Chapter 197-I Clean Up Garbage in a Wasteland World
Chapter 197 Eternal Pharma Foundation (III)
Huff—
Breathing came from behind. Zhu Ning's entire body went rigid. She didn't dare make any sudden moves. She heard a heartbeat and breathing. There was a horror story called "The Human Chair"—and right now she felt as though she were sitting on a chair made from a living person.
The arms encircling her waist were deathly pale, tightening with each breath.
Zhu Ning felt pressure building on her abdomen. The arms exerted monstrous force. If this continued, the protective suit would be crushed—she'd be snapped in half at the waist.
An ordinary person might have immediately attacked, but Zhu Ning didn't move. She didn't speak either.
She remembered the two rules posted at the entrance. One was: no loud noises.
A stabbing pain spread through her abdomen. She adjusted her breathing as best she could, ignoring the horror behind her, willing her mind toward stability.
She blinked.
A completely unconscious reaction. People can control how their fingers move, but few ever consciously regulate their blink rate.
Yet this single instinctive blink revealed something far more terrifying.
In that split second of darkness, something appeared before her when she opened her eyes.
A snow-white human face materialized directly in front of her. Zhu Ning's breath caught. From the back of the chair ahead, a face had grown—a man whose skin was so pale it made his pupils seem pitch-black.
Not just that one. Every chair in the conference room was the same. Human heads sprouted from chairs. Human arms. Human hair.
Their forms were grotesque. Some bodies were incomplete. On her far left, a human thigh dangled from a chair.
On the right, half a human head lay sideways. A single eye strained to stay open, staring directly at her.
The entire scene had activated like a switch being flipped—appearing before her with zero reaction time.
It was like a grotesque dismemberment tableau reassembled at random. On the chair in front of her, a human toe protruded—and from that toe grew a human mouth, gaping wide, trying to say something.
Zhu Ning blinked again.
Still an instinctive reaction. Eyelids closing like a camera shutter—open, shut.
When she opened her eyes, those strange limbs had vanished. The entire conference room was empty.
Not a contamination zone phenomenon, but her own hallucination?
But hallucinations required mental contamination first. She'd only just entered. She was confident she hadn't been contaminated yet.
Zhu Ning felt the hands on her abdomen squeezing tighter—as if trying to knead her into the chair itself. Breathing was becoming difficult.
She blinked again.
After that infinitesimal darkness, the limbs reappeared.
Not only that—they'd moved. The head to her front-right that had been facing away was now rotated 180 degrees, completely inverted. A pair of lifeless eyes stared directly at her.
The others too. With every blink, these things shifted—inching steadily closer.
Crack, crack—
The arms around her abdomen squeezed harder. Simultaneously, her back was sinking into something increasingly soft—like quicksand. Red alerts flashed on her helmet display. Soon they'd breach the protective suit and drag her straight into the chair.
Zhu Ning kept her eyes open, not daring to move. She'd figured out one pattern.
These things had always been there—she simply couldn't see them at first. Blinking was the trigger that made them visible.
Like how some ghosts could only be captured on camera. Like how some ghosts could only be glimpsed in the gap between blinks.
And they were moving.
Normally, entering a contamination zone meant undergoing mental contamination first—even contaminants had to follow logic.
What was the logic here?
Zhu Ning had entered contamination zones many times. She knew not to act rashly. She thought carefully about the rules she'd seen at the entrance.
Two rules on the door. Only one person may enter at a time. Why?
Because there was only one spot?
If all these people had once been living humans who'd been "selected"—and they were one person short?
The reasoning tracked. If there was only one opening, and only Zhu Ning could enter, then one chair had to be empty.
Zhu Ning's eyelashes felt impossibly heavy. Keeping her eyes open without blinking—the moisture on her corneas was evaporating. Her eyes burned.
She forced herself to ignore her surroundings and began scanning the room. She could feel the hands on her abdomen constricting further—trying to squeeze her organs to bursting.
Yet she kept scanning. Her rear-view display showed images—she was surrounded by strange silhouettes on all sides.
Zhu Ning moved only her eyeballs. In the crushing pain, her eyes were the only part she could move. She rolled them to their limits.
Finally, she spotted a gap among the crowd. Fourth row, third from the right—empty. Not even a bloodstain on it.
Not obvious at all. Like one of those spot-the-difference games. Only one chair had a vacancy.
She was supposed to sit in the empty seat. She'd sat in the wrong one.
"No," Zhu Ning felt her throat constricting. Each word was agonizing. "I'm... sorry."
"I... sat in the wrong seat."
The logic of contamination zones: do normal things in abnormal situations. Normally, sitting in someone else's seat meant apologizing and getting up.
Zhu Ning tried to stand. But a person's core was their waist—restrained there, the simple act of standing became nearly impossible.
She had to keep her eyes open while rising. A tremendous force pressed her into the chair.
Her shoulders, neck, and waist all felt the crushing weight—as if carrying a ghost on her back.
Zhu Ning's movements were excruciatingly slow. Despite using all her strength, to an observer she'd only shifted an inch.
Her predicament was like a mouse stuck on a glue trap—desperately tearing at itself, possibly needing to lose a leg to escape. Worse, she was a mouse that couldn't blink.
Immense pressure converged on her knees. They shook violently.
A simple movement. It felt like it took a lifetime.
As she fully stood, she heard the sound of flesh tearing—as if a pair of arms had been ripped clean off.
A burning pain seared across her abdomen. Zhu Ning looked down. Her lower belly was perfectly flat. Nothing there.
But the sensation was strange—as if those hands had sunk into her body.
The ghost hands had breached her protective suit, rooting themselves into her flesh. Two bloody arms had become one with her organs. If scanned with professional equipment, the two spectral limbs would be visible nestled alongside her stomach and intestines.
They even pulsed faintly—a brand-new organ taking up residence.
She felt her abdomen distend. She couldn't tell if it was illusion or reality.
Zhu Ning had been keeping her eyes open the entire time. It felt like her eye sockets would split. Even with genetic enhancement boosting her physical capabilities, she couldn't transcend the human limit of not blinking.
She was reaching her breaking point.
Zhu Ning blinked. When her eyes opened again, the face ahead was leaning forward—only ten centimeters away.
Closer.
Zhu Ning remembered the empty seat. She took a deep breath and walked slowly, not daring to blink, not daring to look around.
All around her came rustling sounds—human corpses dragging against the floor. Things followed her at a leisurely pace, like hunters watching prey, waiting for it to exhaust itself.
Zhu Ning only blinked when she absolutely couldn't hold out any longer. The distance between them shrank with each blink—but so did the distance to the empty seat.
Finally she reached the fourth row—her memorized empty seat.
The moment she touched the empty chair, the advancing limbs froze—as if someone hit pause.
Zhu Ning exhaled. She'd found the right seat.
In the safe zone now, Zhu Ning blinked hard several times. Her eyes felt ready to explode.
She didn't sit down immediately. First she reached out and felt the chair's surface. This time—no body heat. Just an ordinary chair.
After checking, she sat down cautiously, still on guard, convinced another pair of arms would grab her waist.
She watched her surroundings carefully, nerves taut. But nothing unexpected occurred.
Under normal circumstances, she'd now experience whatever process the contamination zone had in store.
If an ordinary person came to an Eternal Pharma Foundation event—Zhu Ning now knew they were running experiments—what would happen to them?
Her thinking time was limited. Suddenly, she realized she hadn't checked one thing.
She opened the armrest on the right side. This was a conference room—the right armrest unfolded into a small writing desk.
The hotel's design was rather dated. The wooden desk was partially broken, jammed in place and wouldn't pull out.
But that wasn't her goal. She spotted a foreign object wedged in the desk's gap—a document folder.
...
Outside the door.
Before entering, Zhu Ning had shared her camera feed. With Prometheus ensuring communication, the image was crystal clear—two cameras total: one capturing the external environment, one filming Zhu Ning's face. Dr. Fu and Xu Meng could see her movements and reactions clearly.
From their perspective, Zhu Ning's behavior looked extremely bizarre. She'd walked into the conference room, looked around, then chosen a chair and sat down.
Normal so far. But then her expression suddenly twisted—deathly pale, as if experiencing something agonizing.
"Wh-what's happening to her?" Dr. Fu whispered. He'd studied all of Zhu Ning's publicly available mission footage and knew her capabilities. One look at her face told him something was wrong.
The two receptionists at the door stood in white uniforms, smiling at them.
Dr. Fu found them deeply unsettling. He didn't dare make any large movements; even his voice stayed low.
Xu Meng frowned too. Zhu Ning's reaction wasn't normal—she'd even widened her eyes, pupils dilating. She was seeing something the cameras couldn't capture.
Contaminants?
Xu Meng considered going in to help.
"She's practically—" It was Dr. Fu's first time in a contamination zone. He struggled for a long moment before finding the words: "Like something's pressing down on her."
Zhu Ning's movements had become much slower. Dr. Fu stopped watching the live feed and grew curious about what Zhu Ning was actually seeing.
He scrubbed the video progress bar backward, specifically slowing the playback to ten times slower.
At 10x slow-motion the footage was choppy. Dr. Fu rewound and replayed the same segment repeatedly.
Zhu Ning rising—but something pressing her down. What was she seeing?
Suddenly Dr. Fu's hand froze. In that playback moment, he spotted a figure in the frame.
Upper-right corner of the screen. A man looking back. Because of the frame compression, the image was blurred and stretched to double width—his eyes elongated grotesquely.
Dr. Fu stared at the figure—as if making eye contact with it through the screen.
He could even make out the face. Very thin. Cheeks and eyes sunken inward.
Suddenly, the figure moved. This was the more disturbing part—because Dr. Fu had paused the video. The Zhu Ning in the footage was frozen. But that shadow was moving.
It leaned forward, angling more and more sharply. Its shadow on the screen grew larger and larger. Its face stretched longer and longer, both eyes splitting apart, flickering like a glitched frame.
It was getting closer—as if about to burst through the screen!
What was this thing?
Dr. Fu felt every hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He wanted to ask Xu Meng for help—she was right beside him—or inject himself with a mental stabilizer. But he was frozen like pinned prey, completely unable to move.
Suddenly—click.
Xu Meng's hand was already on the gun at the small of her back. The door opened. Zhu Ning stepped out.
Xu Meng didn't relax upon seeing her. "How'd it go?"
After Zhu Ning emerged, the two door attendants immediately turned their heads, beaming at her.
They bowed deeply and presented her with a Door Card.
Both receptionists wore fishing-line smiles. Staring too long made Zhu Ning's own mouth ache. She accepted the card.
This must be the standard procedure. Defectives who attended Foundation events signed up afterward, then received complimentary lodging.
Zhu Ning examined the Door Card and gave a brief explanation: "There are contaminants inside. Only one chair is safe. Don't sit in the wrong one."
Xu Meng asked: "You sat in the wrong one?"
Zhu Ning rubbed her lower belly. It still felt bloated. "Yeah. A pair of ghost hands grabbed me around the waist."
Xu Meng: "Are you hurt?"
"I'm okay. My stomach hurts a little..." Zhu Ning was about to say more when she noticed something off about Dr. Fu. He hadn't said a single word this entire time.
Dr. Fu stood behind Xu Meng, half-hidden by her frame. If danger struck, Xu Meng would shield him.
Right now Dr. Fu stood frozen—even his breathing had slowed to near-nothing. It was as if he didn't exist.
Zhu Ning: "Dr. Fu?"
Dr. Fu jolted when Zhu Ning pushed him. "You're out?"
Zhu Ning frowned. He looked normal enough—but in a place like this, looking too normal was the truly abnormal thing.
Xu Meng noticed the document folder in her hand. "What's that?"
"One Defective's personal file," Zhu Ning paused, "or rather—the last victim's records."
Author's Note
I'm sorry for being late. What follows is a long passage unrelated to the main story—some things that have been happening with me. Feel free to skip if you're not interested~
Friends, thank you for waiting. I hesitated, but I feel I owe you all an explanation, since you've been waiting a long time.
Come to think of it, you noticed something was wrong with me before I did. I remember around last December someone asked if the author's mental state seemed off, if my spiritual value seemed low. Whether that was prophecy or just a meme, I'll just go ahead and say you're all very perceptive!
I was diagnosed last month. Two conditions stacked together, both severe. It's not really related to writing pressure—it's family-related.
I've read all the suggestions in the comments. Some suggested I try therapy before medication. I discussed it with my doctor. She said I'm currently having some extreme thoughts and significant somatic symptoms, so therapy isn't appropriate right now—she recommended medication first to stabilize things. And yes, I've been trying all the stomach-soothing tips you've shared. Thank you for the care!
When I first started the medication, my whole system rejected it. Constant stomach pain, daily vomiting—wanting to eat but throwing everything up. Not sharp pain, but this constant dull ache. Under the psychiatric medication's effects, I also dissociated. I frequently felt my soul leaving my body—a very strange state. I couldn't tell if I was the disembodied soul or the numb body. For several days, I couldn't even read. Couldn't focus. Couldn't "comprehend" words anymore. That was the most terrifying part—I was afraid I'd permanently lose my connection to writing.
Around day fifteen on the medication, side effects mostly disappeared. Then one moment I suddenly noticed—hey, the sunshine's nice today. Life seems... okay? It felt like the medication was working. My brain running in this strange, unfamiliar way. I started accepting things as they were.
I've been resting this whole time. Between work and writing before, all my time was consumed. Getting sick forced me into doing nothing for the first time—just focusing on myself. It's been therapeutic. Thank you for giving me this time.
The vomiting is much better now. Stomach pain will probably take a while longer. As for the mental health stuff—that'll need a long road to recovery.
That's roughly what happened during my hiatus. I'm not sharing this to ask for special treatment or extra understanding. First, I want to give you an explanation. Second, I've seen readers in the comments with similar struggles. Mental health issues are quite common now. I hope everyone can seek help promptly and let professionals intervene early—it really is so much better than toughing it out alone. This isn't your fault. You're just sick. Don't be afraid. Everything will get better. We can get better together!
Lastly, a small, perhaps immature worry: because my readers are so kind, I'm afraid that knowing this will make you feel morally pressured when commenting—afraid to criticize me or point out mistakes. I want to say: it's fine. If you think my writing has problems, say so. Yes, I'm literally asking to be criticized. Just treat me normally. No pressure, okay? I'm tough!
Honestly, I secretly hope you won't treat me as a patient. Just think of me as a contaminant! Your favorite author had an emotional collapse and became a contamination source. Usually buried deep underground. Massive in size. Masses of hair tendrils writhing wildly. Late at night, hundreds of tentacles tapping away on a keyboard—clickety-clack—a strange smile spreading across the face.
If you're walking at night and pass a manhole cover, and hear a weird tap-tap-tapping from below—don't be scared. That's just me, writing~
Of course, if you actually encounter some bizarre creature or a creepy stalker, RUN!
Comments
Post a Comment