Chapter 8: High-Risk Experimental Subject  

Jing Rong was accustomed to resting under all sorts of absurd conditions. Even though the sofa beneath him was narrow and uncomfortable, falling asleep wasn’t particularly difficult.  

The only difference this time was that he dreamed.  

It had been a long time since Jing Rong last dreamed.  

That small dark blue crystal, which had accidentally melted into his body, had solidified within his consciousness. At night, it emitted a quiet glow, and once he sank completely into the deep sea of sleep, it began to play before his eyes.  

The scene in the dream was nothing extraordinary.  

Jing Rong saw a crimson sun hanging high in the sky, dull and heavy over a battlefield.  

The battlefield was filled with wind, sand, and smoke.  

A young child, dressed in tattered military uniform with several weapons hanging at his waist, was supporting a severely wounded adult companion.  

Both of them had red hair.  

However, the child’s hair was a blazing red, like molten gold at sunset, and his eyes were a deep, tranquil blue. Even though his face was smeared with blood and grime, Jing Rong could recognize him—it was Jue in his childhood.  

The young Jue remained silent, laboriously dragging his adult companion into a trench. He pulled out medical supplies from his chest and skillfully tended to the man’s wounds.  

Yet, Jue himself was injured. His arm had been grazed by shrapnel, and blood was steadily trickling down from his elbow, staining the light green military uniform black.  

But he seemed oblivious to the pain, focusing solely on his companion’s condition.  

The sound of endless artillery fire roared in the background, and stray bullets whizzed overhead.  

Once the man saw that Jue had finished treating his wounds, he placed his uninjured hand on the child’s head and sighed softly.  

Young Jue asked, “Where is this? How far have we fought?”  

The man replied, “We’ve reached our homeland. We’re home.”  

Young Jue nodded. After bandaging the man’s wounds, he laid him flat against the trench.  

The man said to him, “Come here, child. Their bombers will take some time to reload. You can rest for a while.”  

So Jue crawled over and nestled into the man’s embrace. Almost instantly, he fell asleep.  

As he slept, the adult stopped breathing. The battlefield grew quieter and quieter until it was completely silent.  

All sound seemed to have been sucked away into a vacuum, and the crimson sun still hung high in the sky.  

The dream ended there.  

In the depths of his consciousness, Jing Rong knew this was the mental fragment Jue had retrieved from the laboratory.  

An utterly ordinary dream, devoid of any special significance. The emotions within it were also calm—clearly a small fragment from Jue’s childhood, one of countless moments left behind on the battlefield.  

Jing Rong gazed at this dark blue fragment and ended the dream.  

The exhaust fan above him continued to whirr, and the fire in the hearth had dwindled to a pile of glowing embers, nearly extinguished.  

Jing Rong saw that 626 had returned, curled up asleep inside a coffee cup. The wall clock pointed to three in the morning.  

Rubbing his eyes, Jing Rong stood up quietly and pushed open the outpost door.  

The icy winter wind seeped into his collar.  

He stood in the snow for a while, letting the cold breeze completely dispel the remnants of sleep before returning indoors.  

He lit wheat straw and tossed fresh firewood into the hearth. Once the flames roared back to life, he threw a can into the fire to heat it up and casually warmed a cup of coffee.  

As the coffee bubbled in the aluminum cup, Jing Rong carried it back to the sofa.

His footsteps suddenly halted.

Jing Rong’s gaze lowered, meeting a pair of tranquil blue eyes.

Jue had woken up at some point and was silently watching him.

The Adjudicator’s weapon had pierced through Jue’s chest, completely destroying the tissues above his thoracic cavity, including his vocal cords. Although 626 had performed repairs, it would still take several days for Jue to regain his voice.

Currently, Jue was extremely weak. Waking up this early wasn’t beneficial for him.

Jing Rong locked eyes with him for a moment but didn’t approach, remaining where he stood with a cup in hand. “Your physical condition is critical. More rest would do you good.”

Jue’s gaze remained fixed on him, though the usual calm scrutiny was now tinged with a faint trace of bewilderment.

The entire room was warm, not a single draft penetrating inside. The air was filled with the aroma of canned food and coffee, carrying the essence of a peaceful night.

Jing Rong was dressed casually, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal slender arms, his fingers steadily gripping an outdoor aluminum cup. Steam rose gently, lending depth to his typically indifferent eyes.

Jue had grown familiar with this face.

It was the last face he saw before death, and the first upon awakening to a second life.

The expressionless, black-haired, black-eyed Adjudicator now looked down at him through lowered lashes.

No threat.

Jue’s gaze followed Jing Rong’s downward glance. Behind the sofa stood a makeshift clothes rack, upon which his white cloak hung, freshly laundered.

Covering his body was a thin medical sheet, over which lay a black Adjudicator’s coat.

Jue blinked slowly. He seemed to want to ask something but soon frowned almost imperceptibly.

626 had once said that compared to physical pain, the phantom pain from dispersed Mental Power was the most unbearable—agony beyond ordinary endurance.

Jing Rong understood this pain. Watching Jue, he asked, “Does it hurt?”

Those blue eyes still gazed at him, their expression unchanged, though the focus began to waver. Beneath the sheet, his hands clenched violently from the pain.

His breathing remained steady, but fine beads of cold sweat appeared on his pale cheeks.

Jing Rong said, “Your pain tolerance is high, but that won’t aid your recovery.”

He studied Jue briefly, then turned to rummage through an open suitcase.

Jue’s eyes followed him.

It was a case he knew well—an Adjudicator’s equipment box.

Having clashed with them countless times, he knew exactly what every Adjudicator’s box contained: Mental Needles, inserted directly into the brain to torture victims beyond endurance; Phantom Pain Injectors, where a single milligram could drive an elephant to madness; Poison Mist Bombs, temporarily severing Mental Power, reducing people to walking corpses.

These were the tools that made Adjudicators seem like reapers of death.

Jing Rong opened the box.

Jue’s fingers tensed slightly before relaxing again.

Inside were entirely ordinary items, some even quaint.

A clearly mechanically powered gun, some cocoa powder, bottled medicinal ingredients, shirts neatly folded by shade, and a few books.

Jing Rong noticed Jue’s gaze lingering on the gun.

He offered a simple explanation: “No bullets.”

In this world, bullets are all Mental Constructs, their shapes and designs insufficient to be loaded into this gun.  

Jing Rong put the gun away and answered plainly, “I won’t use it on you.”  

He seemed to understand Jue’s intention: “Of course, I won’t imprison or humiliate you either. You can rest assured.”  

Jue lifted his gaze and saw Jing Rong take out a thick book from his luggage before returning to the sofa.  

That book was also ancient, its thickness a rarity among books.  

Jing Rong still kept his distance from Jue. Even though his sofa was right beside the bed, he chose the farthest position, facing Jue directly.  

“If you can’t sleep, I’ll read to you.”  

The excruciating pain caused by the damage to Mental Power couldn’t be treated with medication—it could only heal slowly on its own. Some doctors would resort to constant sedatives, but that did nothing to aid the recovery of the trauma.  

The correct treatment was to divert attention and let the wound heal gradually.  

The clarity in Jue’s blue eyes grew more bewildered.  

An Adjudicator.  

Not only had he saved him, but he was also going to read to him?  

Jing Rong didn’t notice the shift in his gaze.  

The book he brought was *The Encyclopedia of Ancient World Terms*, which documented all the strange creatures, geography, and flora of this world.  

He had found it in a city buried beneath the ice plains. Compared to the world now ruled by the Ork Empire, the stories within belonged to an unknown past, two or three hundred years ago.  

“Mermaids—a highly intelligent species discovered beneath the waters of the Stetkinwells Glacier. They evolve a unique skin color every century, one that color charts cannot display. It can be described as a metallic crimson, often concealed in glacier waters alongside algae, forming a protective camouflage.”  

Jing Rong flipped open the index at random and read in a steady voice. “When night falls, they blend into the color of the glacier. Thus, scholars named this hue after the glacier—Stetkinwells.”  

Leaning against the sofa, Jing Rong read with lowered eyes.  

His voice was soft, gentle, carrying an oddly soothing effect—like snow lightly brushing the water’s edge, or as if he had truly seen mermaids and that color named in ancient texts. There was a certain tenderness in his faint tone.  

The fire crackled, filling the room with the aroma of cocoa and coffee. In this moment, even the echoes of war were shut out beyond this outpost.  

Jue closed his eyes.  

His fingers, spasming from pain, slowly relaxed.  

The cutting agony brought by Mental Power truly began to recede like the tide.