CH636 · Rewrite
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Chapter 636: Illusory Reality

Roland descended more than a dozen floors. When he stopped and let his muscles go slack, the soreness hit—deep and specific, the kind that only comes from stairs.

No elevators in an old building like this. Even knowing it was a dream, he felt a distant gratitude that he hadn’t appeared on the twenty-second floor.

He turned the problem over as he walked.

Zero must have built this place—that much was obvious. But the motive made no sense. No sane retaliation against Roland would look like this: an immense apartment complex, filled with people Zero had absorbed over two centuries, and Zero herself turned into a twelve-year-old girl who made breakfast and worried about grocery money. If this was revenge, it had backfired completely.

She had stripped herself of her memories as a pure witch. She had become fragile, domestic, unable to fight back.

Why would she go to this effort just to let me watch her lose?

He thought through it carefully. The apartment was Zero’s record, her archaeology—every person she had consumed, encoded into a tube-shaped building of impossible dimensions. But the city beyond it, the skyline of towers and the stream of modern traffic, clearly wasn’t hers. That was his. His memories, projected outward, giving this borrowed world its shape.

Which meant Zero’s design had met Roland’s mind and produced something neither of them had intended.

She had tried to trap him here. The dream was supposed to be his prison.

Instead, he was a visitor who could leave whenever he chose—and she had become one of the residents.

That was a more likely account.

What about me?

He knew he didn’t belong here—not in the tower, not as one of the absorbed. His memory was intact and ordered. He understood this was a dream, and he could exit any time. Those were not characteristics of someone who’d been swallowed.

What he didn’t know yet was how much of the dream was real, in the sense of containing things he didn’t already know.

Was it substance or shell?


Back in room 0825, he moved through it methodically.

Three bedrooms and one living room, no terrace—standard layout. His bedroom, Zero’s bedroom, and a storage room packed with the large, useless objects of accumulated time: a bicycle with no wheels, an old sewing machine, a gate with rust flaking from its hinges. Nothing worth anything.

He went to Zero’s room.

No unauthorized entry, the sign on her door read.

He opened it.

The scent that reached him was faint—mild and oddly pleasant. He stepped inside. Everything in the room was folded, organized, neat to the point of deliberateness. Blanket squared at the corners. Desk cleared. Floor spotless.

In the corner of the desk, a small pink diary caught his eye.

A diary.

He felt no compunction about this whatsoever. He was in a dream, reading the memory of a person who had tried to destroy his mind. He picked it up.

There was a plastic lock on the spine—the kind that exists for emotional comfort rather than security. He found two toothpicks, worked them into the keyhole, and had it open in under a minute.

The handwriting was cramped but careful. No corrections, no blots. She had meant every word.

February 16th. Due to school relocation, I’ve been placed with a house-owner in an unfamiliar city. His name is Roland. He’s a somewhat untidy uncle. He works at a bar, sleeps during the day, leaves at night, and comes back smelling of alcohol. I don’t want to be here. But my family said the rent is minimal and meals are included, and they’ll send me to the countryside if I complain again.

Roland’s mouth tightened. He’d been to a bar a handful of times in his life. But internal consistency wasn’t the dream’s strong point—this version of him had a background shaped by fragments of his memory, stitched together into whatever fit the scene.

February 27th. School started. Uncle Roland seems to have lost his job. He looks very depraved. Last night’s dinner was instant noodles I bought myself.

March 2nd. I’ve spent my whole allowance on noodles. The magazine says twelve is a critical growth period. I have to say something. If he gets angry, I’ll endure it. The countryside is worse.

March 3rd. He agreed. Every month he’ll give me a living stipend to buy proper food. I’ll cook if I’m not in school. Who is taking care of whom here? I should probably be paid for this. But I’m used to doing chores. Fine.

June 8th. Three months since I arrived. I’ve made friends. My grades are the best in the class. Uncle Roland is careless and untidy, but he isn’t bad. At least he doesn’t hit me. The problem is he still hasn’t found work. We can’t survive on his family’s remittances alone. I have to think of something.

June 22nd. Earning money is harder than I thought. I sold some illustrations to classmates at the tutoring center and made fifteen yuan. That’s barely two days of food. Did I say something too harsh to uncle? He’s still an adult. I feel like I’ve been rude. But I couldn’t stop myself. Maybe this is my rebellious phase.

June 25th. I was so frightened today. I came home to find Uncle Roland balanced on a stack of chairs reaching the ceiling. He fell when he saw me. The sofa was right there—he didn’t get hurt. But why would he stack chairs that high? Was he trying to—? I should ask him tomorrow.

Roland spent half an hour reading to the end. He now understood the structure. The dream assigned everyone a modern identity, with a background coherent enough to sustain the illusion. Zero had been placed as his ward. A middle school student, boarding with a careless uncle, doing the cooking, managing the money, going to tutoring on summer weekdays.

The architecture of it was extraordinary. Far more complex than anything he could have generated himself. No wonder the soul-duel had kept him comatose for nearly two months—the processing cost must have been immense.

He returned the diary to its corner and looked at the books stacked beside the desk.

Textbooks.

He picked up the top one. Literature. Next—social studies. He picked up the third, and went still.

An eighth-grade chemistry textbook.

Simple, accessible, filled with diagrams. The kind of book that showed you what a molecule looked like before it explained why. He turned to the back cover and a folded sheet slid out, fluttering to the floor.

He picked it up and unfolded it.

A complete periodic table of elements.

Every element, every atomic number and mass, arranged across the full expanse of the page—including the rows he had never been able to recall from memory.

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