“Zicang.” Zorro, cradling a wooden stool, pushed open the door panting. Seeing the two figures inside, the words on the tip of his tongue trailed off.
Jiaoma narrowed her eyes and furrowed her brows, looking over: “What are you here for again, you jerk?”
Then the young girl shifted her gaze to the clothes Zorro had specially changed into after work.
“Hey, you definitely had a hand in this wrecked place, didn’t you?”
Though he had cleaned up, the dust from last night, especially on his shoes, had given him away—the girl saw right through him at a glance.
“I…” Zorro raised his hand.
Taking advantage of Jiaoma turning her head, Yang Zicang quickly crouched down and pulled out a small cloth bag containing several hard objects from beside the bed.
As Jiaoma turned back, Yang Zicang stood bolt upright with his hands behind his back, his height of 180 cm making him seem like a little giant before the young girl.
“You!” Jiaoma was about to say something, but Zorro had already rushed in, heading toward the small room next door.
The doorway was covered with dense footprints, and more than one person’s footprints at that.
“Hey, Zorro, explain clearly—what are you folks up to?”
“I’m going to the restroom.”
Zorro twisted the doorknob and slipped inside in a flash.
Jiaoma chased two steps but had to stop helplessly.
Then she saw Yang Zicang dash over, twist the doorknob, and quickly thrust the bag—filled with objects scraping and clinking—through the crack of the door.
Yang Zicang turned his head to see the young girl, holding her lunch box, tilting her head and frowning at him.
“Ah, well…” Yang Zicang waved one hand awkwardly a couple of times, leaning against the doorway, and said, “It’s hard to explain.”
“What did you just give him?”
“Toilet paper.”
……
By the time the meal was finally done and Jiaoma left satisfied, nearly half an hour had passed.
Yang Zicang paced to the door, hesitating several times before knocking and holding himself back.
After waiting another ten minutes, a faint fluctuation of energy emerged from inside again. Yang Zicang finally couldn’t help asking:
“Is it done?”
A buzzing sound came from within. “Failed the eighth time.”
Yang Zicang’s heart tightened; it seemed the Lost Mind Model might not be sufficient.
“I’ll go buy some right away. Hopefully, there are still people among the new hires who have Lost Mind Models.”
“Wait,” Zorro twisted open the door, staring solemnly at the young man outside.
“I still have four Lost Mind Models here. Let’s use them up first, along with what you have left. Although making them isn’t against the rules, it’s best to avoid drawing attention if we can.”
“Alright, as you wish.” Yang Zicang glanced at the man whose face bore a scar yet was extraordinarily reassuring: “Just as long as you have confidence.”
“Hmph, what’s with the doubt? Do you not believe I can succeed? My confidence is terrifying right now.”
Zorro raised his hand and made a grasp in the air, “That feeling again—it’s getting stronger and stronger, that intense urge! I feel like I can do it. Tonight.”
A flicker of light stirred deep in Yang Zicang’s eyes. He had felt something similar himself. At that moment, he was certain this was the help of the “Right of Mental Manifestation!”
What an incredible treasure this truly was.
“Then let’s hurry up and continue. By the way, what rank did you draw?”
“Second class.”
“Second… class?!”
Yang Zicang had thought Zorro must have drawn the first prize to be so confident.
The door clicked shut, and Zorro began a new round of the ritual in the bathroom.
The ninth attempt, failure…
Zorro took a deep breath, closed his eyes again to conjure the most vivid scenes from the Lost Frequency Land deep in his mind, then guided the folded lines of the model stretching toward his fingertips, touching the whirling ball of energy ahead.
As his fingertips wavered, a sketchy magic rune appeared, abruptly contracting into the rotating energy mass, vaguely forming the shape of an engine.
Zorro swiftly tossed a triangular Lost Thought model into it, and the engine-like shape instantly became more tangible, though it differed from ordinary Lost Thought engines—it was dim and ethereal.
Though the small engine seemed nearly complete, Zorro felt not the slightest joy, for this had happened many times before: everything appeared perfect up to this point, yet it had always failed in the end. The reason was simple—he was using a triangular Lost Thought model.
A three-cylinder engine couldn’t drive the manifestation of the Ether Channel.
“Whew…” Zorro watched nervously as it slowly sank within the energy mass, then suddenly… poof…
The small three-cylinder engine once again dissolved into smoke—another failure.
Zorro lowered his head, staring at the few remaining Lost Thought models in the cloth pouch perched on the toilet lid.
Outside the door, Yang Zicang quietly leaned against the wall, waiting.
With less than two months left for the actual production of the Demon Engine Hall, he had already decided: if he didn’t succeed today, he would request leave tomorrow to search for usable Lost Thought models across various departments. However, doing so might raise Croft’s suspicions.
Suddenly, Yang Zicang felt a faint tremor in the space around him.
Bang! The restroom door flung open instantly, and the man inside, filled with excitement, leaned out, his gaze falling eagerly on Yang Zicang leaning against the outer wall.
Yang Zicang turned his head to face that exhilarated face, “You…”
Zorro nodded, opened his palm, and there was a dreamlike memory engine spinning with a dim luster, shaking like condensed mist left and right in his hand!
[I have seen the “Sub-Aether Channel Engine.”]
“Success!” Yang Zicang clenched his fist involuntarily, holding back the urge to cheer.
Zorro gasped for air and said, “Success, but the location is a place where I once stayed for a long time, and the engine can only be used once.”
Yang Zicang looked at this engine; it was eighty to ninety percent similar to the one in the photo.
“To create this kind of memory engine, the required materials are only the memory model, the memory images of the past, and a strong desire, along with a magic pattern formula.” Zorro smiled at him, “These are all the materials.”
Because of the presence of the magic pattern formula, Zorro had not fully divulged the secret.
“Go now.” Zorro raised his hand and handed the engine to Yang Zicang, “The night is still long; go do what you want to do.”
Yang Zicang looked up at him, “Didn’t you say it can only be used once? Fine, I’ll go out tonight and buy more memory models.”
“NO.” Zorro smiled, “You forgot, we can still make trail samples. Otherwise, where did those photos come from?”
“Wow! That’s right!”
Yang Zicang was so happy he felt like he was back on Earth, back to the time he frolicked with his dorm mates; he grasped the engine at once.
Inside the Director of Red’s office.
Huan Bao’er sat on the chair, irritably looking at the progress report of the Crown of the Green Lotus.
……
Knock, knock.
Click, the door opened.
Yang Zicang pushed the door open, and a cool breeze brushed against his face from the distant mountains and green grasslands.
He glanced at the grassy field behind the door, as pure a world as one might find in a fairy tale.
This solitary door stood quietly on the gentle slope.
In the distance was a small estate resembling a princess’s fortress.
A dozen minutes later, Yang Zicang emerged from the doorway with a pomegranate wood pendant.
……
In the dim, darkening Lost Frequency Land, faint light reflected off the undulating mountain ranges.
“Wooo—”
Amid the cheerful wind, the train crashed through the air and appeared beside Yang Zicang.
In the gloom, a white zigzag flashed out, shooting toward the distant Hub Town.
{Zicang, bro?}
“Boboli, there’s an urgent mission.”
“Huh?” Boboli, who was repeatedly memorizing the Thousand Character Classic’s pronunciation, looked at the holographic projection, “A mission? Me?”
He didn’t feel he could be of much help. In this world, he was like a welcome outsider—aside from his magical craftsmanship, he wasn’t particularly useful.
In the open wilderness, the train stopped behind this tall, upright figure. The man looked up toward the dim light coming from both above and below in the gathering darkness, as well as the distant glimmers on the horizon.
“I’ve thought of everyone. Among all the people I know, only you can handle this mission.”
Boboli looked at the holographic projection with confusion.
“Me? Me? Would it involve unlocking or some skill?”
Yang Zicang shook his head, as light and shadow flickered across his chest, and a massive luminous structure emerged in the darkness of the night.
[Magic Hero Hall — Crown of Green Lotus]
The boy looked at this intricately structured building, momentarily uncertain what it was.
Another beam of light shot out like a folded line, outlining a new large structure beside it.
[Magic Hero Hall — Fortress of Myriad Paths]
Its walls became translucent, and with the aid of the “Right of Mental Manifestation,” the internal structure rapidly revealed itself.
“This, isn’t this…”
Boboli gazed at some familiar scenes within.
“Amazing, being able to harmoniously place so many levels together. So many… Can a human even complete all of this?”
This voice continued to ring in his mind.
{In the Spirit World, build something similar—a competitive arena capable of holding at least twenty thousand people—within one month and ten days!}
Twenty thousand people! Boboli was mentally shaken.
{Based on your experience, can you design something akin to these?}
“What!” Boboli’s eyes shot wide open in an instant.
In the Mental Link, that solitary figure standing straight between heaven and earth seemed like a guide granting special authority.
{Such a task.}
“The task you mentioned couldn’t possibly be…???”
{Do you dare to take on the challenge?}
Boboli slowly lowered the hands clutching the “Thousand Character Classic,” his mouth gradually falling open.
This can’t be real, can it?
“Wow!”
The boy leaped up, wildly swinging his fists as if to pierce the sky.
Yang Zicang chuckled, and in the blink of an eye, the rushing train swallowed him gently, swirling the air as it vanished fast into the night sky.
Meanwhile, the curly-haired boy busily pulled out from under his bed boxes of various game cartridges, tabletop cards, board games, and strategy guides.
They were all useless by now.
Yet the boy couldn’t bear to throw them away, even hoarding them from every abandoned building in the city.
Because they were probably the last link to Earth.
As his fingers brushed those old, dusty cartridges, countless memories of happy times flooded back.
Playing games with his brother, his father, and the neighbor kids.
A glimmer shone in his eyes, the same light from when he first discovered these things.
Somewhere along the way, through endless repetitions and the same old routine, he had gradually lost his special sentiment for them.
Now, at this moment, those forgotten emotions suddenly surged back again.
Boboli pulled out a worn-out disc; its unopened plastic cover seemed like it could crumble at a touch, the disc inside long since unreadable, with nothing left to even run it.
But now, he held it tightly in his hand, a faint sparkle in his eyes.
The castle and monsters from the disc naturally emerged in the boy’s mind.
[I… seem to… remember something.]
Boboli looked down at his chest.
A silver-white ring appeared on its own.
The light traced a slowly rotating triangle. Amidst this purest and most joyful of intense emotions, something seemed to be gestating.
A few seconds later, the silver ring disappeared, and in the end, nothing was amiss.
A boy of sixteen or seventeen stood up and looked out the window at the night. He pushed the window open, and the night breeze brought with it the arrival of a new day.
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