Yan Hong’s expression darkened. He gave the order, and the special police around the pavilion began to fall back. The cordon stayed in place, but their guns were no longer pointed at the figure seated beside the stone table.

He turned off mute and asked quietly, “Can you really do it?”

“That’s right. But I’ll need your cooperation.”

“Since you can change facts,” Yan Hong said slowly, weighing each word, “can you make it so the ‘plane disaster’ never happened?”

“I’m afraid not,” Xu Fang replied. “The ‘plane disaster’ has already become a fact observed by too many people. I can only try to change the fact that ‘all the passengers died.’”

“What do you need us to do?”

“Simple. Announce to the whole world that the passengers on the plane survived, and get everyone to believe it.”

The fire commissioner couldn’t help cutting in. “The charred bodies are still piled up at the forensic center—remains from more than a hundred people. You’re asking us to fake the results?”

“What bodies? I’ve never seen any. Who knows if someone’s testing methods are flawed? What you brought back weren’t bodies at all.”

“This is absurd!” Someone slapped the table. “Don’t joke about the dead!”

“Enough. Nobody speak!” Yan Hong’s voice rang out, and the conference room fell silent at once. He stared at Xu Fang on the screen, as if searching that refined face for any sign of deception. “You’re saying you can change facts you haven’t observed yourself?”

“That’s right. But remember, I’m not the only Author in the world. If another Author has observed a fact, I can’t change it—just like the fact that the plane went down.”

“What are the odds you can save the victims?”

“Seventy percent.” Xu Fang thought for a moment, then added, “If you cooperate.”

Yan Hong fell silent for a moment. “By cooperation, you mean we announce false information to the public, fabricate evidence that the victims survived, and keep anyone in the know quiet—or even mislead them?”

“It’s efficient talking to someone smart.”

The conference room erupted.

“No! Faking the deaths of more than a hundred people? That’s impossible!”

“We can’t make a decision like this lightly.”

“Can we trust an Author? They must have some ulterior motive!”

“Bringing the dead back to life? If an Author can do that, what’s the difference between them and a god?”

Yan Hong hit mute and let them argue. He leaned back against the head of the bed, his gaze fixed on some spot on the ceiling. The light outside the window had dimmed; the clouds had probably covered the sun. The nurse stood motionless by the door, while the bodyguard looked as if he wanted to say something but didn’t dare.

The voices gradually died down, until at last there was silence.

Everyone was looking at him.

“There’s no need to think it over.” Yan Hong spoke calmly. “I’ll make the decision. Everyone, cooperate with the Author and rewrite this fact. I’ll take full responsibility for whatever happens.”

“Elder Yan—”

“This is a matter of life and death. If the public finds out we’re faking things—”

“Exactly. Why don’t we compromise? Don’t announce anything. Just buy some time for now.”

Yan Hong slowly let out a breath.

“I believe every life is precious, no matter who that person is. Tell me, if the victims were your family members, would you still be so rational? Do you think the death toll is just a string of numbers?”

No one spoke again.

Yan Hong turned off mute and said to Xu Fang, “We need to change this fact. Do it now.”

Xu Fang gave a slight nod.

“I hope our cooperation goes smoothly. Goodbye.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, the pavilion was empty.

The special police nearby, the snipers on the rooftops, and the senior officials watching over video all panicked at the sight. But the officials had already anticipated this. They didn’t use smoke grenades or launch a noisy search. They simply waited in silence, and when it was clear that the person wasn’t coming back, the armed police began to withdraw. The cordon came down piece by piece, and the police cars started their engines and drove away one after another. Only a crowd of bystanders remained outside the former cordon, talking among themselves.

After taking the medicine the doctor handed him, Yan Hong lay back down. There were many more people patrolling the corridor outside his door, and additional staff had been brought in.

For a brief moment, he was alone in silence.

The old man stared at the ceiling, a jumble of feelings welling up inside him: regret, curiosity, and a faint glimmer of hope, all lodged in his chest.

If they could bring people back from the dead, they’d be far more terrifying than a murderous madman.

Just what were these mysterious, short-lived beings—the Authors—capable of?

And was Organization K’s activity connected to them, too?

What were they, exactly? Human? Alien? Or some kind of entity science still couldn’t explain?

Countless questions surfaced in Yan Hong’s mind.

Yan Hong closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. A moment later, he reached for the phone on his bedside table, intending to discuss the next steps with the senior officials.

But his fingers touched a flat, slightly stiff object instead.

It was a letter.

Yan Hong froze.

He was sure his memory hadn’t started to fail him. There hadn’t been anything like this on the table a minute ago. He was only slightly surprised, not alarmed. The only person who could have placed something by his bed without making a sound was the Author from earlier. Though there was no writing at all on the back of the envelope, he knew it had to be from that same Author.

By rights, he should’ve immediately called someone to send the letter to the Anomaly Analysis Center and check it for contamination. But he stared at it for a while, then a thought struck him: if reading it caused something strange to happen to him, wouldn’t that prove the Author couldn’t be trusted at all?

So Yan Hong simply tore open the envelope.

Nothing happened. It really was just an ordinary letter.

【Mr. Yan Hong, to ensure the success of this “Plane Rescue Plan,” I need your cooperation with the following…】

The letter was long, with everything laid out point by point. The Author had considered more variables than he’d imagined—possible interference from Organization K, the influence of other Authors, the behavior patterns of Singularity Individuals… Each point came with a suggested response, and there were even several contingency plans in case the operation failed.

It was clear that person had put a great deal of thought into this.

At the end of the letter, the writing paused for a moment before continuing:

【We can’t save everyone. The fact that the “plane crashed” is already set in stone. All we can do is stand at the fault line of history and search the cracks for the best possible solution.】

Yan Hong read those lines twice.

He’d watched his hopes fall through more times than he could count, and that had left him instinctively wary—and weary—of idealistic promises. The people who pounded their chests and guaranteed “nothing could go wrong” were often the first to run when things did. The ones who laid out the difficulties and risks from the start were more likely to get things done.

The letter didn’t promise a perfect ending. It only said: Let’s try together. We’ll save as many as we can.

Yan Hong folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.

Suddenly, he thought of Xiao Zhe.

When that young man had been locked in the interrogation room, he’d said a lot about the Authors. The recorder had taken down every word. There was one sentence Yan Hong remembered clearly. At the time, Xiao Zhe had said, “We really should be more cautious around the Authors as a group. But that person… I think we can trust them.”

Yan Hong sighed. “Xiao Zhe, you’ve really put me on the spot with that.”

Lu Yuan often lamented that, compared with his easy life in a secure position now, his old job at a private company had been no way to live. He’d worked from morning till night every day, dealt with a bunch of **, and been subjected to his boss’s PUA tactics from time to time. Every bit of work was measured by KPIs, which ultimately determined his income. Worn down in body and mind, Lu Yuan had actually started looking forward to retirement and growing old. He’d kept wishing Monday through Friday would hurry by, no longer cherishing each of the remaining days of his youth. It wasn’t until he turned thirty that he realized what had been slipping away was his own life.

The turning point came when he discovered he was an ability user.

After being recruited as a “Singularity Individual” into the Protectors, Lu Yuan quit his old company and switched fields. He became an asset-document administrator in the archives management department of the municipal construction corporation.

He was extremely satisfied with the job.

Nine to five, a monthly salary of six thousand, seven types of insurance and two housing funds, and benefits to spare. No overtime, and a two-hour lunch break. He could come in or leave up to an hour late or early. He’d arrive at nine, eat breakfast at the office, then take a half-hour walk and make his regular rounds of the storeroom. After that, he’d sit in the office and read or study. His afternoon was much the same as his morning—but he’d already finished the rounds in the morning, so all he had to do was read and wait for quitting time. Even if he disappeared for two or three hours in the middle of the day, nobody would say a thing. Apart from not being able to play games on an internet-connected computer, he couldn’t find a single downside.

He’d only been on the job for a month, but he’d already decided he’d stay there until retirement.

Every so often, someone from the Protectors would come by to report something or ask him about it—maybe to have him note down some major international event, or to ask whether anything unusual had happened. Lu Yuan often chatted with the Protector officers about things unrelated to work, and learned a lot about Singularity Individuals.

The Protectors were officially attached to the Ministry of Emergency Management. It didn’t sound like much, but when necessary, they could legitimately direct or coordinate the police and national defense forces.

Ability users were among the people the Protectors took into custody, and Singularity Individuals were one kind of ability user.

Apparently, there was a “Worker Bee” faction within the Protectors that believed in making full use of ability users. But the “Shepherd” faction’s thinking still held sway: the top priority was to help ability users control their powers and fit into society, so they wouldn’t become a source of instability.

Lu Yuan had no idea what a “Singularity Individual” was. He’d asked many times, but most of the officers didn’t know either. On the rare occasions he got an answer, it was always vague:

“Someone who can see true history.”

“What does ‘true history’ mean?”

“I’m just an ordinary person. I should be asking you that, haha.”

In the end, Lu Yuan still didn’t get it.

Oh well. He wasn’t the type to dig into everything, and knowing or not knowing didn’t affect his work.

Then, on an otherwise ordinary day, a Protector officer hurried over. It was Zhang Tianqi, an old acquaintance of Lu Yuan’s.

Lu Yuan glanced at the clock on the wall, then hurried to his feet to get a cup. “Brother Zhang, it’s lunchtime. What’s the rush?”

“This just came down from the higher-ups. It’s urgent.”

“This isn’t about the Authors, is it? I’m afraid there’s no new information on that front.”

“No, it’s about the plane disaster last time.” Zhang Tianqi set his bag on the table, took the water Lu Yuan handed him, and wet his throat before pulling out some papers with photos printed on them. “Come on, let me explain the whole thing…”