Pei Ran finished dealing with the black notebook and casually picked up a can that W had already peeled clean. She used the edge of her knife to scrape off the printed expiration date on the tin.
Her scraping technique was deft—identical to how she'd handled W just earlier.
Then suddenly, her hand froze.
She was staring at her mechanical arm, the one holding the knife.
She had almost forgotten it was there.
A chill crept through her chest.
"This arm of mine," Pei Ran said, "I've checked the surface thoroughly. No writing. Just a small logo. But I'm not sure—what if there's text hidden deeper inside one of the components?"
So far, the strange combustion seemed to only target text, triggered by pinpoint bursts of heat.
If this arm were ever to be scorched like that, it would be a disaster. But the arm was grafted to her shoulder—what then? Could it even be removed?
W tore open a packet of compressed biscuits, his movements smooth and unbroken, like a production line.
His voice was calm: "That limb is an experimental prosthetic commissioned by the Ministry of National Defense and developed by the Vorin Corporation. I've gone through the report Vorin submitted. None of the internal components have text. You're safe."
He was thorough, as always—he'd checked it for her.
Pei Ran rolled up her sleeve, knife in hand, and began scraping at the small triangle logo on her elbow.
There was no telling how this "Silencing" would escalate. Better to get rid of everything, just in case.
As she worked, she asked, "W, is there any way to completely remove this mechanical arm?"
Losing the arm would mean giving up a highly effective weapon, but it would also mean no longer relying on the immunosuppressant drugs to keep her body from rejecting it. If she ever ran out of meds, that might be the only way to survive.
But Pei Ran doubted it could be removed.
She'd read through the original host's countless memos—she'd been rational, pragmatic. The kind of person who would rather amputate than live off dwindling supplies of medication day by day.
Sure enough, W replied: "If removal were easy, why would Vorin go through all the trouble these past years to continually provide replacement parts and medical support? They could've just pulled the plug and handed out compensation."
"That arm isn't simply attached to your shoulder. Your brain and nervous system were extensively modified in the experiment. Even if we remove the mechanical components, the rejection symptoms would persist."
His tone was flat. "This isn't some lie fabricated to keep you on task for the Black Well. Given current medical limitations, even if I told you it could be removed, you wouldn't be able to survive the operation."
A limb she could never discard.
Pei Ran picked up another can and quickly scraped off the text.
In her mind, she asked, What about the wristband? Do you have internal schematics for it too?
She'd just tossed the wristband aside. It still lay there, alone on the ground.
It had been set to display only images now—text completely disabled. But who knew what was inside?
There could still be model numbers, manufacturer marks, or serial codes. If those ever triggered combustion, it'd be another disaster.
She had no proper tools—just a pair of scissors and a fruit knife. Dismantling it wouldn't be easy. Worse, the wristband was essential—one of the few devices left that could send and receive images. With secure communication now so scarce, she needed it.
"I checked," W said. "It's a model from BlueFly. A popular consumer product across the Federation. Twenty years ago, their energy units did include printed codes. But these days, the components are so small that they've stopped printing any text altogether."
That was a relief.
Pei Ran continued working, her knife flying over the remaining cans. Once finished, she picked up the wristband and slipped it back on.
W had already stripped all the labels from their water bottles.
Together, they moved on to the medical supplies.
The ointment tubes were easy—text printed like lacquer, a quick scrape and it was gone. The bottles were also manageable—just tear off the labels, scrape the brand names off the caps.
The hardest part was the boxed medications.
Boxes had text printed front and back, and the foil packs inside were even more densely covered in writing.
Pei Ran asked, "Can you identify these meds just by shape and color?"
W glanced over and replied confidently, "Of course. I've memorized all of them—names, uses, dosages. They're all in my database."
Pei Ran also tried to commit as many pills as she could to memory. She discarded the boxes, popped the tablets and capsules out, and transferred them into the empty bottles.
One of the bottles W had cleared was an old water bottle from yesterday. Pei Ran shook out the last drops, stuffed some tissues inside for padding, then poured in the loose pills and sealed the cap.
Some pills were especially annoying—their surfaces stamped with letters. Each one had to be scraped clean.
W took the fruit knife and got to work, moving swiftly.
He quickly noticed something.
"Pei Ran, did someone hit these pills with a hammer?"
Many of the boxes were dented. Some capsules looked like they'd been stepped on.
"Oh, I picked those up off the ground," she replied without looking up.
W was puzzled. "But you went to the pharmacy right after the Silencing started. Didn't they still have stock on the shelves?"
"They did," Pei Ran muttered as she dismantled another box. "But I only took what was on the floor. So what if a capsule's squashed? Doesn't affect the efficacy."
W: "…"
She really didn't care.
W picked up a yellow box between his metal claws. "You even have meds for IVO—an extremely rare condition. You don't have that, do you?"
That had come from the main Vorin pharmacy in Whiteport. She'd still had it in hand when the Security Bureau patrol drones showed up—hadn't gotten the chance to pass it on to Helan Yu.
Pei Ran said, "That one's not mine. Just holding it for someone else. Might as well keep it for now—return it later."
If they ever saw that brother and sister again.
Disassembling the meds was a massive task. W's mechanical claws were nimble and efficient.
Pei Ran left him to it and moved on to other items—tissues, backpack logos, anything with letters. She cut, scraped, and peeled until everything was done. They checked again, thoroughly.
Not a single letter left.
Fortunately, nothing had combusted since they began.
W said, "The Federation will probably send out a public alert soon, warning citizens to remove all text from personal items. But they can't just publish it immediately—it needs to pass through an approval process…"
Pei Ran was pretty sure she'd heard a quiet scoff.
W's tone returned to its usual detached neutrality. "…And that process takes time."
The Silencing had already begun. So far, only signs on buildings and old car dashboards had combusted. But who knew when everything else might follow?
By the time the bureaucracy got around to approving the message, most people would already be dead.
Pei Ran opened her wristband's screen, switched to image editing mode. "W, can you help me draw a few graphics?"
"You're going to send warning images to your friend? Of course."
Moments later, he sent a set of images to her wristband.
This time, he'd switched styles—bright, cheerful anime-style art. The girl in the image looked just like Pei Ran, hair in a ponytail, wearing a hoodie, cutting a label off her jacket. The text had been replaced with rows of wavy distortion lines.
W leaned in and whispered, "Still soulless?"
Honestly? Yes.
The image was neat but flat. Every corner crammed with detail—so much it triggered mild trypophobia. No visual hierarchy, no focus. It screamed AI-generated.
But he was helping. He deserved encouragement.
Pei Ran said, "Well, you definitely nailed the message. Everything's clear and to the point."
W said nothing. Hard to tell if he got the compliment.
Other images showed the girl checking her bag, shoes, tossing away a book, and so on.
Pei Ran sent them to Aisha.
Aisha responded instantly—with a meme of a cat so shocked it was blurry.
Unclear if the surprise was about the detail of the drawings or the seriousness of the situation.
Then came another sticker: a furious bear hug.
Pei Ran sent one back.
She had no idea where they were, how their electric bike was holding up, whether the dashboard had burned out.
Pei Ran updated her blank map and marked her location slightly southwest of Nightsea City's center, then sent it.
Aisha replied right away—their speed was impressive. They must've traveled all night. Her white dot was already nearing the southern edge of Nightsea.
Pei Ran turned off the screen.
"This car's dead," W said. "The Violette Phantom's display is hardwired into its control system. It burned. Can't be started again."
They'd have to walk the rest of the way.
But Pei Ran had another concern.
"If our car's fried… what about the Nightsea No. 7 train? Its control system might be burned too, right?"
"I'm checking its specs," W said.
Just a few seconds passed before he spoke again. "Nightsea No. 7 is over two centuries old. A very unique train—entirely metal, no chips or microcomputers. Its controls are analog. The instrument panel likely took damage, but based on current data, there's a sixty percent chance of successful repairs."
Sixty percent. Not great. But not hopeless either.
"I've also received another message," W said. "It might make us even more inclined to head for Nightsea No. 7."
Pei Ran: "What is it?"
"The special operations unit that was supposed to pick us up—they've gone completely dark. Last transmission suggested they encountered a frenzied fusion form."
Another frenzied fusion. The world was going insane.
No rescue. They'd have to find their own way to the Black Well.
Pei Ran made up her mind. "Then let's go to Nightsea. Take our chances."
"Yes," W replied. "If No. 7 is functional, we'll reach the station near the Black Well by tomorrow morning."
Tomorrow. They might be there by then.
Pei Ran shouldered her pack and picked up the metal sphere. They set off again, walking forward.
The dead antique car, the pile of charred belongings—they left them behind.
Pei Ran was clean now. From head to toe, fully stripped of written words.
There was a strange emptiness in her chest.
"It's all just… gone," she said.
The words came out of nowhere, but W understood.
He looked up at her with dark eyes.
"They're still in your mind," he said. "You didn't forget. I didn't forget. As long as we remember… the words still exist."
The starting station of Nightsea No. 7 wasn't far now.
Ahead, the city proper began. Buildings thickened. The air turned smoky.
Thick black clouds billowed across the sky. The stench of burning plastic grew stronger, acrid enough to itch the throat, making it hard not to cough.
Pei Ran looked deeply worried. "I'm not sure if coughing counts as speaking out loud."
W's voice was grim. "I don't know. Maybe."
It was yet another rule that could only be tested at the cost of human life.
The smoke was getting so thick it stung their eyes, making it hard to breathe. Pei Ran took off her scarf, folded it several times, pulled a water bottle from her backpack, and soaked a large section of the fabric. She wrapped it tightly over her nose.
Before long, they saw flames roaring ahead.
Several buildings up the road were already ablaze. The skyscrapers had become enormous, red-hot blades shooting fire and smoke into the sky—giant swords impaling the heavens, violently bright beneath the canopy of black smoke.
The cause of the fire was immediately obvious—
It was the dense clusters of billboards and neon signs mounted on the buildings. They had ignited the surrounding structures and set the city aflame.
W said, "Night Sea is an old industrial city. Most buildings here are outdated, the wiring a mess. Even before the Silence, it had a much higher rate of fire incidents than other cities."
The fire was spreading. Chaos reigned in the streets.
People were running everywhere. Some carried rescued belongings, others held onto children or elders. Families who had fled their apartment buildings now stood huddled on the sidewalks, looking back toward what used to be their homes.
All the burning towers were wailing with alarms—the sharp, shrill beep-beep-beep—but it didn't help. If anything, the sound only made the fear worse.
Strangely, in all this chaos, there was almost no human voice.
People's eyes were wild with panic, but their mouths remained firmly shut.
Exploding flames sent chunks of burning signs crashing from above. A molten billboard plummeted down and hit the sidewalk with a deafening crash, shattering the pavement into a spray of debris.
From time to time, screams or sobs echoed from inside the buildings—but they were quickly cut short.
W sounded puzzled. "By Federal Fire Safety Code, buildings this tall should all have automatic sprinklers…"
Then realization struck. "Water's out in Night Sea."
He added, "Last year the city switched to fully automated fire engines and robot firefighters. Even if there's still some water somewhere, the systems are probably down."
There was nothing they could do but watch as the city was swallowed by fire.
High above, something fell again.
A human body smashed into the sidewalk, broken almost beyond recognition.
No one could tell if they had jumped, unable to escape the flames, or if they had lost their grip climbing out and fallen from the searing heat of the metal window frame.
The people below scattered in shock and terror.
Then, someone stepped in front of Pei Ran—a middle-aged man, his face twisted in desperation.
He gestured frantically: first indicating height at about waist level, then miming a braid on his head.
He seemed to be searching for someone—a child with braids, maybe his daughter, lost in the chaos.
Pei Ran was trying to interpret his signs when the man suddenly raised one trembling hand and started tracing shapes in the air.
He was writing. The character for you.
Pei Ran immediately backed away.
Boom—
The man vanished.
This was the first time Pei Ran had seen someone explode for writing under the new rules.
Which meant: First, the Silence had escalated—writing for others to see was now prohibited. Second, even tracing words in the air with your hand wasn't safe. Third, the time from writing to detonation remained about three seconds. And fourth, just like speaking out loud, the punishment was an extreme explosive force. A ring of scorched earth, about a meter wide, marked the spot where he had stood.
The rules were revealing themselves—one death at a time.
Pei Ran kept to the edge of the crowd and pressed forward.
The situation ahead was even worse.
The fire had intensified. More people were pouring out of the buildings, flooding the streets in a panic.
Suddenly W said, "Is that a cat?"
Pei Ran saw it too.
An old man had just escaped from one of the burning towers. His clothes and face were covered in soot. His mouth was tightly bound with a strip of cloth. In his hands, he carried nothing but a soft carrier bag—inside was a fluffy white cat with blue eyes.
He had his wristband open, its virtual screen floating in front of him.
Probably due to poor eyesight, the display was magnified and stretched to a huge size. The screen showed his messages interface—clearly switched, per the last National Defense warning, into full-image mode. It had stopped on the image selection screen.
But even so, the display was lined with images that contained text.
This was extremely dangerous.
Pei Ran asked W, "Has Kuroi's audit cleared yet? Why haven't they sent out a warning? People need to get rid of anything with—"
She didn't finish the sentence.
The old man suddenly jolted and screamed—
"Ah—!"
The cloth gag couldn't muffle the cry, and the sound slipped out.
But it wasn't the text-filled display that triggered the blast—it was the wristband itself.
Something, some kind of weapon, had struck it precisely. The elastic strap burst into a bright flame, trailing black smoke.
The old man's forearm, from mid-length to his wrist, was instantly charred—blackened like a piece of burnt wood.
The virtual screen vanished. He doubled over in pain, howling, and dropped the cat carrier.
Pei Ran rushed forward, snatched up the bag with the white cat, and retreated quickly.
Anyone who made a sound would die. The old man was already gone.
The Silence had deepened.
Following the neon signs and vehicle screens, the next targets were wristbands.
And the old man wasn't the only one.
All around, other people's wrists were catching fire. Smoke rose from the crowd.
In the midst of the fire, many were trying to contact loved ones through their wristbands. Even with full-image mode enabled, even without actively using images with text—if there were any stored images containing writing still visible on-screen, the device would ignite.
Any appearance of text triggered immediate combustion.
Some people's clothes caught fire from their burning bands. Hair followed. In seconds, they became human fireballs, running blindly through the crowd, screaming—and then, because they made a sound, they exploded.
Fire and blood, flesh and smoke sprayed in every direction.
It was hell on Earth. A human inferno.