As the sun set, its golden rays bathed the sky, turning it a deep crimson. The Crescent Spring, a pearl amidst the desert sands, shimmered in the fading light. A gentle breeze ruffled the water's surface, creating sparkling ripples. Surrounding the spring were rolling sand dunes, dancing in the wind like waves of gold, blending with the glistening water to create a serene and mystical landscape. The slender willows swayed gracefully, their shadows stretching long, weaving an ancient, enchanting tapestry with the sunset.
On the shores of the Crescent Spring stood an ancient temple, seemingly frozen in time, bearing the marks of history. Legend has it that a Buddhist master built this temple a thousand years ago, bringing wisdom and religious solemnity from far-off lands.
Inside the temple, a middle-aged man sat in a tranquil meditation room. Ancient scrolls surrounded him, piled high, forming a vast sea of knowledge chronicling centuries of wisdom and history. The soft light filtered through the window lattice, casting a gentle glow that illuminated his focused face.
His deep eyes seemed to pierce through the mists of time, reading the chronicles of ages past. Ancient scriptures lay heavily on the wooden desk beside him, their yellowed pages and worn edges bearing the marks of time's passage.
In this serene place, the ancient temple exuded an air of calm and mystery, as if time itself had stood still, preserving this sacred ground in a millennia-long peace.
The middle-aged man was named Mo Lin, with a square face, graying temples, and glasses perched on his nose, deeply engrossed in deciphering ancient texts. Mo Lin was a distinguished scholar of ancient languages, his research interests branching into various disciplines like a sprawling tree. The descriptions of the future in ancient texts left him astounded, as if the ancients had witnessed the future and left clues for posterity.
However, this passion seemed out of place in his work environment. His boss, a pragmatic man, valued only traditional theories and research that could be published in prestigious journals. Mo Lin didn't want to spend his life deciphering pottery or stone inscriptions, speculating on their sounds and meanings, then publishing his findings in journals.
Thus, most of Mo Lin's time was spent in idle contemplation, like a fossil buried under the sands of time. Yet, this restricted freedom opened another world for him. From the Sumerian King's List to the Book of Daniel, these descriptions of the future broadened Mo Lin's horizons.
In his recent reading list, he discovered a 2000-year-old book, the"Classic of Mountains and Seas," which described ancient people seemingly viewing the Earth from space, leisurely exploring the continents of Asia, Africa, and the Americas, leaving detailed records of local customs and landscapes.
In a 1400-year-old Chinese book, the"Tui Bei Tu," he found illustrations and texts depicting future events. In a cave in the Bayan Har Mountains, he discovered ancient stone discs possibly recording prehistoric information. An 800-year-old book, the"Miscellaneous Morsels from Xiyang," vividly described the moon's terrain as if seen firsthand. In a rare Qing dynasty manuscript, he read about people traveling through space, documenting their observations.
These seemingly mythical books opened Mo Lin's eyes to a new world, as if diving into the deep sea to discover unimaginable wonders, also unlocking his deepest fears.
The deep furrows between Mo Lin's brows showed his intense contemplation. Are humans the rulers of this world or prisoners in a cage? Or perhaps lowly creatures in the universe? Are these alien intelligences benevolent or malevolent? Is humanity's fate in their hands? What is the destiny of mankind? Is it predestined, or is it unpredictable?
His eyes were deep and focused, hoping to find answers within the pages. Lost in the sea of books, a month had passed unknowingly. Time can be long or short, especially when engrossed in something fascinating; decades can feel like a moment.
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The neon red digits in the sky displayed"209," indicating the number of survivors left—far more than the gamblers had anticipated. This unexpected turn had cost many of them their wagers, leaving them in foul moods. They resembled hungry beasts, eagerly awaiting a blood-soaked spectacle. Some tapped their fingers on the tables, synchronizing with the violent rhythm unfolding on the screen, the rapid drumming seeming to urge for even more ferocious slaughter. Others erupted in profanity, dissatisfied with the previous round of carnage, feeling that the occasional screams and spurts of blood were insufficient to ignite their fervor.
"Too slow! It's too slow!" one gambler roared, his eyes bloodshot with excitement.
"How can these beasts be so weak? They're supposed to be top-level hunters!" another gambler complained, a bloodthirsty smile playing on his lips.
"When will they finally wipe out these villagers?!" more voices joined in, each comment dripping with a craving for violence and a thirst for blood.
These voices filled Caron's ears like a piercing noise, increasing his pressure. He knew that if he failed to satisfy the twisted desires of these viewers, his show's ratings would plummet. He glanced at the list of top-tier hunters. If he deployed them in the second round, the live game would end prematurely, losing its appeal. Yet, choosing hunters too weak wouldn't appease these depraved appetites. It seemed he had no choice but to go for the most ruthless ones.
Caron lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag in an effort to calm himself before enthusiastically continuing the broadcast,"Dear brothers, the next round of the hunting game is about to begin. This time, I've prepared a top-tier hunter—the ultimate mechanical assassin. They're rulers of both air and ground. Will their opponents, by some miraculous luck, survive again? Let's watch and find out!"
Votes flooded the screen, with red letters flashing overwhelmingly, making it clear without detailed scrutiny:"We want to see if that boy can defeat your trash again!"
Mr. Kim took a sip of his gin and joined in,"Alright, we will fulfill your wishes. Now, let's look at the betting odds. The boy against the mechanical assassins is at 3:7. Seems like many have little faith in the boy! He was the dark horse last time, defying all our expectations. Do you still want to bet on the mechanical assassins?"
Caron tried to remain calm as he looked at the screen, muttering under his breath,"These twisted freaks," he gritted his teeth,"a hundred mechanical assassins against one boy. You are the real monsters!" He felt like a puppet on strings, manipulated by these gamblers, forced to meet their every demand, no matter how much it meant crossing moral boundaries."If it weren't for making a living, I would never indulge your sick tastes."
Suddenly, he received a phone call. Caron handed the camera over to Mr. Kim, who tapped his earpiece before answering the call, nodding repeatedly in deference.
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