Chapter Fifteen: Returned from Death

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Mo Wen had experienced death many times; he was no longer a novice in the realm of death. Yet sometimes, certain deaths offered him a unique experience.

Like this time.

As his perception of his physical body gradually faded, he felt himself slowly sinking, enveloped by a gentle force.

That warmth was so vivid, as if on a bitter winter day, when his hands and feet were numb with cold and his skin could easily peel off at a touch, he suddenly stepped into a room blazing with firelight, where the scent of meat broth mingled with the melody of a music box.

It was blissful beyond measure—he simply could not leave. This sensation surpassed even the comfort of being sealed in a warm bed.

Even as he felt himself dissolving bit by bit, Mo Wen did not want to move.

Dying completely would be fine; if not, he would return to the Resurrection Point to fight another round.

But someone would not allow him to fall so deeply: "Stay awake, keep focused. I know you can hear me."

"Hold on, live on."

Am I not dead yet?

Almost at the moment he heard the voice and realized there was still a sliver of hope, Mo Wen resisted this exquisite death. He rejected the surrounding warmth and tried to respond to that voice, but found no way to speak.

Moreover, something terrible happened again.

As he rejected the radiance, the radiance ceased to protect him.

Then something leaked.

Memories.

The memories he feared most, the ones he dreaded facing, even dared not ponder—he could only mock them repeatedly, trying to pretend he had moved on—the long, nearly unrememberable death.

He should have forgotten them by now; he trusted the Resurrection Point had solved his problem, but in truth, it had not.

He was dying, every moment, every second.

His body decayed; maggots swirled upon him; insects nested in his bones. No matter how he howled, he could not stop them from gnawing at his remains, merging him with the earth and stone.

But that was not the end of death.

Even as he turned to dust and mud, his perception did not cease.

Plant roots sucked from his body; birds pecked at fruits as red as his flesh; worms gnawed on the birds’ corpses, giving birth to countless offspring...

He dispersed into the wind, the water, into all life in the world; thus, all torment befell a soul forbidden to go mad.

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When would it end?

Never.

Even if vast oceans dried to dust; even if the earth withered and all beings turned to ashes; even if stars extinguished, scattered into boundless void; even if the void itself was set aflame and all things reborn… it would not end.

Eternity was but a moment in this torment; infinity could not measure its length. That was the end of all life, after which all else was but illusions born from nothingness.

“I refuse!”

On the device, the line denoting the patient's brain activity ceased to be straight, thrashing wildly up and down.

Yi Ren was not surprised; she merely commanded her assistants to proceed with the next stage of treatment.

It was her first time witnessing someone’s brain revive after ceasing function, but for psychokinesis—a miracle potent enough to shake the cold universe—that was reasonable.

The patient was fiercely resisting death, denying what was once thought an absolute and unshakable order.

And she would provide the necessary support.

She would not stop until he stopped.

And Mo Wen would never stop.

He had died many times, again and again, discovering each time that his desperate struggles were futile. No matter how tirelessly he fought, the enemy could easily crush his efforts.

No matter howls or cries, no one would come to his aid; the world had no time to hear the shouts of dust. Only he could hear his own voice.

Even if he was fortunate enough to survive a few times, to live a few more days—what significance did it hold?

It was meaningful.

He had taken one step further than his past self, so the second step would not be too difficult.

If a path had limits, then he would seek a new path.

If all was void, then he would create meaning from that void.

If everything about him was but imagination, then he would craft a world of his own from that imagination.

I am the master of myself.

I already possess my entire world!

Face the fear, create the future!

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Every obstacle he had overcome would lift him higher; this fear was no different, even if it was not real—merely a flood of memories.

Mo Wen felt himself ignite. Rejecting the radiance, he seemed to become a new source of light.

“Psychokinesis index: α+, current energy level: 5. Patient exhibiting severe loss of control, expected to exit physical reality in 3.22 seconds.”

Yi Ren remained calm. She was the pillar of everyone present, the surgeon deciding the patient’s fate; she could not panic. So she calmly issued the order: “Install Dream Creator Model Six.”

No one questioned why she chose to use the latest experimental entertainment device on an outsider. Those willing to attempt such a rescue from the brink of death would spare no effort to save a life.

The most dangerous prosthetics in the world, in the hands of the finest doctors, were being implanted into Mo Wen’s remaining brain.

Steel and flesh merged into one. His ephemeral soul regained a vessel capable of bearing it. Mo Wen’s consciousness began to return, and their surgery continued.

“Deploy Dream Shatterer Model Five, prepare to implant cloned heteromorphic organs.”

The prosthetics were too powerful; their alien sensations caused extreme discomfort. Their abnormal functions could cause the patient to lose control again. But a weaker vessel could not withstand psychokinetic energy at α+ level.

At the same time, similarity had to be maintained as much as possible to facilitate normal consciousness integration. These heteromorphic organs could help the patient acclimate, and perhaps had other unknown benefits.

Considering that above Model Five, distinctions between biological and mechanical parts blurred, integration posed no problem.

Time passed, second by second.

From a mere handful of meat, just enough to stir-fry a dish, Mo Wen was finally piecing himself into human form.

“System activated. Ecological signs normal.”

“Welcome back to the living world, defier of death.”

Mo Wen opened his eyes. Floating in the tank before him was a young girl, about 1.36 meters tall, clad in an oversized white robe, and behind her, other doctors smiling gently.

He was alive again.

Then he heard the adorable girl say calmly, “Also, remember to repay. This rescue’s labor cost is free, but the medicine consumed costs 15 million credit points, equipment wear 7.28 million credit points, military-grade prosthetics 50 million credit points, and experimental-grade prosthetics 17.82 billion credit points.”

I usually never pay for perfect resurrection; how dare they charge such an outrageous price! Unethical merchants! Mo Wen wanted to shout.

But in the end, still floating in the tank, he kindly asked his “life saviors,” “I have no money. Is there another way to repay?”

The girl nodded: “Then you’ll just have to sell your flesh.”