The consequences of yesterday are born from today's actions. Jack Young's mental absorption of Yuri Alpha's psyche back then has led to today's calamity. There's no shortcut for the mind—what isn't yours simply isn't yours. Thinking it's all fine, that you've refined it completely, is like mixing someone's ashes into cement to build a skyscraper. Theoretically, it shouldn't matter, but in reality, something's off. This time, the inner demon struck so fiercely because of multiple factors, and directly absorbing someone else's mental energy was one of them.
Especially since Yuri Alpha is a master of the psychic arts.
Fortunately, Jack Young hadn’t intentionally tried to absorb Yuri Alpha’s mental power at the time. He was in a state of no-thought, so all the external psychic energy could only pile up on the surface and couldn't penetrate his core. That's why it barely affected him day-to-day. Now that he’s discovered this hidden danger, he just needs to carefully sort through his mental energy, weed out the junk, and keep what’s good.
Unfortunately, when it rains, it pours. If Jack Young can’t break free from his inner demons, then nothing else matters.
Only now does he realize how brilliant Senior Brother Mentor’s hypnotic “mental elevator” technique is. The best part is, you can control it to a certain extent. The elevator responds to the user’s will, lets you pace your descent, and if you feel your “dummy mode” about to kick in, you can bail out and catch your breath.
But now, Jack Young felt like he’d fallen into a bottomless well—just sinking, sinking, sinking.
The well water was yellow—just like the elevator buttons. Endless fragments of memory came flooding in, pouring through his eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and even every single pore. No escape, no refusal, no struggle.
He remembered one early autumn day, when the boy and girl went to see a Karen Mok concert. To buy two tickets, he—usually super thrifty—splurged on scalped seats. From that day on, he started liking Karen Mok’s songs, even though he hadn’t cared for her before.
He remembered an early winter day, when the boy and girl went skiing at Beijing Alpine Ski Resort. Neither had ever skied before, so even on the kiddie slopes, they wiped out together in a heap—then sat on the ground, chucking snowballs and laughing their heads off.
He remembered a late autumn night when a thick fog suddenly rolled in. After shopping at the supermarket, the boy and girl stepped outside to a scene creepier than Silent Hill. But instead of getting scared, they got all excited and started riffing on the whole “visibility” joke.
Okay, you stand right here, don’t move. I’ll walk ahead and you snap pictures—let’s see how far we can go before you can’t see me!
So, on a highway where not a single car dared to drive, bathed in the hazy orange glow of streetlights and thick fog, the girl would take three steps back and say, "Take one!" Then three more, "Take one!" Each time striking a different pose—quirky, elegant, all kinds of styles.
"Alright, I can’t see you anymore from this distance," the boy called out—but there was no reply. Logic told him it was probably a prank, but as the girl’s silhouette vanished into the deep fog, he couldn’t help feeling a pang in his chest. For some reason, panic crept in, and as he rushed forward, he shouted, "Daisy Summers? Daisy Summers?! Dais—"
"Boo!" As he rounded a corner, the girl suddenly jumped out, trying to scare him. But the boy had this knack—no matter how rattled he felt inside, his face stayed cool as a cucumber. So the girl, a little disappointed, said, "You didn’t even flinch? Total fail."
"Trying to mess with me, huh? You think I’m dumb? Not falling for it!" That’s what the boy said at the time, but why does this memory still carry that lingering ache?
Why the ache?
What’s the reason for this ache?
Was it jealousy?—Seems like it.
He remembered all those sleepless nights, lying in bed, searching star sign trivia on his phone. "Leo women—bold, outgoing, and naturally crave attention, especially from impressive men. If your Leo girl is dazzling others with her charm, don’t worry, it’s just her instinct…"
That line was probably meant to comfort him, right? But why did the boy’s voice sound so lonely when he read it in his memory?
He remembered how Daisy Summers was always the social butterfly, quickly blending into new groups and making friends. Whenever she was out with those new pals and her family happened to call, she’d say, "I’m out eating… yeah, just with coworkers."
He remembered that even when she was out with him and got a call from her family, she’d still say, "I’m out eating… yeah, just with coworkers."
Coworkers? Well, technically that was true—they were coworkers. But was that all? Look at those chopsticks in your cabinet labeled "Dummy Jack." Look at all those dishes I always washed after dinner. You really call that just coworkers?
He remembered the winter of 2012, late December, when the girl asked the boy, "What’s up with you lately? Haven’t seen you around, and you’ve suddenly lost so much weight."
The boy shook his head and sighed, "Can’t sleep at night—only get three hours. No appetite during the day—barely eat half a meal. Lost fifteen pounds in fifteen days. When it comes to losing weight, your bro’s got skills."
The girl was shocked, "What?! Are you sick? You should go to the hospital!"
The boy just smiled, totally unfazed, "Hospital can’t fix this—yeah, it’s just work stress."
"Just you wait!" the girl said, spinning around and marching off. The boy was puzzled, but a moment later, she came back with Dummy Meg and a giant basket of goodies. "Here, let me show you—this one’s for stress relief, this one’s for nutrition. Oh, and this milk is a specialty from my hometown. Drink a pack before bed every night, it’ll help you sleep. I’ll call my family and have them send more regularly. You’ll keep drinking it until you’re back to normal!"
He remembered how she really did keep sending loads of milk, delivered on schedule. He kept those cartons right up until he quit and moved away. Never drank a single pack—but he didn’t lose any more weight, either.
Think about all those things—the shots we took together, the checkups, the clothes we shopped for, the teeth we got pulled. You really call that just coworkers?
How could I... not believe it...
It was like a shadow fire burning in his heart—slithering beneath the surface, silent and invisible, never breaking through the man's ever-mature, ever-calm exterior. But that flame kept spreading, unstoppable. It must've been jealousy, or maybe just anxiety, licking at his soul, burning him up, throwing his whole world off balance.
He still didn’t get why he felt so uneasy, but all the memories swirling around him seemed tinged with the color of flame. Jack Young’s rational mind was fighting its last battle; he was like a drowning man in a deep well, desperately kicking to get his head above water for a breath.
But in the real world, Jack Young’s distraction caused his internal energy output to falter. In a race, victory or defeat happens in a split second. Zhu Ming, in his black race car, instantly picked up on the subtle change.
[Status update. Data re-collected. Pursuit possible.]
"Huh? What’s going on? Why’s he suddenly driving all wobbly?" This wasn’t like the earlier warm-up—this was a tremor caused by uneven energy distribution, almost like a brake malfunction, and that usually meant trouble. Even the folks in the stands noticed something was off; Jasper Xiao frowned and stood up, feeling instinctively uneasy. He flipped his right hand and pulled out his warhammer.
"Forget it, this is my chance—go!" Zhu Ming’s eyes lit up as the black car closed in fast. The wind roared, engines screamed, and in a blink, the two cars finished lap two. Lap three began, and on the straightaway, the black car finally caught up.
"Weapon systems ready." On the sensor window, crosshairs, circles, and other targeting aids popped up. Wherever Zhu Ming focused, the crosshairs followed. The two cars were side by side, and he could clearly see Jack Young in the Bugatti, looking totally spaced out. When Zhu Ming zeroed in on Jack’s face, the targeting reticle locked onto it too.
Zhu Ming’s heartbeat suddenly ramped up—thump, thump, thump—so fast it felt like it might burst out of his chest.
"No, no!" Zhu Ming took two deep breaths, trying to calm his racing pulse. He shook his head, tamping down his reckless urge—but that didn’t mean he’d given up. "I’ve gotta do this without anyone noticing." The crosshairs drifted to the tires and the fuel tank, and Zhu Ming grinned wickedly. "Almost there, just a bit more—once we hit the target spot, I make my move!"
The straightaway ended in a flash, both cars whipping around the bend at top speed. In the wild dance of acceleration and braking, Zhu Ming’s grin grew wider and wider. "Three, two, one—here! Fire!"
Buzz—the mystery racer’s special weapon bared its fangs. A custom micro-particle round was about to pierce the Bugatti’s tires, sending it skidding out of control on the sharp turn at 200 kilometers per hour, flipping into a heap of twisted metal and flying debris. Nobody—not even the crash investigators—would ever know it was sabotage. That was the plan, anyway.
But at the exact moment the micro-particle round fired, Jack Young—who’d been spaced out—suddenly swerved, and the Bugatti dodged the shot. At the same time, Jack glanced back at the black racer, and there was a hint of red in his eyes.
All that burning shadow fire finally found its outlet.