Chapter Sixty-One: Contact

No matter how angry Gu Mengyan had been with Chen Hao before, once she noticed his abnormal behavior, she could not bring herself to act petulant or deliberately ignore him. She knew Chen Hao too well; he was not the sort of person who would pick a petty quarrel or look for an excuse to avoid her over something so trivial. The fact that he had acted so strangely was proof enough that something was truly wrong with him.

Chen Hao was a trained martial artist, possessing a tolerance for pain much greater than most. If even he showed such a pained expression, then the discomfort he was experiencing must have been excruciating. This was precisely what made both Gu Mengyan and Fan Yirou so anxious. Since childhood, Chen Hao had been healthy and robust, seldom falling ill—not even catching colds easily, thanks to his years of disciplined training.

What could possibly have gone wrong with his body? Gu Mengyan couldn’t help but think of the time not long ago when she had cared for Chen Hao during his coma. Could this be related? Or was it simply the strain and exhaustion from preparing to open the martial arts school that had triggered a severe migraine?

Their worries were much the same. Sharing a glance, the two women lost all interest in the luxurious swimming pool that had so excited them moments before, and hurried downstairs after Chen Hao instead.

This was truly the first time they had ever encountered such a strange reaction from Chen Hao, and neither of them had any experience dealing with such a situation; it was no wonder they appeared flustered. Rushing to the ground floor, they found Chen Hao slumped deep into the couch in the living room, his back pressed against the cushions, his face weary as though he had just endured a day of hard labor.

Gu Mengyan approached and, seeing Chen Hao’s furrowed brow, asked with concern, “Chen Hao, what’s wrong? Why did you look like that earlier? Are you unwell?”

Chen Hao opened his eyes and glanced at the two girls, sighing helplessly. “I told you, I’m fine. Really. You two should just go about your business and stop worrying about me.”

“Still insist you’re fine? You clearly looked like you were in agony just now, and now you’re slumped here alone—does that look like nothing’s wrong?” Fan Yirou retorted. “You might as well hang a sign around your neck telling everyone to be careful!”

Chen Hao could only offer a wry smile, glancing from Fan Yirou to Gu Mengyan. The worry on their faces was unmistakably genuine; clearly, his behavior had alarmed them.

Their concern was not misplaced. Back on the rooftop, he had indeed been struck by a sudden, intense pain—not the kind of headache caused by a cold, nor the throb of a hangover, but a sensation as if someone had struck the back of his head with a thick wooden rod.

And Chen Hao knew that feeling all too well. In childhood, when training in martial arts with his father, the elder Chen never went easy on him. Despite being father and son, his father would not hesitate to use a wooden staff in practice—even on Chen Hao’s head.

That same bone-jarring pain was what he’d experienced just now on the rooftop. But that was all in the past. The truth was, as he’d told Fan Yirou and Gu Mengyan, he really was fine now. The splitting pain had lasted only a moment; once those bizarre, fragmented images appeared in his mind, the pain faded instantly.

He had come downstairs ahead of the others and sunk into the couch not because he was still in pain, but to try to sort through those strange fragments that had suddenly surfaced in his mind.

Yet as he attempted to piece them together, he couldn’t shake a profound sense of discomfort. The scenes and fleeting images were not memories of anything he had experienced, nor were they sights he had witnessed firsthand—yet their presence in his mind was as vivid as if he were playing a first-person video game.

It was a peculiar sensation, almost as if he were watching a VR film, the events unfolding before his eyes with startling realism, so tangible they seemed within reach.

Moreover, these scenes did not come from a single, fixed perspective, but from various viewpoints, all within the same environment. If they were real, Chen Hao reasoned, then the images must be what different people saw in the same place.

Confusion filled his mind—so many questions left unanswered.

First, why had these inexplicable images suddenly appeared in his mind?

Second, were these visions real events, or entirely imaginary?

Third, if they were imaginary, he could dismiss them as dreams. But if they were real, where had they taken place? The only thing he could determine was that all the scenes seemed to occur at night, deep within a sprawling forest. But the forest’s location, and the identities of the people involved, remained mysteries.

Fourth, what had attacked those people? Why had such bizarre events transpired? He recalled seeing living people suddenly torn open by massive wounds, as though struck by something with a blade.

No, not a blade—Chen Hao, with his extensive knowledge of martial arts and weaponry, was certain that no weapon he knew of could inflict wounds like those.

What was the meaning of all this? Did it have something to do with his coming to Krystal? Or was it connected to his entry into the virtual reality game?

If these were scenes from the game, that would be easier to accept; after all, virtual reality technology could create effects indistinguishable from real life. Perhaps his sudden memories were the result of data from the game contaminating his own recollections—though incomplete, hence the fragmented feeling.

Again and again, Chen Hao replayed those scenes in his mind, searching for any clue that might unravel his confusion. Unconsciously, he closed his eyes to focus his attention.

Ironically, this only made the two girls worry more, thinking he was still suffering from his headache. How exasperating...

But how could he possibly explain all this to them? If he told them about the things he’d seen in his “dream,” surely they’d never believe him—worse, they might conclude his “condition” was even more serious than they’d thought!

As he hesitated, unsure how to explain himself, a sudden, thunderous roar filled the air—the unmistakable sound of aircraft flying overhead. Judging by the noise, they were not civilian airliners, but a large fleet of helicopters.

The racket startled all three at once. Instinctively, they turned to look out the window, just in time to see over a dozen helicopters sweeping by at low altitude. And among them, three enormous transport planes.

What was even more astonishing, these were military transport planes! As a man, Chen Hao had a certain familiarity with military hardware, and he recognized these aircraft at once: the An-124 Condor, developed by Country E and designed by a man named Antonov. The plane was about seventy meters long, with a seventy-three-meter wingspan, and a tail height of about twenty meters. Its maximum takeoff weight was 405 tons, and it could fly at speeds up to 865 kilometers per hour.

The An-124 could reach an altitude of 9,500 meters, carried 213 tons of fuel, and boasted a range of 4,500 kilometers.

As soon as he saw the three transport planes, all these facts surfaced unbidden in Chen Hao’s mind. But what truly drew his attention were the helicopters—each one armed with aviation machine guns and air-to-ground missiles.

What was going on? A military exercise? But that didn’t seem right; if it were just a drill, these particular aircraft wouldn’t be involved.

Wait! He seemed to recall seeing these same transport planes among the memory fragments—at the very site of that infernal carnage. He distinctly remembered a scene, or perhaps a person’s viewpoint, showing a massive transport plane parked on a vast clearing.

Could it be that these giants in the sky were from the same place or organization as the aircraft in his sudden visions? If so, then what he had “seen” was not a dream, but something that had truly happened? And why was it all happening here, in Krystal—a place so intimately tied to Gu Mengyan?

Chen Hao’s thoughts also turned to Gu Mengyan’s parents. Although the incident that led to their disappearance—or death—had long been deliberately shrouded in secrecy, over the years Chen Hao had managed to uncover some information through various channels. While the details remained unclear, he knew that all the researchers who had come to Krystal back then had been attacked.

But who the assailants were, and what their motives might have been, remained a mystery. Could today’s events somehow be connected to those of the past?