Perhaps it was three seconds, perhaps four, but Lu Feng's fingers left his cheek, that fleeting warmth dissipating quickly into the air.
An Zhe reopened his eyes to see his departing figure, identical to the one he saw that day at the base's city gate.
At this moment, the plaza was suddenly illuminated by brilliant white light.
An Zhe squinted, Lu Feng's silhouette blurring in his vision until, when it cleared again, the imposing figure had merged into the vast sea of people. City Defense soldiers approached, lifting Dusei's body. Her chestnut hair flowed with a honeyed sheen under the light. Her eyes were closed, her expression peaceful. What she was thinking in her final moments, An Zhe couldn't know, perhaps he would never know.
Many glanced their way, and as the soldiers departed, whispers began to swirl. Many knew the mistress of the black market's third layer, some mourning the loss of a beautiful woman, more terrified of being parasitized themselves.
Soon, the mechanical female voice guided once more.
"Please stay dispersed on the spot. In 30 minutes, the tribunal will begin individual inspections."
This voice, though gentle, attracted no admiration. People exchanged bewildered looks, then quickly realized, at this time, no one could be sure of the humanity of those around them. The crowd moved like an ant colony, each person distancing themselves from their neighbors, familiar or not, until a sparse grid formed. An Zhe stood at the edge, near where Dusei's blood had left its mark. His gaze swept over the fearful, trembling faces around him, realizing there was no fundamental difference between the human base and the abyss,
Suddenly, a piercing cry resonated from afar: "Something's on his face!"
Followed were sounds of scuffling, then loud arguments, and thirty seconds later, a gunshot ended it all.
Silence. A grave silence enveloped the plaza, even the sound of breathing stilled. If someone told An Zhe at that moment that he was actually standing in a graveyard, surrounded by these humans who were nothing but tombstones, he wouldn't doubt the truth of that statement.
He looked around, wondering where Lu Feng was, but there were too many people, too many layers, he couldn't find him. Eventually, An Zhe redirected his gaze to the marble ground illumined by stark white light, damningly pale.
Suddenly, his gaze froze.
Five meters ahead, by a man's foot, there was a glint of brass.
His first thought was that the bullet casing he wore around his neck had fallen, so he swiftly felt his collar, the cylindrical object pressing against his hand through the shirt fabric— it hadn't been lost.
Fixating on the ground, he moved forward a few steps—the man beside cursed and distanced himself.
"Sorry," An Zhe explained, "I've lost something."
Passing a few, he reached the spot, crouched down, and picked up a brass, cylindrical casing from the ground.
The moment he held it, his hand trembled slightly.
—It bore the exact weight, pattern, and size he was very, very familiar with. Holding this casing, he couldn't discern any difference from the one around his neck.
His heart thumped wildly, gripping it tightly as he stood up.
He thought back to five minutes ago, to Dusei touching that parasitic blister on her forehead, realizing she wouldn't survive, destined to be executed by the adjudicator. Yet, even in fear, she seemed to want to approach the adjudicator, taking steps in his direction. But before she could reach Lu Feng, a bullet pierced her body.
Where was Lu Feng standing at that time?
An Zhe looked at the dark stain on the ground nearby—then, Lu Feng had been standing where he was, or nearby, and had fired the shot.
What is a casing? It's the shell of a bullet, he knew, flung backward as the bullet is propelled forward, falling to the ground.
There was no doubt, the casing he now held belonged to Lu Feng, the master of the tribunal. What about the identical casing he found in the wilderness, at the spore disposal site? Was it also related to the tribunal?
A specific fear welled up in An Zhe, fearing the connection between the spores and the tribunal, imagining the challenges of retrieving the spore. He couldn't directly inquire about the spore without revealing his true nature as a mushroom. Yet, simultaneously, he felt a trace of solace—at least now, he had a clue.
Caught in these tumultuous thoughts, the thirty minutes concluded. The mechanical voice once again announced, "Buffering time is over. Please line up orderly for infection inspection. After passing, please leave on your own."
After the voice cycled several times, lights brightened in a space across the plaza, people slightly moving towards it for inspection.
Beside An Zhe seemed to be a father and son—their relationship assumed from one being older, bearded, and the other a teenage boy.
He heard the boy ask, "Why wait thirty minutes?"
"The adjudicator isn't a machine. You think the instant a bug bites you, it shows?" his father whispered. "The tribunal says after thirty minutes of infection, they can make a decision. You've never been to the city gate, have you? There's also a thirty-minute wait there."
"Oh," the boy replied.
But soon, he questioned again, "So how do they tell?"
"Don't ask me," his father said. "How would I know how they figure it out?"
"I heard they decide who to—"
"Shut it," his father interrupted sharply, fear tinted his voice: "Do you want to get shot right now?"
As if proving the father's point, a gunshot echoed from the plaza's end.
They fell silent.
The adjudicators moved quickly through the crowd, the interval between gunshots chilling. For a while, every ten minutes, at least one shot sounded, sometimes several in succession. After this sequence, there was a long silence, with the father beside An Zhe commenting, "They must be almost done."
As his words fell, gunfire rang out again, making the boy with him shiver.
Those identified as infected were executed on the spot, while those cleared left through the exit. The crowd dwindled, people forming a loose line moving slowly forward, with An Zhe at the back, counting each gunshot. By the time he neared the exit, the count reached seventy-three—he saw an exit pillar where Lu Feng leaned against, his slender silhouette shadowed by the light. Two judges stood beside him, and further away, heavily armed City Defense soldiers, the ground before them stained with blood.
No, not just blood—scattered across were brass casings.
The father and son ahead passed safely, and then it was An Zhe's turn. He stepped forward, stopping before Lu Feng.
Lu Feng was taller, An Zhe needing to look up to meet his gaze—then he felt Lu Feng's eyes sweep over him from head to toe.
"What's in your hand?"
An Zhe hadn't expected even such a small object in his grasp to be noticed. Facing the adjudicator's indifferent gaze from above, he could only raise his hand, spreading his fingers to reveal the casing in his palm, just like those scattered on the ground, representing a person executed by the adjudicator.
Silence spread between them.
After a while, An Zhe heard Lu Feng say, "Go."
The night wind was strong, scattering sounds, Lu Feng's voice sounded lower than usual in his ears.
An Zhe turned silently, stepping into the dense night.