After Mark hung up, YiChen returned to his room to change.

  A fitted black T-shirt clung to the lean, hard lines of his frame. Dark jeans fell straight, the cut precise, and over them a charcoal sports jacket. He tugged once at the collar, then stood still. Morning light spilled through the curtains, sharpening the angle of his jaw, laying a quiet shadow across his brow.

  Even at rest, he carried the weight of command.

  At the doorway, Mark lingered. Fingers tapped against the frame. His voice was low.

  “You must tread carefully. These men… are deep as the sea. If what they want is—”

  “I know my measure.” YiChen’s reply was quiet, but iron sure.

  ---

  Half an hour later, a black government sedan eased into the driveway.

  The rear door opened. Out stepped John Mitchell, Chief of Public Security. Around fifty, broad-shouldered, his face carved by discipline. The gravity of long command clung to him.

  He extended his hand first, his smile polite but edged with caution.

  “Mr. YiChen Caelestis. I’ve long heard your name.”

  YiChen clasped his palm. Thick, callused. Strength leashed.

  “The Chief himself. The honor is mine.”

  Inside, the car smelled faintly of leather and bitter coffee.

  John wasted no time. His voice was clipped.

  “Those Fiends. What are they?”

  YiChen’s gaze slid to the blur of streets beyond the window. His answer was plain: the birth of Spirit Energy, the hunger that drove the creatures, the traits that made them lethal.

  When John asked if ordinary people could resist, YiChen paused.

  “They can. But not all. Spirit Force differs—some are born to fight, some to shield. But—” His eyes met John’s, steady, unflinching. “Even without Spirit Force, as long as they refuse fear… ordinary people can still learn to stand.”

  John’s knee tapped once, twice against the floorboard. His face stayed composed, but a shadow stirred beneath the calm.

  ---

  The council chamber at City Hall was more solemn than YiChen expected.

  Both sides of the long mahogany table were filled:

  ? Mayor Robert Carter at the head, features worn, but eyes sharp as an eagle’s.

  ? Thomas Whitman, Executive Deputy Mayor, flipping documents with mechanical precision.

  ? David Coleman, Deputy Mayor of Emergency Management, coffee stains streaking his sleeve.

  ? Stephen Matthews, Emergency Bureau Chief, whispering with Rebecca Harris, Propaganda Chief.

  ? Kyle Bennett, government spokesman, scrolling through online reports, brow furrowed.

  Behind them, aides and recorders hunched forward, pens poised. The air smelled of stale coffee, ink, and fatigue.

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  John Mitchell’s voice broke the hum.

  “This is YiChen Caelestis.”

  Every head turned.

  The Mayor gestured at an empty chair. His tone allowed no refusal.

  “Sit. We need truth—and help.”

  A file slid across the table.

  YiChen opened it.

  Cumulative deaths in three days: 23,847.

  Missing: 5,693.

  His fingertips stilled. In his past life, he had been only another survivor swept along. Now, numbers were carved into paper—each digit a life lost, each line a family torn apart.

  Whitman’s suspicion struck first.

  “Where did these things come from? Bioweapons? A virus?”

  YiChen closed the file. His reply was steady.

  “No. They come from the Spirit Realm. The barrier between worlds is breaking. Fear and death feed the breach—that’s what mutates them.”

  Rebecca arched a brow.

  “You’re saying… ghosts?”

  “Not ghosts.” YiChen’s gaze locked on hers.

  “Fiends. Wraiths. And Demons. Fiends hunger—feeding on life and fear. Wraiths carry malice and shadow. A few evolve further—into Demons. Call them Malevolent Spirits if you like—but know they are worse.”

  Murmurs rippled down the table. Matthews gave a thin laugh.

  “You’ve brought a fantasy novel into City Hall.”

  YiChen’s voice cut flat.

  “Then explain the hospital footage—bodies sucked into husks, Wraith-like shadows seeping from the air. Can your science explain that?”

  Matthews fell silent.

  The Mayor’s knuckles tapped wood, silencing the room.

  “You said you’ve seen this before. What do you mean?”

  YiChen’s words fell like iron.

  “I come from the future. In the first timeline, the world collapsed. I died… and returned.”

  Silence.

  A pen slipped from Kyle Bennett’s fingers, clattering onto the floor. No one laughed.

  Robert leaned back slowly.

  “Suppose we believe you—for argument’s sake. What comes next?”

  “The beginning,” YiChen said. “Fiends evolve into Wraiths. And among them, rarer still—Demons will rise. If humanity wants to live—we need weapons, training, spirit-users.”

  Coleman snapped.

  “You’re proposing a Ghost Task Force? Do you hear yourself?”

  YiChen didn’t raise his voice.

  “Then cling to rifles. In three days, the Fiends will add another zero to those numbers.”

  The chamber chilled. A dead leaf slapped against the window—sharp, like claws on glass.

  Robert rubbed his temple, then slid forward a red-sealed file.

  “Then hear this. It’s worse than the public knows.”

  Inside: food reserves. Enough to feed one million people for fifteen days.

  “We asked the central government. No reply,” Whitman muttered. “Every city is sealing its gates.”

  YiChen’s brows knit.

  “And the army?”

  The chamber stilled.

  Robert’s voice was rough.

  “Three days ago, several bases fell. Scouts we sent never returned. Status—unknown.”

  The army. Gone.

  YiChen’s pupils contracted. In his last life, he thought they had only been delayed. Not wiped out.

  He exhaled once, then said:

  “The food problem—I can solve.”

  Heads jerked toward him.

  “There’s a plant in the Spirit Realm. Moonshadow Wheat. Seeds ripen in seven days, heavy with Spirit Energy. One kernel feeds a man.”

  Matthews sneered.

  “Spirit crops? And if they poison us?”

  YiChen’s voice was steady.

  “In my past life, they kept us alive. Sweet. Harmless.”

  Thomas leaned in.

  “Where?”

  “The Blackpine Forest. Twenty kilometers northwest.” YiChen’s finger pointed toward the horizon. “It’s already a gateway.”

  The chamber erupted. Rebecca’s voice cut sharp.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve walked there.”

  The Mayor’s gaze shifted to John Mitchell, then back to YiChen. His tone was iron.

  “How much?”

  “Fifty kilos,” YiChen answered. “Enough seed to feed the city.”

  Coleman leaned forward.

  “You can’t carry that alone.”

  “That’s why I need men.”

  At last, they agreed: six SWAT officers would go with him.

  YiChen added,

  “And one more. Logan Carter. The ex-sergeant from the hospital.”

  John raised his brows.

  “What’s in him?”

  YiChen’s answer was simple.

  “His fists can break Fiends. And I trust him.”

  ---

  The meeting dissolved. Officials scattered back to their crumbling fronts.

  YiChen stood by the window. Beyond the glass, storm clouds gathered over the city.

  The night before war—

  already, silence pressed like a blade.