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墨書 Inktalez
The next day, I wandered to school in a daze. As I passed the Administrative Building, I noticed Wang Yan standing at a secluded corner. Beside him was a man dressed in a sharp suit, his hair meticulously styled, exuding a powerful presence.
Wang Yan, usually so stern-faced, was now beaming with smiles, even displaying a hint of almost sycophantic humility as he spoke softly to the man. I instinctively halted my steps and hid behind a potted plant.
The wind carried fragments of their conversation to my ears:
“...ensure the results of this batch... the expectations from above are very high...”
“...at all costs, we must...”
“...those unstable factors need to be dealt with as soon as possible...”
The middle-aged man listened expressionlessly, nodding occasionally. Finally, he reached out and patted Wang Yan on the shoulder, a smile flickering across his face. Yet that smile held no warmth; it was a stiff grimace.
A chill crept up from my feet, spreading throughout my body in an instant.
That night, I sat at my desk, trying to recall the scene of my father teaching me to ride a bicycle when I was young. I remembered falling, my knee bleeding and hurting badly. My father picked me up... and then what? What expression did he have at that moment? What did he say?
I strained to think, but my mind was shrouded in fog. My father's face and voice became indistinct, fading away into obscurity. I closed my eyes and concentrated hard.
Suddenly, that layer of "frosted glass" in my mind shattered violently! But instead of clear memories, what emerged was an engulfing darkness that seemed ready to consume everything.
I opened my eyes wide, my heart racing fiercely.
During dinner, my mother brought out a plate of braised pork, which used to be my favorite dish. She looked at me with eager anticipation.
"Mo Er, try it. I specially simmered it longer today," she said.
I picked up a piece and put it in my mouth, chewing mechanically. There was no aroma, no familiar taste; it felt like chewing wax.
"Is it good, Mo Er?" my mother asked softly.
"It's okay," I blurted out, my voice so cold that it startled even me. A wave of inexplicable irritation surged within me, and I hastened to finish my rice, wanting to leave the table as quickly as possible.
I caught a glimpse of disappointment and worry flickering in my mother's eyes.
I finished the rice in my bowl and fled to my room, shutting the door behind me.
Outside, I could hear muffled sobs.
It was my mother.
That sound pierced through me like countless tiny needles, each one stabbing at my heart, creating a dense ache.
I leaned against the door, my body slowly sliding down to the floor.
The sickly sweet smell of chemical agents… the "Cognitive Focus Agent C-7" mentioned in the "Qingyuan Project" documents… those vague descriptions in Chen Shuo's U Disk… and my own increasingly severe memory lapses, emotional detachment, hallucinations…
A terrifying thought began to take shape in my mind: I might not just be suffering from mental stress. In the process of repeatedly approaching and investigating "The Last Classroom," I had inevitably come into contact with something that had seeped out from the classroom or lingered in those abandoned materials… some kind of harmful substance.
I was being "eroded." Physically.
I opened my palm; the U Disk lay cold there, next to a printed email from Grandfather Sun and a yellowed fragment of the "Qingyuan Project."
These were the pieces of evidence. And myself—this body that was "forgetting"—was also evidence.
Should I anonymously leak these incomplete fragments and pray someone would notice? Or… risk complete exposure, even being treated as a mental patient forced into "treatment"—or rather "cleansing"—by planning an undeniable public revelation?
I stared out at the heavy night sky and clenched my fists.
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