as you can see." He pointed to the badge on his chest. "Apart from that object, I need to formally identify you for the completeness of the incident report and possible further investigation."
"Du Duan Shao," he answered hoarsely. "Age 24. Current residential address: Apartment 304, Building 7, Chunhua Residential Complex, 128 West Huancheng Road, Xicheng District, City X. National Identity Number: 10201020020101123."
Huang Yi immediately took out an electronic tablet from his waist bag. His fingers typed quickly on the touch screen, entering the provided data.
In less than ten seconds, the tablet emitted a short beep. Huang Yi nodded, his eyes scanning the information appearing on the screen. "Data confirmed. The system recognizes you."
"Du Duan Shao," he began reading clearly and formally. "Born: January 1, 2002, at 00:00, at the Provincial General Maternity Hospital, City Y, Hebei Province. Parents: Du Feng (father, status: deceased 2015), Shi Yan (mother, status: alive, address: Qinghe Village, Lingshan District, Hebei Province). Last education: City Y Public High School No. 3, graduated 2020. Occupation: registered independent courier on the SourSend platform, worker registration number: SS-2022-44571. Registered address according to population database: same as you mentioned. No criminal record. Never involved in incidents of illegal talent usage. Registered talent: Corpse Eye, visual-perception category, activation level: standard." Huang Yi lifted his gaze from the tablet. "Is this data accurate?"
"Accurate," Du Duan Shao answered briefly.
Huang Yi nodded again, then continued with the standard verbal procedure. "Good. Based on preliminary medical examination, you suffered a grazing gunshot wound to the right temple. The bullet did not penetrate the skull, only grazed the temporal bone and caused subcutaneous bleeding and mild concussion. The wound on the upper arm is a shallow bullet graze. No major arterial damage. You are declared stable and can be treated as an outpatient with routine care." He typed something else on his tablet. "Since no illegal items have been proven, and based on the testimony of several witnesses who saw you being chased by unidentified individuals, your status for now is that of a victim of attempted robbery or assault. The City Guard will investigate the identities of the pursuers. You are required to report to our office at 15 Xianhu Road within the next 3x24 hours to provide a complete statement. All personal belongings are returned, including this object." He pointed to the pen and capsule. "Any questions?"
Du Duan Shao shook his head slowly. Huang Yi then handed over a discharge letter and a follow-up control referral. After the on-duty doctor performed a final check, Du Duan Shao was allowed to leave the hospital at 06:30. He walked out of the hospital lobby, inhaling the cold, damp morning air. He boarded Public Bus Corridor 14 at the stop in front of the hospital, getting off at the West Huancheng Road stop near Chunhua Complex at 07:15. He completed the journey home in silence, occasionally touching the bandage on his head and the capsule in his pocket.
Building 7 of Chunhua Residential Complex was a simple eight-story apartment building with a facade of dull white ceramic tiles. He entered the small lobby, pressed the elevator button, but a "BROKEN" sign hung on the door. He chose the emergency staircase to the left. His steps were heavy as he climbed three floors to his apartment. In front of the wooden door numbered 304, he entered a five-digit code on the keypad. A click was heard, and he pushed the door open.
The 6x4 meter studio apartment looked as usual: a messy single bed in the corner, a small table with a closed laptop, a simple wardrobe, and a small kitchen near the door. On the computer desk was a digital photo frame. As he approached, a motion sensor activated the screen, displaying the only stored image: a photo of his ten-year-old self with his parents in front of their old house in Qinghe Village. His father's calm face, his mother's warm smile, and his own innocent self. The photo was taken in 2012. Now, in 2026, his mother was still in the village, while he chose to migrate to this big city after graduating high school, looking for work and—secretly—seeking answers about the limits of his ability.
Du Duan Shao sat cross-legged on the vinyl floor right in the middle of the room. He closed his eyes, adjusting his breath to a 4-7-8 pattern: inhale for four counts, hold for seven, exhale for eight. This was a basic exercise to hone control over his talent. Slowly, he shifted his consciousness to the back of his eyes, to the area within the visual cortex where the Corpse Eye resided. He felt a familiar sensation: a cold creeping from his spine to his head, followed by light pressure in both eyeballs. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he began to construct a mental image: every human as a building of dead flesh, with a skeleton faintly visible under decaying skin, and red light points—marble-sized—scattered at joints, vital organs, and certain acupressure points. Those points were weaknesses, gaps that, if struck with precise pressure or puncture, would produce maximum damage with minimal effort. He tried to maintain this image, training endurance and acuity. But today, there was a disturbance. A dizziness different from usual disrupted his concentration.
The dizziness intensified, throbbing in sync with the wound on his temple. Reflexively, he opened his eyes to dispel the discomfort. His gaze immediately fell upon the small round mirror hanging on the wall near the door, which he usually used for tidying his clothes. In that mirror, he saw his reflection. And he froze.
The face he saw was not the face of a corpse. His skin appeared intact, healthy, with the color of blood beneath it. His eyes—which should have looked like the dull eyeballs of a dead person—still gleamed, though tired. No skeletal shadows, no red points on his neck or his own head. He saw himself as a living, normal human. This was impossible. Since his Corpse Eye activated at age three, never once—even in a non-active talent state—had he seen himself as something whole. In a normal state, he saw people as people, himself as himself. But when the talent was active, everyone including himself appeared as corpses. That was his curse, his reality. But now, that law was broken.
Before he could process this anomaly further, a voice emerged inside his head. Not from his ears, not from outside the room. The voice came from within his own skull, as if directly injected into his brain tissue. The voice was hoarse, echoing, like many voices combined—some old, some young, some even inhuman.
"Gamo maos zinsi... antuso vais... pramzo, takosos, gamus... zalis muslo takul..." The words flowed rapidly, in a language he did not recognize. Not classical Latin he had heard snippets of in movies, nor ancient Mandarin. It was something else, with a foreign phonetic structure, full of fricative consonants and unnatural nasal vowels. The voice kept speaking, faster and faster, as if conveying a message or—more frighteningly—an incantation.
The dizziness that was previously just disruptive now transformed into a severe, throbbing headache, as if his brain were being squeezed. His vision blurred again, but this time accompanied by flashes of white and blue light at the edges of his sight, like static electricity sparks. He tried to stand, but his balance was lost. His hand reached for the edge of the table for support, but his fingers trembled and couldn't grip firmly. The mysterious voice grew louder, filling every space of his consciousness, pressing in.
The world around him tilted. The floor seemed to approach rapidly. He could no longer hold his own body up. Du Duan Shao fell, his shoulder hitting the vinyl floor with a thud. Consciousness evaporated like mist blown by the wind. That voice was the last thing he heard, still muttering in an incomprehensible language, before everything became pitch black without dreams.
Room 304 of the apartment fell silent again. Only the digital photo monitor remained on, displaying the static smiling image of a family, witnessing the motionless body of the young man on the floor with a head bandage slowly beginning to stain red at the temple.