Tang Ke followed the shoreline like a lone shadow skimming a silver blade of sea, heading for a town pulsing with rivers of headlights.

Her first task was clear as a north star in fog—figure out where she was.

She avoided the main road like a stray cat slipping past fences, wary of unnecessary trouble.

Her old cap hadn’t “come back to life” with her, so she raised a frayed collar like a wilted leaf to hide her face.

Reborn, she’d grown thin as a reed; clothes once snug now hung like slack sails in a soft wind.

She moved with cautious steps like a heron picking through marsh, while her thoughts drifted like mist across water.

She still couldn’t swallow this fate—how a seven‑foot man had been poured into a woman’s form, beauty pale as moonlight.

Forget it, she told herself, letting the thought fall like a stone into a deep lake—better to chase the cause than drown in it.

She lifted her gaze; ahead, houses hunched like tired turtles, with only a few windows glowing like fireflies.

Is this a residential quarter? Why does it look so weathered, like wood bleached by long suns?

Streetlights stood like weary sentries, most gone dim, their halos thin as dying candles.

Kids flickered in and out like sparrows; their patch‑stitched clothes were autumn leaves sewn together, but their laughter flew bright as kites.

She slid past the lit homes like a breeze through bamboo and stopped before a four‑story shell, windows gaping like broken mouths.

It sat distant from neighbors like a lone stump in a field; empty as a husk, it beckoned like a cave.

Stop. What are you doing?

A small voice rose like a pebble tossed into a pond, and she turned toward a knot of children.

This is our base, the stocky boy in front declared, standing like a tiny general with a cardboard shield.

Uh… could I rest inside for a bit? I won’t steal your base, she said, voice soft as silk over sand.

Her gentleness fell on them like spring rain, and the boys stared as if a flute had sung from the clouds.

Wow, your voice is so nice, one breathed, eyes shining like wet stones.

Yeah, sis, your voice is beautiful, another chirped, cheeks pink as peaches.

Can we see your face? the leader asked, curiosity bright as lanterns.

They’re just kids, she thought, the worry loosening like a loosened knot.

She lowered her collar, and her face surfaced like a full moon on a clear pond.

Whoa—so pretty, the boys burst, their awe popping like firecrackers.

For real—too pretty, they echoed, hands fluttering like sparrows’ wings.

Can I rest inside? she asked, her words a palm leaf shading noon.

Of course, the leader proclaimed, puffing up like a rooster—this sister is our honored guest.

Agreed, the chorus answered, nodding like bobbing reeds.

Tang Ke stepped in, crossing the threshold like a drift of snow.

She climbed to the fourth floor, where broken panes gave wind a voice like a flute through bones.

Spring‑summer air lay mild as warm tea, even at dusk’s edge; the room breathed like old timber.

She circled the floor, then found a stack of worn bedding, spread like moss over stone.

This is where we play, the boy said, words bouncing like marbles; you can rest here, sis.

Thank you, she replied, gratitude settling like dew.

She didn’t mind the roughness—she’d weathered harsher nights like bark under storm—this felt almost gentle.

She sat, and her whole body untied like a rope taken off a drum.

From where she’d awoken to here ran six, maybe seven kilometers, a ribbon of road winding like a river.

For the man she’d been, that was a drop in the ocean; for the body she wore now, it was a mountain under thin lungs.

The unfamiliar flesh and drained strength left her weary as a lantern at dawn.

Seated on the bedding, she tried to stir her Anomaly Power like coals under ash.

But no trace of Anomalous Energy rose; the void felt cold as a dry well.

Sis, where did you come from? the chubby leader asked, curiosity pecking like a sparrow at rice.

From very far away, she said with a smile like a paper fan; just passing through and resting here.

Kids were kids; simple words were smoke that hid mountains.

They played a little, laughter circling like paper windmills, then the hour called them home like a bell.

They belonged to this slum, roots in thin soil like hardy weeds.

Before they left, she asked them not to tell anyone she was here; their nods were solemn as little monks.

We’ll listen to the pretty sister, they said, oaths sealed like folded cranes.

These things don’t happen out of nothing, she thought, lying back as if placed on a raft—there’s always a cause, always a thread.

She watched the cracked ceiling, fissures like dry riverbeds, and sifted guesses like rice through fingers.

Then she rose and walked to the window, an empty frame opening like a missing tooth.

Through the glassless mouth, the city’s night spread like a lacquered screen.

Colored lights flowed down the streets like fish in a jade channel, and lantern‑bright storefronts winked like constellations.

A tower caught her eye—six massive columns rose like stone pines, holding a sphere that glowed like a pearl.

Its lights scattered like frost, bright and proud, a beacon in the urban sea.

That’s… the Junlin Pearl Tower, she breathed, certainty hard as iron—its shape couldn’t lie.

If it’s the Junlin Pearl Tower, then this is… Ninghai City.

Didn’t expect to jump straight back from the Pacific, she thought, a wry smile like a crescent—no need to buy a ticket.

She gazed at the city, and memory unfurled like incense—life in the Shadow Division returning in waves.

Are those brats doing okay? she wondered, gentleness and guilt crossing like clouds—Xin’er, Yuting must be furious; I did trick them.

Xin’er, Yuting, brothers—sorry, she whispered, the words falling like petals—we’re never meeting again. Forget me; be happy.

Tears slid from her eyes like rain down bamboo, and somewhere far away, on the Shadow Division’s island, pain hammered like thunder.

In a meeting room, the sound of fighting cracked like dry wood.

A red‑haired beauty drove her fists like storm hammers into three men, blows raining in sheets.

They didn’t strike back; even one‑on‑one they’d lose to her, and now they stood like walls taking waves.

Though she was the one lashing out, her face was a field drowned in tears.

Bastards! she screamed, voice tearing like cloth—why are you stopping me, why?

On the shuttle that day, they’d stared at a crater vast as a swallowed valley, faint energy still chewing the earth like acid.

Meng Yuting had tried to jump, to chase Tang Ke through dust and ruin, but three comrades had held her like anchors.

She had lost the reins of her heart; then the door banged open like a cymbal.

Enough, Phantom.

Hong Wei entered with eyes bloodshot like autumn maples and a face pale as ash, age laying on him like sudden frost.

Phantom’s fists fell silent; she sank to the floor and sobbed like a river breaking a dam.

Hawkeye and the others stepped, then stalled, words drying like ink—Tang Ke was their best captain, their brother; grief glued their throats.

Her crying spread across the island like wind over reeds; no one in the Shadow Division could lift a smile.

Where’s Xin’er? Hong Wei asked, voice rough as gravel.

She locked herself in her room after we got back; no one can get in, Nightcat said, face creased like a worried fan.

Hong Wei sighed, the sound soft as winter steam, and turned to leave like a shadow pulling long.

Watch her, he said at the door, tone heavy as stone—don’t let her do anything foolish.

Yes, they answered, spines straight as spears.

In a quiet room, Gu Xin sat on the bed like a lily rung by rain, a bracelet clenched in her hand.

She held it tight as if warming a bird, tears hanging at her lashes like dew.

I know you’re not dead, she whispered, voice thin as silk—otherwise, why would the bracelet still remain?

They’re wrong; I can feel you alive like a heartbeat through walls.

She put the bracelet back on, a circle closing like the moon.

I’ll find you, she said with eyes shut, and two hot streams ran down her face like twin rivers.

In Huaguo’s Yanjing, inside a luxurious office, a beautiful woman sat like a carved jade figure behind a desk.

Her short hair framed a precise face like ink brushlines; her suit held a strong body like lacquer over wood—she looked born to lead.

She stared at a photo on the desk, where Tang Ke stood with his parents, smiles caught like butterflies.

Shoucheng, Ke’er, have you both left me? she asked, words falling like late leaves.

She looked at the watch on her wrist, its gleam a lone star.

Shoucheng, was it true—if I wore this, I’d never be alone—like a charm against winter?

At last, her tears slipped free like pearls from a broken string.