Chapter 24 – The Twenty-Fourth Ray of Light

The “Ningyuan Giant Rat” incident quickly went viral on the internet, trending alongside the “Jing Du Serpent” and “Lingdong Monster,” dominating the headlines everywhere. Meanwhile, a fully armed military force, united with elite personnel from various divisions, decisively embarked on a second expedition into the mountains.

They had no idea what dangers lurked deep within the wilderness, nor could they predict what kind of monsters might emerge from the rats’ lair. All they knew was this: as soldiers, if they didn’t step forward, neither the nation at large nor individual families could hope to live in peace.

They had already witnessed how formidable these rats were.

Each rat weighed an average of 24 jin (about 12 kilograms), with claws and teeth unusually sharp. Their fur was tough, and they could fight cats of similar size without losing. Against hunting dogs, they showed no fear. Moreover, their sheer numbers were terrifying; even humans had to flee upon encountering them—let alone cats or dogs.

Because of this, the higher-ups issued a clear directive: “If you can’t win, retreat. Lives matter most!”

This wasn’t about cowardice; after what happened yesterday, everyone understood brute force wouldn’t work. Unless they bombed the entire Ningyuan Mountain Range, and even then… No, bombing wouldn’t guarantee complete success—only a pyrrhic victory. And no one could promise that blowing up the mountains would truly wipe out the rats.

Heading back into the mountains, they went in fully prepared for the worst. They didn’t expect to return unscathed; they only hoped to resolve the crisis at hand.

Trained police dogs raced ahead, following the rats’ scent, while soldiers sprinted closely behind. Military vehicles carrying experts and equipment followed alongside, but the deeper they ventured, the rougher the mountain paths became.

After nearly two hours of jostling, they abandoned their vehicles and carried simplified equipment on foot. It took another three hours of climbing before they finally reached the edge of the rats’ lair.

At that moment, the police dogs barked furiously at a pitch-black ravine. When the team stepped forward to investigate, they were stunned.

At some unknown time, a long, narrow fissure had opened in the Ningyuan Mountain Range. Deep and cold, its jagged edges resembled the gaping maw of a devil.

Inside, it was pitch black. Even with powerful lights shining in, visibility extended only about seven or eight meters before disappearing into nothingness.

An expert shoved a dead rat into the crevice to test the reaction. After some time, he grimly remarked, “There’s something even bigger down there. We might really have to blow up the mountain range.”

“What?”

“This crevice is only wide enough for creatures around 20 to 30 jin to pass through, which is why the rats emerged,” the expert explained as he dropped a pea-sized electronic probe ball into the abyss. Staring at the constantly shifting screen on his computer, he continued, “In other words, if this fissure were wider, larger creatures might surface.”

The probe rolled downward, its faint light illuminating the surroundings. The rocky walls were covered in claw marks from the rats, yet the bottom was nowhere in sight—the fissure only grew deeper.

“Still no end?” The expert frowned. “The reading’s already at 80 meters…”

Yet the probe kept descending, plummeting past 100 meters, 200 meters, 300 meters—its numbers skyrocketed as if it would never hit the bottom, rolling endlessly downward.

“How could it be this deep?” someone exclaimed in disbelief. “There haven’t been any earthquakes in Ningyuan. When did this fissure form? Even if the rats dug it, this… this is absurd!”

After over ten minutes, the probe transmitted a final depth reading: 6,312 meters.

Subtracting the mountain’s altitude, the fissure extended nearly 4,000 meters into the earth. They couldn’t determine whether the probe had reached the bottom or gotten wedged in the crevice, as the video feed showed nothing but rocks.

“At 4,000 meters below the surface—the depth human mines can reach—the temperature is approximately 66 to 70 degrees Celsius. There’s been no evidence of biological life there…”

“Squeak—!” A sudden, sharp sound erupted from the computer before the probe’s signal cut out entirely.

The screen turned blue. The team scrambled to replay the footage, rewinding frame by frame. “Did you hear that? That sound just now! It was a creature’s call, wasn’t it?”

“I heard it too. Rewind, rewind… stop! Right here!”

The video froze at the 15-minute-and-36-second mark. Within the probe’s light, a pair of crimson eyes appeared in the darkness. A massive shadow lunged forward the next second, swallowing the probe whole!

Slowing the playback further, the more they analyzed, the more the creature resembled a rat.

“How big do you think it is? Scaled to real-world size?” The expert, hands trembling, calculated the dimensions. His voice quivered as he put it into layman’s terms. “I’d estimate it’s about three stories tall.”

At those words, a chill swept through the group.

Rats weighing 20 to 30 jin had already devastated all of Qukang, leaving not a single blade of grass. A three-story-tall giant rat… one might be manageable, but what if there were an entire swarm?

“We can’t bomb the mountains. Blasting it open would only let them escape. But if we don’t, they’ll eventually dig their way out somewhere else,” the expert muttered softly. “Report to the higher-ups. The entire Qukang region must enter a state of war readiness.”

Looks like the New Year’s celebration for 2222 might not happen after all.

December 31st: A Starless, Moonless Night

At the exact moment when 2221 transitioned into 2222, seemingly uneventful…

In the luxury suite of Shengdu Hotel—a blend of Western technology and traditional Chinese elegance—Si Nuocheng was busy to the point of exhaustion. Even while soaking in the bathtub, his phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

Though the suite’s soundproofing was excellent, Si Nuocheng’s fury still seemed to burn through the walls. His angry roars and curses made Ji Si’s forehead twitch uncontrollably.

“How many times have I told you? Huh? I told you not to take maritime shipping orders! Who the hell approved them?” Si Nuocheng’s rage boiled over. “The coast is under lockdown, and you took orders? Are you trying to make me go against the state?”

“I don’t care who you’re dealing with, how big the order is, or how much profit it offers—cancel everything! Fire anyone who made unauthorized decisions! And remember who your boss is!”

“What? He owns 26% of the shares? Buy him out completely and kick him and his cronies out!”

Splash! That was the sound of his phone hitting the bathtub. After a brief three-second silence, the hairdryer roared at full blast.

Faintly, Ji Si heard someone inside say, “I say ‘wind come,’ and wind really comes—with three heat settings too. Tsk.”

Ji Si: …

In a way, Young Master Si was undeniably a rare talent.

When his emotions surged to a certain intensity, language became a weapon in his hands—a battle axe capable of cutting down anyone in his path. His words could bankrupt a person with terrifying certainty.

The sheer force of his presence was overwhelming, like a sandstorm blotting out the sun. For someone as sensitive to energy as a divine practitioner, it felt like standing at the eye of a storm. Only after the storm subsided could they focus on their own tasks.

The sound of the hairdryer continued, and the energy field gradually calmed.

Ji Si leaned back on the sofa and poked at his thick, outdated “brick” phone. But whether it was the hotel’s poor Wi-Fi or his outdated device, he couldn’t load Weibo no matter how hard he tried.

With no choice, he combined the runes “Junma Yewazi” and “Messenger Ansuz” to remove obstacles and summon the information he desired.

Soon, he logged in smoothly and immediately understood the earlier issues.

His sole Weibo post had gone viral. The comment section was in shambles, reposts had exploded, his inbox was overflowing, and his follower count had skyrocketed to over a million.

Overnight, he had achieved C-list celebrity status.

Ji Si skimmed through comments like “Dad, I was wrong” and “Oh mighty one, I kneel before you” along with private messages asking, “Master, do you do fortune-telling? How much for a 30-minute consultation?” He then opened a document and began slowly drafting new content.

For five thousand years, Zhongzhou’s rich history had left its mark, yet its people had forgotten their ancestors’ teachings. Sending birthdates and eight-character horoscopes in private messages was akin to handing him the password to their savings accounts, throwing open the gates for him to claim their fortunes.

In his era, the birth charts ( bazi ) of noble families—especially firstborn sons and daughters—were typically kept secure by the Imperial Astronomical Bureau and were only used for significant events like official appointments, marriages, or sacrificial rituals. Birthdays were often celebrated a day early or delayed by a few days, ensuring outsiders couldn’t pinpoint the exact time of birth.

Yet here on Earth, people casually posted their bazi online, utterly carefree. If they happened to attract the attention of a sinister cultivator, their fate might be rewritten, and their luck stolen.

Fortunately, such sinister cultivators were rare. And even among those, most likely perished from the karmic backlash of their misdeeds.

Ji Si finished typing the final word and sent the post.

[January 1, 2222, evening: A resonance will occur between the Earth’s Abyss, Dimensional Gates, and Demon Caverns, triggering a response from the fourth layer, the “Ghost Domain.” I urge everyone to stay home and avoid going out. Do not take this lightly.]

By then, creatures from the earth’s core, demons from alternate dimensions, monsters from hell, and spirits from the ghostly realms would all be present. Be it those flying through the skies, running across the land, or swimming through the seas, humanity would be hard-pressed to imagine any monstrosity that couldn’t emerge.

Add in earthquakes, tsunamis, or alien invasions, and Ji Si would have essentially walked through every post-apocalyptic scenario his comrades had faced.

Truly, this Earth—his personal choice—seemed to have no shortage of self-destructive mechanisms. It was as though it was determined to leave no room for humanity’s survival.

How tragic. Here’s hoping humanity could endure and survive 2222.

Ji Si hit “Send.”

He couldn’t care less about his “top-tier influencer” status. He turned off his outdated brick-like phone and returned to the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing at the night sky for celestial signs.

Unbeknownst to him, within a single second of posting, over a hundred comments flooded in. Within thirty seconds, the post was shared over a thousand times. On the surface, there was no visible response from various factions, but in secret, many parties were quietly keeping tabs on Ji Si.

For instance, the Abnormal Events Liaison Bureau immediately flagged the High Priest’s new post, processed its contents, and escalated it through a green channel to their superiors.

Soon enough, the ancient Eastern nation stirred awake in the dead of night, with every cog in the state machine grinding into motion.

For Si Nuocheng, his phone’s primary functions were calls, meetings, and payments. Secondary functions included games, movies, and casual browsing.

On any normal day, he would have turned off his phone and gone to bed. But after having his worldview shaken to the core, he inexplicably logged into his long-dormant Weibo account and followed Ji Si’s page.

Remarkably, his phone, despite having fallen into the bathtub and endured hours of hot air from the hairdryer, still operated smoothly and without issue.

His official Weibo was typically managed by his secretary, while his personal account was desolate. Its username was a string of random English characters, and the profile picture was a grumpy-looking alpaca.

Si Nuocheng couldn’t recall why he’d chosen an alpaca, but its resigned expression perfectly encapsulated his current mood. The shattered and reassembled worldview, the helplessness of a materialist unable to save humanity—it got him.

Changing his username to “Big CEO SNC,” he quickly transitioned into work mode, sitting at his desk and scrolling through Ji Si’s posts.

There were only two posts, both with comment sections filled with “shattered kneecaps” and apologies.

Naturally, the trolls were present too, dancing enthusiastically in the comments of the latest post.

One particularly obnoxious user, “ClickMeForMovies,” had left a scathing remark:

“I thought you were legit when your first prediction came true, but your second post is straight out of a fantasy novel. Demon Caverns? Ghost Domains? Why don’t you just add the Immortal Realms while you’re at it? Let me guess—you’re gearing up to sell fortunes and amulets, maybe even snag some ads. Gotta capitalize on that traffic, right?”

The backlash against this comment was substantial, but it also had its supporters.

To most people, the giant snake was attributed to nuclear pollution, the oversized rats were merely a rare plague, and the Lingdong Monster could be explained as an alien encounter. As long as there was a scientific explanation, they wouldn’t stray from it. After all, they’d spent decades comfortably nestled in its framework.

Unfortunately, when people idolize something so fervently that they believe it to be infallible and authoritative, that, in itself, becomes true “superstition.”

He had been the same once, but the world was full of the unknown.

Feeling deeply moved, Si Nuocheng replied under the post:

“There are no absolutes.”

Soon enough, he received a fiery response from “ClickMeForMovies”:

“Oh, your username’s great, Big CEO SNC. Big CEO stands for Big Dumbass! Clearly, you’ve got a strong sense of self-awareness, idiot!”

Si Nuocheng: …

The Young Master remained silent, calmly switching to his official Weibo account for the first time. Without hesitation, he scrolled to Ji Si’s post and, in a moment of pure satisfaction, reported “ClickMeForMovies” for harassment.

As one of the most influential corporate accounts on Weibo, his report was like a hammer, swiftly banning the troll beyond recovery.

He chuckled coldly.
Serves you right for using a name like “ClickMeForMovies.” You practically begged for this. Clearly, you were well-prepared for your own downfall, you fool.

Feeling pleased, he closed Weibo and turned to Ji Si. “So, where to next, High Priest?”

“Stay put,” Ji Si replied. “The Ghost Domain doesn’t appear in fixed locations; it only releases spiritual entities, which then seek out specific individuals.”

“Those with heavy karmic burdens will suffer. Only virtue can save them.” He added, almost casually, “And I have no intention of saving those who’ve brought this upon themselves.”

PS:
Ji Si: “Draw a pentagram, imagine infusing it with your power, then press it against your chest. Well? How do you feel now?”
Si Nuocheng, after sketching a pentagram on his chest and pondering: “I feel it—I love my country.”
Ji Si: … “Your identity as a muggle is now impossible to hide.”