Chi Zhan’s memory fragments were few and far between, hidden in corners difficult to uncover. To Cen Chi, it felt like playing a game of hide-and-seek with a skittish cat. As he turned, a small gray light darted from behind him, trying to flee. Cen Chi snatched it up and cradled it in his hand.
Startled, the light burst with a soft pop, revealing a memory: the day Chi Zhan first entered the academy and took part in the freshman ceremony.
At the time, Chi Zhan had just arrived from an orphanage on a barren star, clearly neglected. He was thin, borderline malnourished. Even the smallest-sized freshman uniform hung off him like a robe. Students around him whispered to one another, sneaking glances.
But Chi Zhan walked forward with his head held high, seemingly indifferent to their stares.
Yet within the reconstructed memory, shadows flickered in and out, and the images were mostly muted in gray, reflecting the host’s deeply subdued emotions.
Was it the weight of enduring all those judgmental looks?
Cen Chi released the memory, and the glowing fragment quickly reformed and darted off again, as though terrified it would be caught once more.
As Cen Chi wandered deeper, the memory fragments mostly played out in dull, repetitive cycles—classes, combat drills, meals, sleep. If they had belonged to anyone else, he’d have waved them away without a second glance. But now, he found himself unusually patient. Even these monotonous slices of life began to seem endearingly charming.
Back when Chi Zhan had just come of age, he hadn’t yet learned to mask his emotions. Whenever someone confessed to him, his face would flush red—only to realize it was all a prank. He wouldn’t get angry, merely walk away in silence.
But as time went on, the expressions on his face grew fewer and fewer. Eventually, he wore only polite smiles or an indifferent gaze.
Cen Chi finally reached the depths of Chi Zhan’s memory—the fragments here were hidden with much greater care, which meant they were far more important than the day-to-day recollections.
Was this where he’d find what he was looking for?
He stopped, staring for a long moment before taking another step forward.
Cen Chi knew exactly what he sought—any contact between Chi Zhan and the Crown Prince, any investigations Chi Zhan might have carried out behind the scenes. But what appeared before him was something he hadn’t expected.
Chi Zhan wore a white shirt and black slacks, holding a folder, speaking gently with a colleague. This version of Chi Zhan looked older, more refined. His skin no longer pale, but glowing with a healthy tone.
And then—strangest of all—Cen Chi saw himself in the memory.
Chi Zhan lay face-down on a bed while Cen Chi—wearing a knowing smile he immediately recognized—massaged his back.
Clearly suggestive.
Though it was unsettling to analyze himself that way, Cen Chi was sure of one thing: he had no memory of ever doing this. Aside from the pheromone sampling, they had never even touched. Let alone something as outdated as a massage, long replaced by treatment pods.
Was someone impersonating him?
With modern disguise tech, facial mimicry wasn’t difficult—but this theory still didn’t sit right.
Then he saw himself again—again and again.
Slumped in a vintage car, feigning drunkenness while leaning on Chi Zhan’s shoulder; petting dogs with him in a pet shop; clinking glasses with him at an unfamiliar restaurant in an intimate toast…
The Crown Prince appeared, too. Not in his usual aloof royal demeanor. Though the arrogance etched on his face remained unchanged, there was something subtly different.
When had all this happened?
Cen Chi, usually composed even under pressure, was thrown into a mental disarray he had never experienced before. He missed several crucial fragments, letting them slip away from his grasp.
One particular image sliced through his vision—the Crown Prince kissing Chi Zhan. And worse, Chi Zhan kissing him back.
Even Cen Chi, who could keep his composure through the worst, felt a visceral urge to tear these memories to shreds.
No. The priority now was to find out what the hell had happened.
He hadn’t stumbled onto these memories by accident. Quite the opposite—he’d located a familiar Anchor Point. At first, he only wanted to test it. But the method used to set the Anchor Point was eerily similar to his own, and it took him a while to unlock just a fraction of it.
Yet within seconds of unlocking, the Anchor Point re-sealed itself.
The rest of it—Cen Chi didn’t dare touch recklessly.
Memory was a delicate construct. Even with his seasoned experience, delving into Chi Zhan’s mind was a high-risk maneuver. One misstep could cause neural damage.
He backed off slightly, intending to retreat now that he had some clues. But that’s when he noticed another Anchor Point.
“Who set this one?” Cen Chi frowned. Things were more tangled than he’d expected.
This new Anchor Point was exponentially more complex. He crouched to examine it, just as he felt something shift.
The ground beneath him began to sink.
Chi Zhan was trying to trap him.
Of course—his mental strength was immense. Even in deep sleep, he was forcing his way out and turning the tables.
Cen Chi had no choice but to abandon the Anchor Point. He still wanted answers, but tapping into this much mental energy wasn’t sustainable.
Withdrawing from the memory field, he returned to the physical world—just in time to feel a bitter taste rise in his throat. He turned his head and coughed up blood.
Sifting through memory nets took a heavy toll. It wasn’t a technique to be used unless absolutely necessary.
Chi Zhan’s eyes were shut tight. Sweat glistened on his forehead, chest heaving as though he were suffocating. From the outside, it looked like he was in the throes of a nightmare.
Cen Chi reached out, unfastening a few buttons to help him breathe. Just as he leaned in to whisper something soothing, Chi Zhan’s eyes snapped open.
In a blur, their positions reversed. Cen Chi slammed into the back of the swivel chair, wheels skidding violently across the floor.
In just two seconds, Chi Zhan had him by the collar.
A cold butterfly knife—who knew when it had appeared—was pressed to the artery of Cen Chi’s neck, digging in with deliberate threat.
“Don’t move,” Chi Zhan said in a low, deadly voice.
